John Seward had tidy compartments for his memories. Some were always open. Some were usually locked. A terrible few could be contained only with effort. He thought of his weeks on the Continent with Van Helsing and the others as little as possible, but try as he might, he could not bury the memories. They came to him when he was alone, so he plunged into his work. Even then, they haunted him, and with them came the disquieting knowledge of how much a man's sanity depended on others' belief. If he told anyone what he had helped do to Lucy and Dracula, he would be locked up with his lunatics. A new man would be placed in charge of his asylum. His entire future depended on his silence. Like Jonathan, he hid his turmoil well, so well that not a single soul in his employ had the slightest idea where he had gone so suddenly, or what he had done. The envelope sent by Van Helsing from Romania irritated him. He dismissed the emotion, locked the door to his study and opened the envelope. A letter and news clipping from a Budapest paper were inside.
