He ran his fingers through my hair. “You’re not a whore,” he continued. “ I’m not paying you to stay here. You're free to leave anytime you want and you have just as much ‘control’ as I do.” Somehow, that was the most humiliating thing. Knowing that I was freely giving myself to this man. It was that dirty desire to be used like a whore. These dark cravings. My dirty little secret. Then, he added, almost tenderly, “I respect your boundaries, J. We’ve talked plenty about this. You only have to say the word.” I nodded meekly, eyes still refusing to meet his. “But then again,” he added, his voice suddenly thick with desire, “I think I like what a pitiful slut you look like.” With a sudden ferocity, he grabbed a handful of my hair and wrenched my head back so that I was staring straight into his cold cruel eyes. I trembled and tried to look away when a glob of spit struck me right underneath my eye. My eyes widened and my body tensed up in shock. Aghast from what he had just done. Then. The villagers were eagerly anticipating the great festival of All Hallows Eve, held every year at the Van Tassel Manor house, the social event of the season. People from all around would come by boat, carriage, or on horseback, to party the night away. When the day arrived, servants were scurrying about meeting boats at the dock, gathering the children for games, prepping and serving mountains of food.The adults partaking in a great feast featuring three pigs, countless ears of corn and of course endless rivers of beer. By the end of the day many had left, having great distances to travel: Across the Hudson to Nyack, up the river to the Village of Sing Sing or down towards Dobbs Ferry. Several people had even sailed up from New York City.Brom, living just down the road was, of course present. Ichabod had found permanent lodging north of the village and had borrowed a semi-lame nag named Gunpowder to make sure of his arrival in the afternoon where he had hoped to ask Baltus for.
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