Sixth Letter

 1 November

My dearest,

I am cold, wet and weary to the bone. Do I just feel my age or is there something more sinister in this foreign air? I dream strange dreams. Sometimes of you and Maarten, sometimes of the Count. I know he draws near, as desperate to reach his castle as we are to prevent him, and my dreams are a wild pandemonium of fear and hate; sometimes I kill him and sometimes he kills me. But do not fear. This time I will prevail. I have to.

Forgive me,


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