Vambéry brought in tow, a curious assortment of clothing and holy relics. Far more than the simple bag I brought. Bram and Thornley also thought it best to travel light.
The ship transported us to Liverpool, where we boarded the train to Whitby, by way of Manchester, Leeds, and York. We are expected to arrive within the hour.
Thornley has been understandably distressed yet subdued. He did not wish to leave his home and nearly stayed behind. Even after all that has occurred, he clings to the belief that whatever affected Emily dwells only in her mind and that she now is wandering the streets of Dublin in some kind of daze. He cannot bear the thought of her returning to their home to discover him gone. After much debate, Bram convinced him he would be right in joining us. He instructed his servants to leave all the doors and windows unsecured at all hours and, should Emily return, to notify him at the Duke of York Inn by telegram.
Bram tells us that you, too, are in Whitby, but he cannot tell us why. Did you travel with the tall man, this Dracul? Or is he following you there as we are? What could be the nature of your business in such a far-off place?
Why are you running from us? Or are you chasing us?
Is there no end to the roads you will travel?
Bram has been scratching at his arm. I don’t think he realized that I noticed, but I did. He scratches at your bite mark all the way to his shoulder. This “itch” within him seems to grow as he draws closer to you, as we near Whitby. He talks little of it, but it obviously worries him so. Even now, as he stares out the train window at the English countryside rolling past, his mind is elsewhere, his mind is on you.
Affectionately yours,
Matilda
THE JOURNAL of BRAM STOKER
17 August 1868, 12:05 p.m.—After three days of travel, we arrived and settled into the little town of Whitby without incident. I must admit, I was fearful to board a ship and cross the Irish Sea. Something about the confinement I found deeply disturbing, also the rushing water all around us. The experience made me feel so small, so vulnerable. Had I not been so utterly exhausted, I may have spent more time worrying about these things, but instead I slept. I expected my dreams to be filled with images of Ellen and this quest before us, but they were not; there was only a blackness devoid of all sight and sound. I can only imagine death to feel this way; that is how I slept.
Upon arrival in Whitby, Vambéry summoned a coach to transport us to the Duke of York Inn, situated on the town’s western-facing cliffs, where we took possession of our reserved rooms. Vambéry and Matilda occupied rooms of their own, while I shared a room with Thornley. I felt it best not to leave him alone in his current condition. He is asleep now upon one of the beds, but he is not enjoying restful sleep, it being fitful instead. He keeps becoming entangled in the sheets, and more than once he has been given to mumbling in his troubled slumber. Most cannot be understood, but I was able to pick out his wife’s name, something about her feeding, and some nonsense about the police pursuing him for the murder of the guard at Steevens’ Hospital. I know the man died in his presence, but he was in no way responsible; surely Thornley knows this, yet his mind seeks guilt. Perhaps it is because he did not report the crime, or perhaps the stress of all the events of late are simply manifesting themselves as guilt. Thornley is versed in the study of the mind, which I am not, but I must admit its workings are quite fascinating and intrigue me no end.
I have settled into an armchair at the window to record this entry, the sea breeze feeling quite exquisite bathing my skin. To inhale the salt air reminds me of Clontarf so many years ago. Whitby is a lovely locale, the little River Esk meandering through a deep valley, broadening as it nears the harbor. The houses of the old town, seemingly piled one upon the other,