Page 94 of Now Comes the Mist

But he says nothing.

I take a few deep, shuddering breaths. My voice is as dead as my heart as I say flatly, “I will honor the terms of the deal we made. I will leave for your castle in the mountains as you commanded, and I will never return.”

“Lucy,” he says, and my name is a sigh upon his lips.

“Do not send me by ship, the way you came here,” I go on in that dull, lifeless voice. “It is too slow a route for me. I understand the precautions, but I want to be gone as quickly as I can. I vowed not to expose you, and be assured I shall keep that vow by carriage and by train.”

I wait, but he says nothing.

“I hoped to have you once,” I say with a short, humorless laugh. “To be what I was to you on the cliffs. I thought I would spend all eternity learning from you, seeing the world with you, being with you. But I know now that I have lost you, too, as surely as I have lost Arthur and Mina. Whatever part of you I treasured is gone. There is nothing left for me here.”

And then, as Vlad watches in silence, I crawl back into my granite tomb and slide the lid over myself, obscuring what little light is left.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

It is tempting to lie in the darkness of my coffin, cut off from the world and the ones I thought would always love me. If I am not alive, I reason, then I can simply ignore my hunger and linger here in the shadows, neither in danger of exposing Vlad nor harming another person as Dr. Van Helsing feared I would. A good, obedient little corpse, doing as the men tell her to do.

But death does not suit me. Lying still does not suit me. And before night comes again, my boredom grows even more unbearable than my sadness or hunger, and I tell myself that leaving is only sensible. Dr. Van Helsing will likely return to destroy me for good. Quincey and Jack will be with him, ready to finish the job. And Arthur? Will he watch as they send me straight into the fires of hell? Will Mina cry when I am well and truly gone, or will she be glad?

I wipe my eyes, slide the lid off my tomb, and sit up. To my shock, the mausoleum is full of lit candles. The trail of lights sends shadows flickering over the walls as it leads down to the crypt where more of my family members are interred. I step out of my coffin and hear a noise when my hand meets the granite. I look down to see that Arthur’s ring has been moved to my other hand, next to my great-grandmother’s jade, and Vlad’s garnet is now on my wedding finger. I regard it bitterly, but do not take it off. This shackle is what I deserve, after all.

I follow the trail of candles into the bowels of the Westenra mausoleum and discover an enormous pile of goods scattered across the stone floor.

From a wooden chest spills an obscene amount of money, from the currency of England to that of France, Germany, and Austria-Hungary. There are traveling papers, documents, and trunks packed with gowns andveils, most of them black, all of them finely made and expensive. There are chemises, nightgowns, stockings, hairbrushes, and other toiletry items—though I note the absence of any mirrors—and shoes for all occasions. Against the wall sits a long narrow box of plain and sturdy wood, filled with earth that smells of rich forests and frost-tipped mountains.

Vlad has not only taken the time to thoroughly prepare me for my journey, but has left me one of his precious resting places to protect me from the sun and human eyes. I know better than to be touched, however, being all too familiar with his alternating kindness and cruelty by now—and after all, he is sending me away as though I am a bothersome child. What strikes me most is this proof that he doesnotknow how differently the sun affects us, and it is a secret I shall keep to myself, in hopes that it will prove useful someday.

I ignore the gowns and choose a simple dark shirt, pants, and a cap to tuck my hair under, glad that Vlad was perceptive enough to include men’s clothing, which will likely make it safer to travel. I put my wedding gown and slippers into a trunk, and as I am putting on comfortable dark shoes, I see a letter of travel instructions he has left me. His bold, scrawling handwriting is as forceful as a demand, and the words are cool, emotionless, and to the point.

“A carriage will come in three days’ time,” he writes. “Your belongings and papers—as well as you yourself, safe in the box of earth—will wait at the churchyard entrance, to be taken to a private car on a train bound for Dover. From there, a ferry will take you to Calais, then Paris by train and a series of other conveyances beyond. You will arrive in the Mountains of Deep Winter no later than the end of October.” The final words give me a strange sensation, as though they are dissolving into my bones. They are a direct command to which I will be beholden.

