Page 62 of Now Comes the Mist

I clench my teeth, cursing him and hating that I still long for him even after his cruelty. But he has made my last summer of freedom a dream of languorous moonlit nights, such as I will never have again. And now I will leave Whitby without seeing him or saying goodbye.

The sun streams in through my window, its warmth calming me a bit. I remove my trembling hands from my eyes and let the light soothe me. And then I sit up so fast that it almost brings back my dizziness. Vlad told me his bite might make me feel his limitations, but the sun is not hurting me. Fearfully, I look into the mirror across the room and exhale when I see my reflection, hair mussed, nightgown rumpled, and gaze a bit wild. Perhaps he did not infect me enough to feel any changes. Yet how can I explain my newly, unnaturally acute hearing?

Mina comes back into the room. “All is arranged,” she tells me. “The servants will buy the tickets and pack, and I will come and stay with you in London awhile. Mail always gets there more quickly than it does to my aunt’s house.” Her voice drops to almost a whisper as she moves to the window, pressing her knuckles to her mouth.

I look at her drooping shoulders and her hair, soft and bright in the sunlight, and I know that I must tell her about Jonathan … but I have no idea how to say it. I open my mouth, hoping that the right words will somehow tumble out, when she speaks again.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you. The count has been calling every evening to ask how you are.”

The air seems to stop in my lungs. “Here? At this house?”

She looks at me, puzzled by my tone. “Yes. He came last night when you were sleeping.”

“Mina, come here to me.” I hold out my hands and she obeys at once, alarmed. “Listen closely. You must never,everinvite the count inside. Have you done so?”

“No. He hands in flowers from the doorstep, and we leave them in the parlor to keep from disturbing you. I never ask him in because he comes so late, and also because I want to spare poor Arthur’s feelings. I think the count cares for you more than he should.”

I throw my arms around her. “Oh, you clever girl. Thank goodness!”

“What is this all about? I thought you liked him. As a friend.”

My heart is beating so fast that I feel lightheaded again. I lie back down, trying to dispel the horrifying prospect of Vlad inhabiting the same space as Arthur or Mamma or Mina. “Never invite him in. He is not welcome over the threshold of our door. And please discard his flowers.”

Mina studies me. “You’re … afraid of him. Why?”

I look up at her beloved face, with her soft rose cheeks, summer-sky eyes, and her hair glowing gold in the light. “Mina, I have something to tell you and I cannot explain how I know it. It is similar to how I knew about Arthur’s father and Mamma’s decision to leave this morning before they had even come into the room. Will you promise not to ask how I know?”

She chews on her lip. “I … I promise.”

After a long pause, I say, “Jonathan Harker is safe. He is not dead.”

She goes absolutely still. The silence stretches on for so long that I begin to think she will not speak at all. And then she presses her hands over her heart and whispers, “He is not dead?”

“He is not dead. I know it for a fact. But that is all I can tell you.”

“But how can you be sure?” Mina’s eyes dart between each of mine, quick and keen. “Lucy, what does Jonathan have to do with the count?”

“Please, you promised not to question me.” My eyes flutter shut. My heart has slowed a bit, but I feel an overpowering weariness take hold of me. “I must rest now. I’m still weak. Perhaps we will not get our last walk in Whitby after all.”

Mina wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “Oh, Lucy, I hope you are right. Ifeelthat you are right. But why did—” She breaks off. “Rest, dear. I will be right here.”

The last thing I see before sleep takes me is her standing by the window, a fist pressed to her mouth to keep from crying. And when I dream, I see the cliffs above the crashing sea, green countryside rolling by outside the train windows, and Vlad watching me from the shadows, his eyes at once pleading for my forgiveness and threatening that I will never be free of him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

There is something different about home.

The floorboards creak beneath my steps as always, the fires crackle as usual against the September chill, and the bones of the house—all sturdy dark-papered walls and gleaming wood bannisters—feel the same to my fingertips. I walk through the parlor where Mamma hosts her teas, the dining room with its fine pictures and my grandfather’s prized brass elephant, and Papa’s library, which still smells of his pipe and incense even after all these years. My room is just how I left it, hung with deep plum silks and strewn with old love letters and dead roses.

But I sense an otherness, a surreality that has never touched the house before. And after the first few days of our return to London, I begin to realize it is not our home that is different.

It is me.

I feel better than ever. I eat well, walk with Mina twice a day, and sleep soundly behind a locked door. But from time to time, I have a fit of unquenchable thirst that no amount of water can satisfy, followed by rage and the urge to rip a chair apart with my bare hands. I wake at night with my heart racing, thinking I have heard the beating of dark wings upon my window. I get a terrible headache daily from the buzzing in my ears, and I hear conversations that should not be humanly possible for me to hear: the servants gossiping in the attic, two full floors above us; carriage drivers chatting outside; or an old woman scolding a child on the next street.

Since our last day in Whitby, I have taken care to conceal this odd new ability from Mina, though she is too distracted to notice. Ever since I told her about Jonathan, it is as though she has gone into a room inside her mind and shut the door. True to her word, she has not asked meany more questions about it, though sometimes I catch her studying me thoughtfully.

After tea one day, I excuse myself with another splitting headache, and I hear from behind the closed door of my room—a full floor above the main level—our housekeeper, Agatha, saying, “Why, good day to you, Count.”

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