Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Is it possible,” said Hannibal, “that my mind is tricking me?”

Bedelia didn’t look at him. She kept her eyes on her glass of wine, lips parted, hand shaking.

“Each time we meet, you seem older,” Hannibal said. “Older than you have any right to be. By years, sometimes. Yet I know it can’t be true.”

It can be true, Bedelia thought.

“It could be …” Hannibal hesitated, and finally Bedelia looked at him, and it felt like a shard of glass was stuck in her heart, muscle constricting around it with every heartbeat. “It could be because I … feel as though I’m in stasis. As though I haven’t changed at all, or aged at all. Since that day.”

Bedelia swallowed, her throat dry, and brought the wine to her lips.

“It’s possible,” she conceded. Possible, but not true. Hannibal was rubbing his palms together, a nervous gesture. He never used to have nervous gestures. He never used to have tells.

“It’s been two years,” he said.

It had been twenty.

“I know not to expect … instant healing …”

Bedelia opened her mouth, closed it again, gulped down her words. Twenty years. Still unable to tell him.

“I can’t eat,” Hannibal confessed. Bedelia looked down at his feet.

“That doesn’t surprise me,” she said. Hannibal nodded, his posture wilting.

“Sometimes I can’t bring myself to cook,” he said. “Other times I think I can. But when I start, within minutes, I become nauseated, and I can’t go on.”

Bedelia inhaled deeply, let it out in a sigh. “Like before,” she said. Hannibal’s mouth twisted and his hands stilled, but in time he nodded. He was more honest now, Bedelia had noticed. She sat back and placed the wineglass on the table near her chair. She hadn’t poured any for Hannibal when he came in, and Hannibal hadn’t said anything, but she thought he might be hurt.

Still, Bedelia wasn’t the type to waste good wine.

“We’ve talked about your eating habits,” she said. “We’ve discussed your agoraphobia.”

Hannibal’s eyebrows twitched.

“What we haven’t discussed,” said Bedelia, “is what you remember. It’s been --” She winced, stopped herself from revealing the truth. “--two years. Don’t you think we should talk about it?”

Hannibal said nothing. Adjusted his tie.

“Tell me about Alana,” Bedelia said. “You haven’t spoken to her since the incident.”

Nothing.

“And Jack,” Bedelia said. She studied Hannibal’s face. “Have you seen either of them since that day?”

“As we’ve discussed,” said Hannibal, “I’m experiencing some … difficulty … in leaving the house.”

Bedelia’s eyes met Hannibal’s and got stuck there, and Bedelia could feel something welling up inside her. These days, when Hannibal came to visit, Bedelia tried not to interact as much as possible. But sometimes, her mind rebelled.

“Eight years ago,” she said, “I treated a patient with dissociative fugue who told me about one of his more severe episodes. He was on his way to Portugal to visit a friend, but couldn't remember his own name upon arrival. For nine months he wandered the streets of Lisbon, surrounded by five-hundred thousand unfamiliar faces until, as fate would have it, he ran into his own friend, the very one he came to visit in the first place."

"Very lucky,” said Hannibal, “to be recognized by a friend. I would call that a happy ending."

"Yes,” Bedelia said. "Although, I am curious, Hannibal. When you finally pay Jack and Alana their long-awaited visits, and pick out their faces from the crowd, what ending waits for you there?"

Hannibal stared, but said nothing.

“Have they aged like I have, do you think?” Bedelia brushed her hair back, touched the bags under her eyes. “You mentioned feeling stuck, as if you were in some sort of stasis. You expressed that my aging is a trick of your mind. What if that was not the truth?”

Hannibal barked out a laugh, an uncomfortable, false sound that Bedelia couldn’t stand. Twenty years ago, Hannibal never would have made a sound like that.

“Alana lived with you for two years before the incident with Miriam Lass,” said Bedelia. “You’ve visited me since then, but you haven’t visited her.”

“Alana doesn’t need--”

“Alana thinks you’re dead,” said Bedelia, and Hannibal laughed again. His face was twitching, especially around the eyes. “Or worse, she thinks you’re alive,” Bedelia said. “That you’re out there somewhere, waiting for her. Making plans.”

Hannibal went still. “How silly,” he said, not making eye contact with Bedelia. “She has nothing to fear from me. From anyone. Miriam Lass is dead.”

“She’s not the only one,” said Bedelia, and suddenly Hannibal bent forward, putting his head between his legs. Nauseated again. Gasping for air.

It was ironic enough to make Bedelia’s head spin. She turned away from the sight, took another sip of wine.

