It’s Whitby she remembers best and most dearly: climbing the long way up to that crumbling churchyard with Mina in those days when the sun danced on the water and the ships were easy at harbor, before the storm, before the fog crept in. She shan’t see the sun again, she knows, nor ever cross the ocean; hers is a churchyard life, a burial shroud to wrap her and images she can’t cling to, of kisses stolen and laughter freely offered, that might be memory or dream.

But there’s a candle moving now up the long dark path to her mausoleum, a bright thing to call and captivate, and Mina’s pale hand holding it as the other reaches out towards her, palm up in fearless invitation; The Count is dead, says her sweet sunlit friend, and gone in truth, and Lucy wonders – does this make her free?