Count Blackula sat across from me at the dinner table.

“The cigány gave me these.”

He passed me two envelopes. Both had been opened.

“I don’t understand the strange language on this letter,” said Blackula, pointing to Moesha’s letter. “But I clearly can’t send Abebe’s letter.”

He walked over to the fireplace and threw the letters into the flames. We both watched until the papers were completely burned. He stood over me while I re-wrote the letters.

“I’ll just take all of these,” said Count B, scooping up all the paper and pens. “You know how valuable and scarce good stationary is.”

He bowed courteously and left. After he went out of the room, I could hear a key turn. A minute later, I tried my room door. It was locked.