Despite my impending exile and separation from Arthur and Mina, I cannot help but feel a twinge of eagerness to see places I had only ever hoped to experience in my dreams. My excitement soon sours into restlessness and anxiety, however, and I find it too hard to remain here, surrounded by the family I must leave behind. And so, even before the first rays of sunlight touch the sky, I decide that I will say goodbye to London. I hesitate at the doors of the tomb, both hoping to see Arthur and Mina still outside, concerned and repentant, and also wishing to avoid them if they are and save myself the pain of loving people I can never have again.

As though it has heard the emotions warring in my breast, the mist comes floating gently in and takes me in its hold. I feel my hair and skinand bones become particles of air, though my mind and consciousness are still present, and I soar out of the mausoleum in the form of the mist itself. I have no eyes to see and no ears to hear as I rise high above the churchyard and float to the back entrance, where the mist lowers me and I materialize as a woman once more.

I find several large rats with which to suppress my hunger and go out onto the empty street, pulling my cap low upon my brow. The city is just beginning to awaken as I walk along the rows of houses, listening to neighbors greet each other and carriages clattering along. I smell late autumn flowers, burning leaves, the remnants of cooking upon a man’s jacket, the soap in a woman’s hair, and candle wax wafting toward me from a shop.

Though it is day, I feel that I am sleepwalking again. A dreamy surreality overtakes me and a set of lines from Keats echoes through my head:

Was it a vision, or a waking dream?

Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?

I move through the lanes and alleys of the city, one undead among the living. My hunger waxes and wanes as I take in a bouquet of tens of thousands of different types of blood: sweet or savory, fragrant or sour, fresh or stale, thin with illness or rich with health. But I restrain myself as I continue on, my feet finding all the familiar places—the avenues of the park where Mamma and I had gone on long drives, talking and laughing; the shops Mina and I had frequented, holding new hats and gloves up against each other as an excuse to touch; the houses in which I had danced and flirted and fallen in love, my smile dazzling to hide the darkness within.

Men and women alike had stared avidly at me in that former life, just as taken by my overt difference as by my beauty. But with my costly hats and splendid gowns, neat gloves and well-made shoes, they had made the effort—at least to my face—to be polite, and to treat me as Papa had promised they would as long as I strove to be perfect and unobjectionable in every way.

But now, in the plain dark clothes of a working man, with no lace or jewels to make my tilting dark eyes, olive skin, and too-black hair more palatable to them, I attract open hostility and revulsion. Ladies pointedly cross the street to avoid me, and governesses herd their charges away to protect them from such an unsightly foreigner. “The docks are that way! Go home!” one man barks. I ignore him and move past, but not before I hear him say, “Damned bloody Chinamen. They’re everywherenow! Can they not leave their silks and spices and be gone?” to which his companion reminds him, sniggering, “Don’t forget their opium and their women.”

Minutes become hours, day melts into night, and sun and moon take turns rising and falling as I wander on in a daze, confronted by memories, sparks of joy and waves of grief, nasty comments and even nastier looks. I stop only to feed on birds, foxes, and squirrels, whatever I can find to dull the edges of my hunger. I feel no exhaustion, no compulsion to sleep.

And then, on the third evening, as sunset bleeds from the sky, I smell garlic, acrid enough to break me out of my daze. I find myself in a poor part of London, where the faces are thinner and more tired. I follow the scent to a food stand where an elderly Chinese couple is cooking hot, savory pockets of beef and shrimp. My mouth waters not for their blood, but for the dumplings, and when the wife waves me over, I approach, though I have avoided being too close to humans for the past few days. She scoops two dumplings onto a little plate and pours a dark, thick sauce over them that smells of even more garlic. I take them and hand her some coins in return from the supply Vlad gave me. She gives a short nod and turns her attention back to her work.

I look warily at the plate. Vlad cannot withstand garlic or the taste of human food. Garlic clearly does not offendme, but will human food repel me as well?

I take a small, tentative bite of a dumpling, expecting it to crumble like dust in my mouth. But instead, it is delicious. I close my eyes, overwhelmed by the palette of flavors: the tang of onions, the rich smokiness of the meat, and the snap and warmth of a dozen spices, all melding against my tongue. I imagine Papa here with me, kind eyes crinkling and a hearty belly laugh as he watches me eat something he would have adored. “You are my daughter,” I picture him telling me, “and whatever choices you make, you make with good reason. Learn to live as you are now, Lucy, and try to be happy as you deserve. As you will always deserve.”

My face is wet as I swallow the rest of the dumpling and then the other.

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