“Breathe,” she said, and had to stifle a hysterical laugh similar to the ones Hannibal made from time to time. Telling Hannibal to breathe was like telling a fish to walk. She listened without watching to Hannibal’s gasps, almost sobs.

“I am old, Hannibal,” Bedelia murmured into her glass.

When she looked up, Hannibal was gone, and the sounds of his gasps faded into silence. Bedelia turned her head and looked in the mirror that hung on her wall. Grey hair. Wrinkles.

Hannibal had been dead for twenty years, and Bedelia wasn’t sure he would ever figure it out.

Chapter Text

“Didn’t know you were a Freddie Lounds fan,” Will said. He glanced back at Jack, who was settled on the couch and said nothing when Will looked at him. Will turned back to the bookshelf. It wasn’t that he’d been snooping, exactly, though he had undoubtedly been examining Jack’s books. It was just impossible to miss a Freddie Lounds book, especially when it was wedged between old leather hardbacks, all of them either black or brown.

It had a yellow spine, with giant red letters that read The Last Victim. They were designed to look like the title was dripping blood. Will slid it out of the bookshelf and into his hands; he didn’t like how worn it was. The cracks in the spine, the creased cover, the yellow pages. Jack had clearly read this more than once, and when Will opened it, it fell open to page 54, where one sentence was highlighted in blue:

Hannibal Lecter’s body was never found.

Will turned to Jack again, the book open in his hands. He read the sentence aloud, watched Jack for a reaction.

“You’ve extended your library,” Will said.

Jack gave him a thin smile. “I try not to let my shelves gather dust. You used to do a lot of reading, as I recall.”

“My reading was educational,” Will said. “‘Hannibal Lecter’s body was never found’?”

Jack’s fingers twitched. “You don’t think there’s educational value in a Freddie Lounds crime thriller.”

“It’s not true, Jack. Hannibal Lecter’s body was found, seasoned like a pan-fried salmon. Miriam Lass was the Chesapeake Ripper--”

Jack winced.

“--and Hannibal Lecter didn’t make it out of that house alive. You were there, Jack. I hope Bella doesn’t know what kind of materials you’ve been broadening your mind with.”

Jack’s expression didn’t change, but he swallowed lightly. He looked away, and Will felt his stomach sinking to the floor.

“Oh,” he said. “Jack. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“When did it happen?”

Jack put one hand on the arm of the couch and leveraged himself onto his feet. Will could practically see Jack’s bones creaking; his condition had deteriorated horribly since the last time they met. Still, he walked with power, even if it was slower now. He crossed the room and took the book from Will.

“It was a long time ago,” he said. “And some books are better left unread.”

He put The Last Victim back on the shelf. Will opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again.

“I’m not saying Hannibal Lecter was the Chesapeake Ripper,” Jack said, voice even. “He was my friend, and he always will be. And, as you said, I was there. I know Hannibal wasn’t the killer.”

Will said nothing. On the shelf below The Last Victim was an entire series of Chilton books.

“You have an awful lot of conspiracy theories on your shelf for someone who doesn’t believe in them,” said Will.

“I was friends with Hannibal,” said Jack, and now Will could hear the impatience in his voice. “But Miriam Lass was my student. No matter what people say, I have a hard time believing she was the Ripper.”

You didn’t always, Will thought. Aloud, he said nothing. Jack was ill, and ill men were allowed to think strange things.

“I admit I’ve had my own madeleine moments over the past twenty years,” Will said. “And I know you and I are both guilty of making our own deep dives into the past. But you have to admit, Jack, the evidence was … overwhelming.”  He grabbed one of the Chilton books, flipped it open, grimaced when he saw how many passages Jack had highlighted.

“Half of all the evidence was eye-witness.”

“Alana’s statements seem to have withstood the test of time. But I know it isn’t time I’m up against.” Will shut the book and looked at Jack. “What do you want me to do, Jack?”

“Dive,” said Jack, and it took everything in Will not to flinch when he heard the rawness in Jack’s voice. “Bite down on the madeleine.”

Will swallowed. “I don’t know if I--”

“Will.”

Will turned back to the bookshelf, busied himself with putting the Chilton book away.

“Will,” said Jack again, his voice low, “it’s been twenty years. My memory isn’t getting any clearer. If I could ever trust what I remember of that night -- and it’s a big if -- I can’t trust it anymore. Anything that can make it clear again, anything at all, it’s got to come from you.”

There was a shelf near the Freddie Lounds book, full of books on cancer. What Will thought of as Bella’s books, though he knew she wasn’t the one to read them. They’re old, worn from ten years of reading, but the books beside them are new, and with a slightly different tone and theme.

