Chapter 5
Bistritz, Transylvania
The next morning, Mina awoke to the sounds of the villagers up and about in the streets below. She opened her eyes, her neck stiff from the lumpy straw mattress, her heart racing as she remembered the reason she had come all this way—today she would meet her husband.
Mina tried to push the thought from her mind, readying for the day as best she could in the small room, before making her way down the creaky steps.
She found Jonathan at the table in front of the hearth, his eyes on a newspaper, as was usually the case.
As she approached, she wondered how he was reading the local paper, given that he didn’t speak the language, though she supposed it wouldn’t be surprising to discover he was trying to teach himself Romanian.
“Ah,” he said upon noticing her arrival. “There’s our bride-to-be.” Mina paused, offering him a tired smile that must not have been very convincing. “Too early for celebration, I suppose. How did you sleep?”
Before she could respond, their hostess stepped into the room, all reservations from the night prior seeming to have thawed. “Sit, sit!” she said before turning back toward the kitchen. “Breakfast is coming.”
Mina sat down on the wooden bench across from Jonathan, returning to his question. “As well as could be expected.” She massaged a tight spot on the back of her neck.
“Well,” he said, setting the newspaper down, “considering you are soon to be a member of Transylvanian nobility, I imagine that will be the last time you sleep on a bed of straw for some time.”
Tension curled in Mina’s stomach at the reminder of their differences in social class, but there was something else that also unsettled her. It was one thing to overlook class for the sake of a love match, but the Count didn’t know her, had never even seen her.
“If he comes from such a powerful family,” she began, “don’t you think it’s odd that he should take a wife in such a way?”
What she didn’t voice was the sharper concern beneath: why would a man of such standing marry the daughter of a drunken stranger he met in a tavern?
Jonathan’s smile faded. “I’ve wondered that as well. Perhaps he hopes to establish stronger ties with England.”
Mina frowned. “Wouldn’t he be better off courting someone from an English noble family, if that were the case?”
“Probably,” Jonathan agreed. “Though he wrote to me and asked me to bring the papers for a property just outside of London. He is clearly interested in establishing himself in England.”
Mina stared at him. In all the months since she had learned of the marriage, the Count had never written to her, never attempted any kind of rapport between them—and yet he had written to Jonathan.
“When was this?” she asked.
“A few weeks back,” Jonathan said with a shrug, returning his attention to the newspaper on the table. “It’s an old abbey called Carfax. Not exactly luxurious, but I suppose it is spacious.”
“And you did not think to mention it to me?” she asked, her voice tight.
Jonathan shrugged, not seeming to see the issue. “It’s not as though it were a secret. It simply hadn’t come up.”
She let out a measured breath, schooling her expression. Perhaps to him it was a minor detail. Perhaps to someone like the Count, it was smaller still. Yet the familiar twist in her stomach returned—another decision made around her, one that would shape her life all the same.
“If anything, I should have thought you’d be pleased to hear it,” Jonathan went on.
“I imagine you’re the reason he’s interested in the property.
Perhaps to provide you with a place to stay, should you wish to visit home.
It is not in the best order at present, but with a woman’s touch, it could be made quite agreeable. ”
Mina frowned. No part of her felt particularly inclined to make an old abbey feel like a home.
But before she could say anything further on the matter, their hostess emerged from the kitchen carrying their breakfast. Mina offered the woman a polite smile, pushing her thoughts aside.
What’s done was done, and there was little sense in fretting about it now.
Besides, it wasn’t her place to question the Count’s decisions—or Jonathan’s, for that matter.
The morning spread was simple yet filling: bowls of thick maize porridge—m?m?lig?, according to Jonathan—plates of cold meats, and cups of black coffee to warm them.
Jonathan was in the middle of explaining the differences between this porridge and the oatmeal they were accustomed to back home when the low murmur of a tense exchange drifted from the next room.
Mina couldn’t understand the words, but there was that same tension woven into their voices that she had noticed the night prior.
“Speaking of the Count,” Jonathan said, appearing not to have noticed the strained discussion, “he’s secured a coach for us. A message was delivered today that said a carriage would be waiting for us at Borgo Pass.”
Mina nodded, though her unease lingered as they ate.
Not long after, they stepped out into the cool autumn air, their hostess and her husband following them out onto the front lawn. While the man collected their luggage, the woman wore an expression of such grave concern that Mina stopped in her tracks.
“Must you go?” the woman asked, her eyes filled with pity. “It’s not safe in the mountains.”
Mina stepped closer, concern spreading through her chest. “Why not? What’s unsafe about them?”
The woman looked from left to right, then leaned in. “The mountains are not the danger,” she said. “It’s what lives in them.” A chill ran down Mina’s spine as she took in the fear in the woman’s eyes.
Jonathan took a step forward, his smile a placating one. “I assure you, I will take good care of her.”
The gruff voice of the woman’s husband came from just behind her as he stooped to collect their bags, his words thickly accented. “Man cannot defend against mountain danger. Only God can save you there.”
The wife crossed herself quickly, as if to ward off the mere thought of whatever lay in the mountains ahead.
Jonathan let out an uncomfortable laugh. “Quite right,” he said. “We shall have to do our best, then.”
