Page 25 of Hollow
“I heard crying, and then…it was enough for me to get my lantern.” I go on and tell her the rest of what happened, ending the story by bringing out the piece of paper from my coat pocket, careful not to spill my coffee on it. “This is what they wrote.”
I wave the folded paper until it snaps open and show it to her.
Her lips purse as she looks it over. “I see,” she says in a low voice. She glances up at me. “Not a very funny prank, is it?”
“A prank?” I gape at her. “You think this is a prank?”
She gives me a wry look, like I’m a complete dunce. “The students’ dorm is in the building across from yours. Do you really think that a little harmless ribbing isn’t on the repertoire for them? It’s part of the hazing, Professor Crane. Surely you’ve been through that before.”
“A hazing is a thumbtack left on the teacher’s seat or a student hiding all the chalk,” I say indignantly, though I’m careful to keep my voice down. “It is not someone killing a snake and putting it in a teacher’s room and writing a warning in blood!”
She chuckles, smoothing her hair back before pulling up her hood, enveloping her face in shadow. “Oh, you are fretting over nothing. First of all, that is not a warning. That is a saying that we have here. Welcome to Sleepy Hollow. May you never leave. Because you’ll love it here so much. And the dead snake, which I’m sure they found in the garden, probably died from natural causes. No harm, no foul. Let me ask you, when you went to explore the halls, did you lock the door behind you?”
I shake my head. “No, I…” I didn’t even close it.
“There you go,” she says with a satisfied smile, though it looks eerie with her eyes in shadow. “Anyone could have snuck in, and it sounded like you were gone for long enough. As for the blood, probably a trick of the eye. You know you see what you want to see. And don’t forget, you are at a school for magic. Don’t underestimate some of these students. More than a few of them showed an inclination toward the power of illusion.”
“I know what I saw,” I say firmly, my molars grinding together. “That was no prank.”
“Perhaps a student dressed in a nightgown or, as I said, an illusion,” she says. “The students here will continuously surprise you. Keeps you on your toes, doesn’t it?”
Then with a flick of her hand, she waves goodbye and turns, gliding out of the dining hall like a ghost in black, sipping her coffee as she goes.
I watch her go, absolutely befuddled. Could she be right? Could it have been a prank by the students? I look around the room, trying to see if any one of them is looking my way and laughing, but no one is paying any attention to me.
I let out a low breath before taking a large gulp of my coffee, which has already gone lukewarm from talking so much. Probably for the best that I don’t have too much—I don’t want to add to the anxiety that I already have.
I go back to my table where I left my textbook on crystals in Ancient Rome, surprised to see Ms. Peters flipping through the pages.
“Good morning?” I ask as I approach.
She looks up, and her face reddens even more. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she says in a breathless dainty voice. “I was looking for this at the library. Didn’t realize you had taken it out.”
“You’re free to borrow it if you want,” I tell her. “Or I can return it to the library, and you can officially borrow it if you like playing by the rules.”
“No, that’s quite alright. Take your time,” she says. She sticks out her hand. “We haven’t been formally introduced. I’m Clara Peters.”
I shake her hand. It’s cold but sticky, like she just put on oil. “Professor Ichabod Crane,” I tell her. “You’re the kitchen witch.”
“Kitchen witch?” she asks, her brows bending quizzically.
“It’s what some people call a witch who is good with herbs and plants and food. Tinctures. Medicine of sorts. Often overlaps with being a forest or hedge witch.”
“Oh,” she says softly. “I don’t really know what to call myself, but that makes sense.”
“How long have you been teaching here for?”
“Four years,” she says.
“Ah. So not quite a beginner like myself but not someone with tenure either.”
“Actually,” she says with a faint, disbelieving smile, “I’ve been here the longest out of everyone. Most teachers don’t last more than a year or two. Vivienne Henry, the woman you’re replacing, she was here the longest. Seven years. I thought she would never leave.”
Welcome to Sleepy Hollow. May you never leave.
“Why did she leave?” Of course, I know nothing about the teacher whose position I had taken over. I hadn’t even thought to ask. “Work get too much for her? The isolation?”
Did students leave dead snakes in her room?