He's going to ask about Quincey any moment -- she can just taste it and the bile is rising at the back of her throat. Mina draws his head down and presses her lips to his forehead. "Perhaps we weren't ready to know yet..." (It's been lifetimes since she's been that philosophical: she blames his presence.)

"I wish I could see you," she murmurs, settling in to rest her forehead against his own. "My Jonathan."