My dearest Margrijt,
Mrs. Harker seems to change for the worse the nearer we approach his castle. She sleeps as if in a stupor, her colour is rising; under the circumstances I cannot view this as anything but ominous, and she does not eat.
As for me, I try to be as watchful as I can, but, alas, find myself starting from unwanted sleep more often than is safe.
The country we are travelling through is very stark and cold and lonely. Truly wolf-country, and we hear their voices at night. Voices that send the same hair-raising shivers up my arm.
Pray for me, dearest. If you can still find a spark of pity for me in your heart, I beg of you, pray for me.
And forgive me,