He had never seen an inkling of such creatures, and presumed they were too afraid of the Count’s diabolical ways to stray into the courtyard, much less fly through an open window.Īnd so, casting that rumination from him, he walked, and surveyed. Would he be left for the wolves, or would his bones be left in some dreadful location in these halls?ĭoubtless, not even the crows or other carrion birds would be able to locate his remains. No, he knew not the hour, as he had thought, nor the method, nor what was to be left of him, if anything. The final letter had been noted as the 29th instant, so he had but five more days. He had held the letter he was induced to write, and then dated it for the Count. In other moments, he found himself slipping into an odd serenity an acceptance of his fate that was, perhaps, dangerous to allow to continue.įor unlike other men, he knew the date, if not the hour, of the day he was to die. He rubbed his arms, both to soothe himself, as well as to ward off a slight chill.Īs Jonathan wandered the corridors, he was by turns anxious at the potential reappearance of his client his captor his gaoler his formerly presumed beneficiary in a splendid deal that may have left him quite well off for his future life. He knew it wasn’t safe to loiter, and pulled his thin jacket tighter about himself. Or perhaps he ought to call them what they were battlements of a bygone age. It was a balmy night within the castle, save for when the wind picked up. He was, by turns, pondering what it once had been in bygone days, in accordance with the Count’s speeches. It was the night of June 24th, as Jonathan Harker did his level best to find a way that would lead him out of this accursed place, and from this accursed land.
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