drink, but Bram, Vambéry, and I harbored no such qualms. The three of us each enjoyed a glass, then another. The warmth of the alcohol did little to banish the chill from my bones. But, then, I doubted anything could.
“Who is this Countess Dolingen von Gratz?” Bram asked aloud.
“She is clearly Ellen. Or Ellen is she,” Matilda said.
I cleared my throat and rolled the stem of the brandy snifter between my fingers. “Are we to believe Ellen wrote this more than two hundred years ago? Is that what you are implying?”
“If Ellen did write it, is it fictional or an account of the events she actually experienced?” Bram said.
Vambéry tapped the book. “I have heard the tale of the Dearg-Due, but never in such detail; only in whispers while amongst the Pavees.”
“Pavees?”
“Minkiers . . . Lucht Siúil . . . knackers . . . They go by many names. They are Irish travelers, gypsies.”
I turned to Vambéry, my friend, and asked him the question on all our minds. “Are we to believe our Nanna Ellen is this Dearg-Due?”
He shook his head. “I do not know what to believe.”
“Isn’t it just the stuff of superstition?” Bram said. “A tale meant to frighten children late at night?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Vambéry replied. “The Pavees believe it to be true, and . . .” He paused here, closing his eyes. Then he spoke slowly, saying the words aloud as his mind worked, slowly, deliberately. “The box you found as children, you said you found it in the ruins of a castle tower, did you not?”
Bram nodded. “In what remained of Artane Castle.”
“Many believe the Dearg-Due was held captive in a castle outside of Dublin, near the coast. It is very possible that castle and the one in Artane are one and the same,” Vambéry said. “It was built by the Hollywood family in the fourteenth century, but who is to say who occupied it in 1654 or the years prior when this story originated?”
“Or actually took place,” Matilda pointed out, “if the story is true.”
“Matilda, remember the lock?” Bram asked. “The lock on the tower room was on the outside of the door, meant to keep something in.”
“We must go there at once,” said Vambéry.
THE JOURNAL of BRAM STOKER
14 August 1868, 12:21 a.m.—I only wish to make note of our departure, late into the night.
Vambéry summoned his coach, and we left the Hellfire Club in much the same way as we arrived: through a dark passage, never once gazing upon the exterior. Thornley elected to return to his home rather than ride with us; he feared he had already left Emily alone with his servants far too long and could do so no longer. We rode in relative silence, each of us lost within our own thoughts.
Matilda ignored me for much of the journey. I attempted to apologize for deceiving her, but she only mumbled in return and continued to stare out the window. Vambéry did not seem to notice this, though, instead focusing his attention on his notes, filling page after page without pausing. I couldn’t help but envy the ease with which he wrote, for I sometimes found myself at a loss for words while attempting to recount these events in my own journal. He had not taken down a single word as we spoke at the Hellfire Club; I could only imagine he was documenting all of it now, for the hearty speed at which he wrote could only be fed by such a fire.
FROM THE NOTES of ARMINIUS VAMBéRY
(RECORDED IN CIPHER AND TRANSCRIBED HEREWITH.)
14 August 1868, 12:21 a.m.—I write in my own version of shorthand to ensure my words cannot be read by another. I do so with great hesitance, for if these words were to fall into the wrong hands, I have no doubt they could break my code, given enough time. That in mind, my shorthand is nothing more than a means to slow down others. I feel the risk of not documenting far outweighs my fear of discovery.
Thornley’s brother sits across from me now, and I dare not take my eyes