The hoary woman laughed with every lie. Messrs Jonathan Harker and Reginald Malthus Renfield smiled politely while they awaited their food, some roasted chicken coated in paprika and served with a side of assorted soggy greens. Harker smiled because he had no idea what the old lady was saying; Renfield did so because he knew exactly what she was saying, and dared not repeat it for fear of blushing. The public room of the inn was a tiny place, low ceilinged and smoky, with only three other patrons besides the two British travelers. Splintery wooden chairs sat scattered about the room, all of different heights and backs, as if scavenged from the castoffs of the local carpenter. The old lady said something particularly uproarious that caused the buxom serving girl to smile, revealing a twisted incisor.

Renfield blanched at the joke and Harker continued to smile.

The two men ate in silence and sipped at watered red wine. They had had nothing to say to each other for the bulk of the trip, saddled together at the behest of their employer, Mr. Peter Hawkins. Harker, a newly minted solicitor with Hawkins's firm, resented the presence of the fey, little man with the too big ears and the mop of Irish red hair. Renfield, for his part, was an amiable fellow, given to random acts of kindness and a love of small animals, but even his naturally agreeable nature found Harker an impossible nut to crack. Renfield's understanding of eight languages, including Romani, had kept Harker from meeting several retaliative misfortunes during their long trip from Exeter. However, to Harker, Renfield was merely a notary, noted for nothing more than his weak hands, weaker chin, and watery eyes.

"Wohin geht Ihr?" the old woman asked finally.
Harker simply continued to smile, probably unaware that he was being asked a question. Renfield responded in his soft voice, "Schloss Dracule." He pronounced the name in the German fashion of including all syllables, so that it came out, "Dracula."

The old woman's amused expression sank into a quick snarl. She raised her right hand to her face and forked her fingers before she spat on the ground. The serving girl dropped a beer stein, which soaked the sawdust, and snapped its lid clean off. The other patrons turned their quiet menace on the two Englishmen.

"What did you just say?" Harker said, his first words to Renfield in a week.

Renfield said, "I just told them we're going to Castle Dracul."

The old woman began to screech a series of invectives, recognizable by their staccato delivery and increasingly harsh intonation. Even Renfield, for all his mastery of tongues, had trouble keeping up with them. He made out words like "Unclean," and "Demon," and "Devil," and "Monster." The old woman was herself cycling through German, Romanian --- and Greek, for some reason --- as if one language were not enough to convey the depth of her horror and disgust at their revelation.

A dusty farmer in homespun linen dyed a faded blue stood up and pointed at the two men. "You go," he said. "You go jetzt. Schnell."

Fortunately, the door to the inn had swung open and the coachman hired to take them to Borgo pass walked in. "None too soon," Harker said before he grabbed his valise and bolted for the door, almost knocking flat the confused coachman. Renfield was a little slower in his motion, but the farmer had already retaken his seat.

Before Renfield could hand his own valise to the coachman, the serving girl had grabbed him by the arm and spun him readily around. "Meine Schwester! Meine Schwester!" she cried before pressing something sharp and metallic into Renfield's hand. Before he could look down at what she had handed him, the girl threw her arms around the thin man and crushed him with a tight embrace. "Find meine Schwester auf. Bitte. Bitte."

Outside, the coach was loaded with several passengers, including a pale Jonathan Harker, who had taken the window seat, again. The sun was just touching the horizon on its slow decent into slumber. Renfield found himself squeezing between two plump peasants heading toward Moldavia to visit relatives on the border. Settled in, Renfield finally looked down at his hand, and found a silver rosary sitting in a small well of blood where the sharp edges of the cross had broken his skin. The beads were coiled tightly together, and spotted with red.

"My dear fellow," Harker finally said after a couple miles of bumpy mountain road. "What was that?"

"Local superstition," Renfield said in a disagreeable tone that sounded alien to his own ears. "Something about demons and monsters. They even gave me this," he said, holding up the rosary, "to ward off evil spirits, apparently."

Jonathan Harker barked laughter. "Such papist claptrap," he said, and they both chuckled before Harker remembered himself and gave Renfield a good glower.

Renfield inwardly sighed. It had been too much, he figured, to presume a shared trauma might end their enmity.

The old coach showed signs of once having been a luxurious vehicle, but the varnish had dulled over the years; the upholstery had been torn out, and the remnants of velvet lining clung in tatters. Renfield adjusted his bony posterior on the stiff seat and watched from the corner of his eye as the sun disappeared behind the jagged Carpathian peaks.