Bella hadn’t had brain cancer.

“I understand,” Will said. He understood that Jack was grieving. Bella, Hannibal, Miriam. His career. It took a lot of time and work to get over a loss that extreme, and twenty years wasn’t enough. “I’ll do what I can.”

“Thank you, Will.” Jack went back to the couch, sat down heavily. “Start at the crime scene. And move on to anywhere else that’s relevant. Hannibal’s office, the Bloom household. Do you have those addresses?”

“No,” said Will. “Jack--”

“I’ll write them down,” said Jack. He tapped his forehead and pulled a pen from his breast pocket. Will watched as he scribbled on a piece of paper on his leg. “And take any books you need,” Jack said when he handed the paper over. “You’re familiar with Chilton and Lounds?”

Will’s shoulders stiffened. “I’ve heard their theories,” he said.

“Take their books,” said Jack firmly. “I’ve added my own notes to them. My own research. Not that their theories are valid, but both of them have done a great deal of independent research into Hannibal’s life. It may be useful to you.”

Will sighed heavily. “Okay. I’ll do what I can, but I can’t promise I’ll find anything.”

Jack loaded fat books into Will’s arms. “I have confidence in you.”

“I know you do. What I mean is, I can’t promise I won’t find something you won’t like.” He gripped Jack’s arm tightly, and they locked each other in a hard gaze. “Sometimes,” Will said, “the madeleine bites back.”

“I understand,” said Jack quietly. “But I have total confidence in you.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Will said again. He left Jack’s house with a stack full of books and a manila folder with Jack’s own research inside. When he got to his car, Will dumped the books in the backseat. If he were lucky, he wouldn’t need any of them.

He looked at the first address on the slip of paper Jack had given him. Lecter’s country home.

If he were lucky, he’d hear the story from Dr. Lecter himself.

Chapter Text

After twenty years, Lecter’s country home was hard to recognize. Will could remember what it looked like in old newspaper articles, and if he wanted to, he could grab The Last Victim and compare it to the black-and-white picture in the middle, next to the photos of Hannibal Lecter and Miriam Lass.

The house was sagging in on itself now, portions of the roof caved in, the windows all broken. Will looked from the house to the woods at the edge of the road. If it wasn’t Lecter’s body in the basement, then he’d either walked down the road (not likely, as police and ambulances had come from both ways, and would have seen him), or he’d disappeared into the woods. Neither option seemed likely. The amount of blood in the house - Lecter’s blood - testified to that.

Will approached the front door. The blue paint was chipped and dotted with abandoned wasp nests. Will pushed it open carefully, gazing inside for a moment before crossing the threshold. He kept a hand in front of his face to catch any cobwebs before they could cling to his skin.

It was strange to think that Lecter’s house would be so untouched by time. Graffiti was minimal, the furniture was mostly intact, and only about half of the paintings had been slashed or defaced. Will approached a mahogany bookshelf in the corner of the living room. The books were arranged meticulously, with no sign of water damage. Will ran his finger over the top of the books; no dust.

He looked around. There was a blanket, neatly-folded, draped over the couch. A ghastly rip in an armchair had been repaired with neat little stitches. There were fresh flowers in a cracked vase near the window.

Will took a steadying breath and left the house again. He shut the door behind him and then turned to face it, finding a spot near the frame where there were no wasp nests.

Will knocked. The wind picked up around him, ruffling his hair. A sudden suspicion lodged itself in Will’s mind and he took one step away from the door, sticking his hand in front of one of the broken windows. The wind kicked up again, blowing out from the house, not into it.

The door swung open.

“May I help you?” said an accented voice. Will stepped back into the doorway and stared up into the expressionless, familiar face of Hannibal Lecter.

So that put one conspiracy theory to rest. Hannibal Lecter was definitely dead, and Will Graham was staring at his ghost.

“Hannibal Lecter?” Will asked. Lecter raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t often get visitors,” he said. “Do we know each other?”

Will hesitated for a moment. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small piece of notebook paper Jack had given him. “I’m a friend of Jack Crawford’s,” he said, watching Lecter’s expression change minutely. “He sent me to check on you. Here.”

He handed Lecter the piece of paper, hoping Jack’s handwriting hadn’t changed too much in the past twenty years. He watched Lecter’s eyes slide over the paper; they didn’t move back and forth like most people’s. Instead they slid from top to bottom, and then he was handing the paper back to Will.

“Check on me,” Lecter said under his breath. Will wasn’t sure if he was being asked a question or not. He peered past Lecter into the house; it looked a little cleaner, a little fresher than it had been just a moment ago.