But the man did not so much as smile, moving past them with the luggage in hand and heading toward the post station where they were to catch the coach.
“Come along, Mina,” Jonathan said.
Mina offered the woman a tight smile. “We will be fine. Thank you for everything.” She turned away, but the woman called after her.
“Wait.” With a timid smile, the woman lifted a small crucifix from around her neck—the figure of Christ carved roughly into dark wood, the cross strung on a coarse woolen cord—and held it out to Mina. “For your mother’s sake.”
Mina didn’t have the heart to tell her that her mother had passed long ago, so she nodded, allowing the woman to place it over her head.
Despite the kindness of the gesture, as Mina looked down at the crucifix around her neck, she couldn’t help but wonder what was in those mountains that could inspire such fear.
Surely this had to be about something more than the wolves she’d heard the night prior, but if the Count’s family had lived there for so many years, it couldn’t be unreasonably dangerous.
“Thank you,” Mina said, uncertain of how else to respond. The woman spoke again, but this time bowed her head and placed her hands on Mina’s shoulders, murmuring a prayer in her native tongue.
“Thank you for your hospitality,” Jonathan said, drawing Mina across the stone path and toward the road. “I’m afraid we must be on our way if we wish to reach Castle Dracula by nightfall.”
The woman crossed herself once more.
As Mina followed Jonathan toward the post station, concern rose in her chest. Was the journey through these mountains particularly perilous?
Was the woman this worried for each person who stayed at the inn?
It seemed unlikely, but as they neared the cluster of people gathered around the station, Mina’s thoughts were drawn elsewhere.
She had assumed they were all waiting to board the coach, but as she and Jonathan approached, the group turned, whispering amongst themselves and watching them pass.
She turned to Jonathan then, but before she could ask what was happening, he muttered something under his breath, a word she did not recognize.
“What did you say?” she asked.
“Something the man said. Strigoi,” he whispered, glancing over his shoulder toward the innkeeper, who was now speaking with the driver after seeing to their luggage. “I’ve heard that word before. Remind me to consult my polyglot dictionary once we’re on the coach.”
Mina sighed, already feeling weary from the morning.
The driver—a stocky man with a thick mustache—stood beside his horses, deep in conversation with the innkeeper and another man. They were speaking in Romanian, and as Jonathan approached, they fell silent at once.
“Is this the coach to Borgo Pass?” Jonathan asked. “Toward Bukovina?”
The driver did not immediately respond but glanced at the innkeeper before nodding. “Yes. Bukovina.”
“Thank you,” Jonathan said with a smile, leading Mina toward the rear of the vehicle. He reached out his hand, and she gathered her skirts as she stepped up onto the ledge, careful to keep the fabric from brushing against the mud-caked wheels.
Two wooden benches ran the length of the coach, set opposite one another rather than facing forward. A handful of passengers were already seated inside, and Mina took an empty spot on the hard seat, Jonathan following behind her.
As Jonathan began to rummage through his briefcase, Mina glanced over her shoulder. Through the window, she watched as one of the locals tapped the driver on the arm, gesturing toward the vehicle as he spoke.
“They seem displeased,” she said quietly. “Do you think they’re upset with us?”
“Unlikely,” Jonathan replied, pulling out his dictionary and flipping through the pages.
Mina looked back at the driver and the innkeeper, then toward the crowd surrounding the coach. Men and women alike were staring into the vehicle, their expressions ranging from fear to pity to distrust.
“But they’re looking at us,” she whispered.
“Ah,” Jonathan said, a note of triumph in his voice. “Strigoi. I knew I’d heard the word before.”
Mina glanced between him and the book, her brow furrowed. “And what does it mean?”
Two more people climbed onto the coach, squeezing past them to fill the remaining space on the bench opposite. Jonathan gave a small sound of amusement, his attention still fixed upon the page.
“More superstitions,” he said, closing the book with a thud. “They seem to be speaking of a demon—or rather, a vampire. Fascinating.”
Mina frowned, her only reference to any such creature being tales of fiction.
She recalled much chatter about a penny dreadful from years prior—Varney the Vampire—which spoke of a ghastly creature with the sharp teeth of an animal, its long nails like claws scraping against a window in the dead of the night.
“Do they believe these strigoi live in the Carpathian Mountains?” she asked, trying to make sense of the odd behavior.
Jonathan shrugged. “I couldn’t say.” He smiled then, amusement glinting in his pale blue eyes. “Perhaps they believe it is we who are the strigoi. Something foreign. Otherworldly.”
Mina swallowed, not finding the suggestion at all reassuring.
It was foolish to believe such creatures could exist—demonic creatures that hunted in the night, fed upon the blood of the living, and endured for all of eternity.
Yet the number of people who seemed to give such weight to these beliefs—who seemed to expect they might encounter such things in these mountains—did little to put her mind at ease.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” Jonathan said, seeming to read the hesitation on her face.
“Superstition is nothing more than a lack of information. And this is an old culture where superstition runs deep.” He sat back, placing his ankle over the opposite knee.
“You know, I once read that every known superstition in the world has been gathered into the horseshoe of the Carpathians. Like a whirlpool of fables. We shall have to ask the Count about these tales.”
“Yes,” Mina said, aware of the uneasy glances still flicking in their direction, “we shall.”