The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting the room in a wavering orange glow. Mina sat at the desk, her hands resting lightly on the pages of Dr. Seward’s phonograph transcriptions. The men were gathered about the room, whispering together in low, urgent voices, but Mina could hear every word, as though the sounds were carried straight to her mind.

Her temples throbbed faintly. The place where he had touched her — there, at her throat — burned in a way she dared not name. She pressed a handkerchief to it, her fingers trembling, and forced herself to keep her attention upon the work.

“Gentlemen,” she said, her voice steady despite the hollowness in her chest, “I have collated the reports as far as yesterday evening. If you will but look here—” she gestured to the stack of papers neatly bound by ribbon, “—you will see how the Count moves ever westward. We must be quick.”

Van Helsing turned, his face lined with fatigue and pity. “Madam Mina, you are like the light of the sun to us. You bring all into clear order.”

She smiled faintly, though she could feel the weight of weariness dragging at her bones. “Then let us not lose that light, Doctor,” she said softly.

Jonathan came to her side, laying a hand upon her shoulder. His touch was warm, grounding her. “You should rest, Mina. You are pale.”

“I am well enough,” she said quickly, perhaps too quickly. “If I rest, it is my thoughts that will run away with me. Here, with the work, I am safe.”

The men turned back to their maps, their plans, their grim determination. Mina bent again to her task, writing in her precise hand. She would not falter now. If there was darkness in her, then she must all the more bring light for the sake of them all. For Jonathan.

But as the candle guttered and she felt again that faint, pulling sensation - as though her very soul were being beckoned out into the night - she whispered a prayer under her breath:

“God keep me strong. For them. For all of us.”