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Tea With the Count Kelantha's Diary
My host
did not take tea with me, nor did I expect him to. Count Dracula
was of a curious nature but instinctively I understood him. We were
of the same internal driving force. His mannerisms were those of a
distinguished gentleman, but his voice was one of collected reasoning.
For all my misgivings in the solitary nature of the house, the knowledge of
what literature he possessed displaced my notions of fear and
rapidly laid them to rest. Nicholas Flamel had long enthralled my
curiosity, for in his writings lay emphasis toward immortality and the
secret of life. It was a pursuit I had long secretly followed, much to
the displeasure of my unfortunate parents. Anything not blessed by the
Holy Church was heresy, be it science or the nature of the
divine. This was what had called me forth into the world, though my
younger years had been spent repressed in a religious institution. The
abbey walls would not tame my wild nature and soon I fled to find others
of a like mind. They were few and far between but here, at least,
appeared someone who might understand. �Preservation
is our way of building on former foundations,� I said as he sank
into the winged chair opposite, folding himself into its interior with
sleek, feline movements. Elegance seemed engrained in his nature, from
the rich fabric of his adornments to the slightest movement of his
languid fingers. �We preserve in order to understand, but alas, much
of the world has allowed such intelligence to fade into darkness. We
endure in a world,� and here I hesitated, gauging my words carefully,
�that is not tolerant of anything that abides against age-old
tradition.� �More
accurately, that goes against the church,� he corrected, and I felt a
flood of relief pass through me. So my instincts were correct, and he
too was a soul ostracized. He smiled a gradual, charming smile of
understanding. �You are not fond of the limitations of the church, nor
I, for they have granted me no peace in my toils upon the earth.
They are intolerant of anything that provides a threat, when they should
welcome controversy with open arms. What drives men to the church more
than human fear? Were not the literal demons like Flamel and other great
men of science willing to stir the waters, their flock would not be so
devout.� To
anyone else, it would have sounded blasphemy but to me it was unbroken
truth. I did not dare endanger my soul with open agreement and sipped my tea, finding it warm and reassuring after the cold night
without. The incident with the carriage seemed strangely distant, as if
time had altered when I entered the house. There was a basin
in my room, allowing me to wash the blood from my fingers and examine
the wound to the back of my neck. It was not deep but had bled freely,
clotting in my tiresome long dark locks. I remembered again the fiendish
expression upon his face as he�d taken my hand, and glanced at him
peculiarly. �Your
conversation reeks of controversy, I fear,� I remarked keenly. �I am no stranger to controversy, Miss Cabrera�nor are you, I find.� My eyes widened at his obvious presumption but it was so wholly accurate that I found not the strength to refute it. �It is true, I am highly unconventional,� I said without regret. �I dare to refute that it is a man�s world entire, and I have no place in it aside from petty existence in a world of social galas and the confines of the nursery. If we were given the right to speak our minds, the world would be greater for it. Perhaps you find me daring or offensive, but I cannot repress my natural self.� �Not offensive, no, merely forward in your thinking.� I felt some kinship for him then, as he did not
show displeasure or acknowledgement. His manners were so keen that even
if he disagreed with his guest, it would never be openly acknowledged.
We remained together for a time, exploring one another�s company as
one might observe two cats on the hearth. The room was very grand and
old, gleaming with bookshelves and items from the world over. Had I the
disposition to begin another conversation, I would have shown curiosity
over their nature, but I felt as though I already stood on the
precipice and did not care to tumble from it. I
was weary from my journey and the count must have sensed this, for he
did not linger long but bid me a sustaining sleep and withdrew. My room
was mysterious in the candlelight, atmospheric of a grand adventure
in the rubbishy novels my school friends were always reading. The count
had delivered my luggage and placed it carefully against the wall beside the wardrobe. Sleep had not yet
overcome me and I set about unpacking. Among my things was a valise
not of my keeping. It was very heavy and carpeted, bearing a single
golden latch. Knowing my things had been scattered about the
mountainside and my host had gathered all he thought might
pertain to me, I felt no shame in investigating what must have been my
unfortunate fellow passenger�s things. Beneath several folded garments
was an unusual find: a little tin of wafers, a small blue
bottle filled with transparent liquid, a faded journal and, most oddly
of all, several wooden stakes.
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