it in a single breath, and it pained him so, for whatever thought passed through his head at that very moment caused him to burst into tears. I asked about the disposition of your fate, but he would not tell me, saying only it was something so terrible he could not imagine sharing it with anyone. Perhaps in time this attitude of his will change, but for now I decided not to push him. He has experienced enough already.
In truth, we have all been through enough already.
When his tears finally dried and his wits returned, he said he remembered something of grave importance and began rooting through his pockets. He retrieved a small folded sheet of paper with his name written at the top in your hand. He refused to let me read the contents, however. All in good time, I suppose.
Vambéry is tending to him now. That man—how I so wish to rid our lives of him.
It was Thornley I found most peculiar of all. As with Bram, Vambéry, and me, he awoke alone in an unfamiliar hotel in an unfamiliar room lying upon an unfamiliar bed two doors down from Bram, only he was not alone. Lying in the bed next to him was his wife, my dear sister-in-law, Emily. She did not awaken with the rest of us and, to the best of my knowledge, she still sleeps even as I write this letter. She is not well, of this we are all certain—her skin so pale and icy—but she is back, and she is with Thornley, and that is what matters most. Did you orchestrate her return from Dracul? I suspect as much.
How we arrived at the hotel, nobody is certain. Vambéry inquired at the front desk, and none of the staff recall us returning from our trip yesterday. There is no sign of the wagon we hired or the team of horses. The night manager swears he had not left his post at any time, yet we would have had to walk right past him upon our return. Our rooms are on the third floor, lacking balconies or any other form of exterior access. Unless, of course, you consider the large windows overlooking the square. I do not know about the others, but mine were open when I roused this morning, and my room retained the chill of the night; they had been open for some time—take from that what you will.
We leave for Dublin in three hours, then all of this will be behind us. I have four days’ travel time to decide what I am going to tell Ma and Pa, if anything at all. Perhaps they will be satisfied just knowing I journeyed with my brothers. Perhaps that is all they need to know. In the end, all that really matters is family. Is that not so?
With that final thought, I must prepare to take my leave. Much has transpired, and I need time to absorb it all, to process it all, to understand what I have seen, for every thought becomes stranger as I attempt to unravel and interpret my memories. I will leave you, though, with one silly little question, one that just popped into my head. Although it may seem like a lifetime ago, only ten days have passed since I wrote you my first letter, and I find myself asking the same question I did then—
Where are you?
I feel like I should be closer to knowing the answer, but instead the truth feels further away than ever before.
Affectionately yours,
Matilda
TWENTY-TWO YEARS LATER
THE JOURNAL of BRAM STOKER
2 August 1890, 7:23 p.m.—I placed Matilda’s letter atop the walnut box in which it had rested for the past twenty-two years and settled back into my squeaky chair to take in the whole of it. When I first stuffed that box full of our various letters, journals, and diaries, I arranged all of it in chronological order, as best I could, along with the maps from Matilda’s sketchbook. At the time, I believed I had everything, but who was to say? Even Vambéry surrendered his notes, although with much reluctance and much coaxing on my sister’s part. By the time we emerged from Munich and returned to the familiarity of Dublin, none of it seemed real anymore; it was more like a horrible nightmare shared by our small group, and although we had all documented our thoughts, none