“I wonder how long the poor man’s been down here,” Jonathan whispered. Mina looked up at him and caught the flicker of amusement on his face.
“Don’t let him hear you say that,” she replied quietly. And yet, as she glanced around the room, she could not help but wonder if there was some truth to the joke. The priest must have had quite the journey up to the castle.
The Count reappeared, followed by an elderly man dressed in a long black garment that brushed the floor, a golden chalice held carefully between his hands.
“This is Father Petru,” the Count said. “He will perform our marriage ceremony.”
Mina dipped her head, her mouth going dry as the moment became real. “Good evening, Father.”
“Good evening,” Jonathan echoed.
The priest nodded, though he stood stiffly, seeming uncomfortable. He said something in Romanian, and Mina glanced at the Count, hoping he would translate.
“I’m afraid Father Petru does not speak English,” the Count said.
Father Petru placed the chalice upon the stone altar, then looked at the Count, as though waiting for further instruction.
The Count offered his arm to Mina, and she took it, allowing him to lead her down the short aisle.
“Mr. Harker, if you will serve as our witness.”
“Certainly,” Jonathan said.
Mina’s heart raced, nausea rising in her throat as they neared the priest. He shifted in place, seeming restless, and then his gaze dropped to her chest. Only then did she realize he was staring at the crucifix she wore. His eyes remained fixed there, unmoving, with an intensity that made her look away.
The priest cleared his throat and began to speak, and Mina found her thoughts drifting to London—to Aunt Emily, to Lucy, to her students. She swallowed, unable to understand any of his words. Perhaps it was better this way, better not to feel the full weight of the vows she was making to a stranger.
The priest’s voice was deep and solemn, echoing off the stone walls as he spoke. She could feel the emotion in his words as he lifted his hands in the air, his cadence growing faster. She watched the intensity of his movements, the sheen in his eyes, as though he were holding back tears.
Mina glanced at the Count from the corner of her eye. He appeared entirely untroubled.
She breathed in slowly, trying to ease the fear coursing through her veins. The urge to flee was growing stronger, and she knew it was ridiculous—that they had come all this way for her to do this.
Her thoughts turned to Lucy, to all the times her dearest friend had spoken of their future weddings with such excitement. Marriage had never been something Mina deeply desired; it had always been an expectation, an unspoken obligation she assumed she would one day fulfill. Yet whenever she had allowed herself to imagine a wedding at all, one thing had always been certain—Lucy would be there.
Emotion thickened her throat as she wondered what Lucy might be doing at this very moment. Was she with Arthur? Were they laughing together, happy and in love? The image was a small comfort, and though Mina had not yet met him, she found herself grateful for Arthur—for the way his presence would fill the space Mina had left behind in Lucy’s life.
The priest’s voice faltered, drawing Mina’s attention back to the chapel beneath Castle Dracula. He drew in a steady breathand turned toward the stone altar behind him. From this angle, it appeared to hold only the golden chalice—until the priest lifted a small knife, its hilt engraved, raising it between his fingertips as if to bless it.
Mina’s stomach dropped, and she glanced at the Count, whose gaze was fixed on the priest. As the priest circled the altar, knife in one hand and chalice in the other, he extended the cup toward the Count. Inside was a rich red liquid, wine by the look of it.
Then the priest reached for Mina’s wrist. She recoiled instinctively, glancing back at Jonathan, who stood several feet behind them. Concern was etched across his face, but he did not move—perhaps trying to make sense of it all, just as she was.
“It is only a prick of your finger,” the Count said softly. “It is tradition—the mixing of blood, the union of a couple.”
Mina swallowed and stepped forward once more, watching as the priest pressed the knife’s tip into the pad of her finger. A sharp sting followed, and a bead of blood welled to the surface. The priest took the chalice and squeezed her finger, letting the drop fall into the liquid.
He did the same to the Count, but Mina’s gaze remained fixed on her own hand—on the blood that continued to gather, the drop falling to the stone below. Her body tingled, her head growing light, and she forced herself to breathe steadily.
The priest lifted the chalice skyward, his words filling the chamber. Then he offered it to the Count, who took a long drink.
Mina’s stomach churned at the thought of drinking a stranger’s blood—of drinking her own, even a single drop. But she was not here for her own desires. She was here out of duty: for her mother, long since gone, and for Aunt Emily, for all the sacrifices she had made.
When the priest lifted the chalice to her lips, she sipped slowly, trying to carry her thoughts elsewhere—out of the dank, cavernous chapel and back to London, to the city, to the open sky above. The liquid was acidic on her tongue, and she swallowed it down.
An odd sensation swept through her—her pulse stumbling, as though it had lost hold of its rhythm. Her vision dimmed at the edges, the chapel darkening around her.
Then the world went black.
