Ichabod Crane shivered as he felt the salty sea spray on his face. He was leaning against the railing on the bow of a large ship. He stared dispassionately out at the ocean, with the young Jonathan Masbeth sitting near him on the deck. They had been aboard the USS Burton for nearly a month now, and they still had many more dreary and damp weeks to look forward to. Of course there was no turning back now. Even if the opportunity arose, Ichabod would not have seized it. He could not ever go back to New York. Not ever.

It was another sleepless night at the Crane residence, located in a homely townhouse near the outskirts of New York City. Though it looked warm on the outside the inside had become a place as cold as death. Ichabod was sitting up in a chair whispering sweet nothings to his ailing wife. Though she was exhausted, Katrina had long since been unable to sleep due to night sweets and her continuous coughing. And because Katrina could not sleep, neither could Ichabod. He began missing more and more of his night shifts around the city, which further strained his already rocky relationship with the Burgomaster. He jumped when the silence was broken once again by harsh coughs racking Katrina’s body. He reached for the already bloodied cloth that sat on the table by his wife’s bed, and held it near her mouth. After the doctor had decided there was no more he could do for dear Katrina, Ichabod had scarcely left her side, caring for her almost entirely by himself. Since she had been diagnosed he had not let young Masbeth near her. Ichabod did not want his only other family at risk. As she continued her coughing fit Ichabod felt the warm liquid seeping through the cloth he held at her mouth. The blood no longer frightened him. He still was not fond of it, but now for a reason of a different sort. He was not squeamish anymore.

Jonathan watched the heart-wrenching scene before him with teary eyes through a crack in the door. While Ichabod was caring for Katrina, young Masbeth was doing his best in caring for Ichabod. He tried to get him to sleep and eat properly for fear that Ichabod would fall ill as well. Unfortunately, Jonathan’s self-appointed task of caring for Ichabod became more difficult as Katrina’s condition worsened.

Ichabod gently helped Katrina to lie back down as her coughs subsided. He turned away only for a moment to place the wet, red cloth back on the table when he was once again scared out of his wits by a sound. Though this time instead of a cough, it was a weak, rasping voice.

“Ichabod…”

After getting over his shock he was instantly back to Katrina. He took both of her dainty pale hands in his own larger, though equally pale ones. Her eyes fluttered open briefly as she tried to speak again.

“Icha…bod…I…”

And then just as suddenly as she had awoken, she was gone.

Ichabod knew it. He was well acquainted with the feel of death. Her previous waking moment had flown by so quickly that Ichabod was not even sure it had happened at all.

That had been barely over a month ago. After Katrina’s infliction and eventual death of tuberculosis, Ichabod could no longer stand the sight of the home they had shared together. Ichabod Crane wanted out of New York completely. He had gone straight to the Burgomaster and inquired about getting some type of transfer. The Burgomaster, once again very eager to rid himself of the twitchy constable looked into any of the news he had received in the past months. He eventually found a place that would put an entire ocean between him and Constable Crane.

There had been many murders in London recently, including a judge and a beadle, leaving an area in need of some sort of law enforcement. Since the murders, none of the local officers dared to take a shift that would put them anywhere near Fleet Street.