Part 25 (1/2)

”I was going to ask you to do that. I also want you to give Jonathan this.” She handed Winnie her little book.

”This is your journal!” Winnie exclaimed. She knew what was written there.

”There will be no more secrets between Jonathan and me, not even as to where I've gone.” She waited to see that moment of understanding in Winnie's expression then went on. ”Tell him that I'd like him to wait in Exeter until I write him. Tell him to please try and understand why I have to go back.”

”What if Dracula is still alive?”

Mina smiled bitterly. ”Then I'm still cursed, and I'll have to deal with that.”

”How?”

”I don't know. Perhaps I'll ask Van Helsing to kill me. I'd trust him to do it well. Perhaps I'll weaken and choose that terrible life.

If so, I will do my best to practice control and hope I'm not suffering from self-delusion. Whatever I choose, I promise that you'll get word of it. Don't look so sad, Winnie. Isn't knowledge better than ignorance?”

”Dearest Mina!” Winnie said, holding out her arms. Winnie cried that night while Mina lay beside her, holding her, comforting her, feeling Winnie's broken breaths warm on her neck, Winnie's anguished pulse so strong against her cheek.

III

April 12, Lille, France. Gance bought me this journal in Calais. The cover is gray leather, embossed with fleur-de-lis; the pages are parchment edged in gold. I have never written in so grand a book before. Its beauty seems fitting somehow, as if I, like the Countess Karina, am setting down the most important moments of my life. As I write, I feel that I have come full circle, with this journal recording the end, as my other did the beginning, of this adventure.

Gance and I parted from Winnie at Croyden and went on to Dover. Our midday Channel crossing was much calmer than my last. I even went on deck, something I had been too ill to do on our last crossing. The cold wind blew across my face.

My cheeks stung from the salt spray, yet I gripped the rail, feeling the boat move beneath me, listening to the power of the waves pounding against the hull.

Gance joined me, though his face seemed even paler than usual and his lips were pressed together. He did not hide his pain well, perhaps because he'd never felt a need to do so before. A sudden lurch of the boat made him slip on the wet deck. He caught the rail to keep from falling and jarred his wound. He cried out, then cut off the sound.

I pulled up a deck chair for him and made him sit. ”You should have stayed inside,” I said.

”I never miss coming outside on a crossing,” he replied, though he took the seat gratefully. I stood where I was, gripping the rail, looking down at the water so black and cold beneath us.

One of the crew noticed me and came down, intending no doubt to suggest I go inside. He noticed Gance sitting in the shadows behind me and went on with only a polite greeting.

How much easier life would be if I had been born a man. The world would be so much kinder to my excesses, my eccentricities. I would have no need of protection from Gance or Jonathan or anyone.

We spent the night at a tiny stone inn in Lille. Gance made no advances save that he kissed me before rolling over and going to sleep.

I lay awake thinking of Jonathan. By now he must know that I have left him. Has he gone to Seward? I alternate between fear for what I have done and incredible joy that I have at last freed myself from all the restraints, all the secrets that bound me.

April 17, Paris. We've stayed here five days in the beautiful stone house of a friend of Gance's, an aged artist whom I will not name or describe too closely for his sake. The crossing was hard on Gance, and he is taking something for the pain.

Nonetheless, his const.i.tution is so strong that healing continues quickly.

I have my own room. It has an iron balcony and stairs leading down to a magnificent courtyard. There, among the carefully tended flower beds, is tin ornate stone-and-tile fountain and delicate iron chairs and tables for guests. I often drink coffee there in the morning with our host. He asked me to pose for him soon after we arrived. It pa.s.ses the time, and he paints while I sit and read. He is u delightful conversationalist, well traveled and well versed in folk legends and beliefs.

Yesterday, as I sat sideways on the bench, posing as he requested with my hair falling over my shoulders, my chin resting on my hand, my legs slightly apart, with the fabric falling between them (a position Millicent would undoubtedly describe as ”hoydenish”), he told me the most incredible story about a woman who turned into u werewolf while mesmerized. He said that this beautiful woman-t.i.tled, he added, as if this made even her transformation even more bizarre-howled and bared her teeth, then returned to the present to describe quite vividly having devoured a lamb.

”Do you believe it?” I asked when he'd finished.

”I saw it,” he replied.

”Isn't that enough?”

”I may have been mesmerized as well,” he concluded with a dry laugh.

I wondered how much Gance had told him, or if the man had seen the mark still so dark on Gance's neck and guessed my obsession. There is no way to ask. Yet the man's point is a valid one.

I pray that when we finally reach the castle, we find no one there at all.After my last sitting, he invited me to see the nearly finished portrait. I walked around to the easel and stared at a woman far too beautiful to be me, with her lips slightly parted as if ready to speak, someone with both trust and pa.s.sion in her eyes.

”It is a fine likeness, don't you think?” my host asked.

”Is it?”

”Oh, yes. I painted your soul as well as your face.” He raised my hand to his lips then looked directly into my eyes. ”If you ever need a friend, or a place to stay for a while, come to me,” he said.

”Thank you. ”

He must have sensed that / would not impose, for he quickly added, ”I could think of a dozen portraits to do of you the way Dante did with his Lizzie. But unlike Rossetti, I'm far too old to demand anything but your undivided attention and some small bit of adoration for my genius. ”

”Not that old, I think,” I replied, for though his face was lined, he was also terribly thin, which made him seem older.

”Then you are too young,” he replied smoothly.

I laughed. Actually, sitting with him in the little enclosed garden with the sound of falling water, the sun on my face, the easel and scent of oils, I felt more at ease than I've been since this ordeal began.

April 19. Last night Gance dressed and joined us for dinner. We dined in the courtyard and, after the meal, extinguished all the lights and sat beneath the stars drinking wine. It was another night of carefree conversation, all the wittier because of Gance's presence. And yet, perhaps because our host is so genuinely kind, I see the emptiness at Gance's core, and know his wit is nothing more than an intellectual exercise.

Dracula, it is said, no longer has a soul. Gance, of course, does, but he hides it so well. It's no wonder that I was attracted to him. But later he did something so inexplicably at odds with his usual behavior that I cannot comprehend it.

We retired together. I thought he would say good night at my door as he has every night, but instead he followed me inside and kissed me with that intensity I have come to know so well. His hands moved as they always move, so skillfully over my body. As always, I wanted to give him the intensity of pleasure that he gives me. I reached for him and caressed him, but as soon as he began to stiffen under my touch, I heard him gasp in surprise. His hand covered mine and pulled it away. ”Not yet,” he whispered.

And though he kissed me and though his hands continued to pleasure me, he would not enter me or allow me to straddle him. Finally, unable to respond any further to his touch, I lay beside him. ”Does your wound pain you so much?” I asked.

He did not answer, only moved away from me on the bed and said quietly, ”I wish. . . ”

l waited; he never finished ”You wish?” I asked.

”I wish I'd met you years ago.” He brushed my cheek then added ruefully, ”I suppose my near death just makes me sentimental. You could not have altered my life even then.”

I put on my chemise and stole across the hall to my room. Before going to bed, I stood on the balcony for a few moments and noticed my host sitting in the dark courtyard, his white robe just visible in the dim starlight. I wondered if he had fallen asleep or if he sat alone with his thoughts. I wondered what he thought of Gance and me, if he had some guess as to where we were going and what we would face.

We decided at breakfast to leave tonight. There is a private car available, and Gance hopes that by beginning the journey with a night of sleep, he'll be even stronger in the morning.