“My name is Will Graham, by the way,” Will said.

“Will Graham,” Hannibal repeated. Then, “Would you like to come in, Will? You must be cold.”

It was early fall, not cold in the slightest, but if general consensus was correct, Hannibal Lecter had died in winter. In a basement, most likely. Will looked behind him at the bare trees and wondered if Hannibal saw what he did, or if in Hannibal’s world it was permanently snowing.

He stepped inside. And yes, the inside of Hannibal’s home was different now. There was furniture there that had been missing before, long-lost charcoal drawings sitting on the living room table. Will was certain there hadn’t been a living room table on his first walk-through.

“You have a lovely home,” he told Hannibal. There was nothing in response; Will glanced over his shoulder to make sure Hannibal was still there. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he said, and watched Hannibal’s eyebrows knit together.

“No,” Hannibal murmured. “I don’t think--”

He swayed suddenly, and caught himself against the couch. Will watched him silently, waiting for Hannibal to fade out, but nothing happened. Lecter was a little pale, but otherwise fine.

“You good?” Will asked, his voice betraying nothing.

“Fine,” said Hannibal. “A little light-headed.”

Will nodded. He took a seat on the armchair with the recently-mended tear. It looked cleaner now than he knew it really was. Mirroring Will, Hannibal took a seat on the couch and looked at Will expectantly.

“You said Jack sent you?”

“Yes.” Will looked out the window, saw it was covered in frost, saw that the ground was covered in snow. “How long has it been since you spoke to him?” Will asked.

Hannibal was silent as he considered it. “Two years, I think,” he said. Will chewed this over, considering his response. He wanted to find out as much as he could about what Hannibal remembered. It was possible Hannibal knew he was dead, but Will doubted it. So far he’d seen hundreds of ghosts at hundreds of different crime scenes, and none of them had ever known.

“I’ve read about what happened,” Will said. “I won’t deny I’m curious.”

Hannibal’s form flickered and Will’s stomach lurched in response. But in a moment, Hannibal stabilized.

“It’s a difficult subject,” Hannibal said apologetically.

“It’s fine,” said Will.

“You said Jack sent you?” said Hannibal again.

“He did.” Will crossed his legs and mentally flipped through his options. He needed to find an excuse to come back, probably multiple times. “And he did ask me to check on you. But mostly, I’m here for me.”

Hannibal’s head cocked to the side. He stared at Will curiously.

“I killed a man recently,” Will lied. “At a crime scene. He was …” He thought about Hannibal, about everything he’d read. “He had a daughter. He was threatening her. So I shot him.”

He thought he saw something change in Hannibal’s eyes, but couldn’t be sure.

“My practice is closed,” Hannibal said.

“I know,” Will said. “I mean, I’ve heard. That’s why Jack sent me. He needs someone to evaluate me before I can go back to work.”

Hannibal crossed his legs and cocked his head to the other side. Will wondered if Hannibal was mirroring him intentionally.

“He needs someone to look after his mongoose,” Hannibal said. Will fought back a surprised smile at the comparison. “So he sent you to me?”

“He--”

“Jack has not spoken to me in two years,” said Hannibal flatly. “He ignores my phone calls. My letters.”

Will pictured Jack’s phone ringing at night, imagined Jack answering it only to hear nothing on the other side. A chill went up his spine.

“I don’t know Jack as well as you do,” Will said, “but it seems to me that he’s still recovering from that night. He lost a lot; grief takes time.”

Hannibal’s face twitched and he broke eye contact suddenly, glaring at the wall. Will struggled to keep his own expression neutral.

“I imagine I don’t know Jack well at all anymore,” Hannibal said.

“He did want me to check up on you,” said Will earnestly. “If he wasn’t worried about you, I’m sure he would have sent me to someone else.”

The wind came again, lifting Will’s hair and rustling the flowers on the table. Hannibal’s face creased and he stood, crossing the room to a window which, for just a moment, looked broken. Then the glass was whole again, and Hannibal slid the window shut. The wind died.

When Hannibal turned back to Will, he appeared to be warring with himself.

“I’ll see you once a week, in the evenings,” said Hannibal. “If that fits your schedule.”

Will smiled. “It does.”

“In the future,” said Hannibal, “I’d appreciate if you visit me in my office, not in my home.”

Will didn’t stop smiling. “Of course,” he said. “Will you see me out?”

Hannibal’s face softened. “Of course,” he said, echoing Will.

He escorted Will to the door, and through each window they passed, Will could see snow falling. When he was on the doorstep again, it was cold enough for Will to start shivering.

“Next week?” he asked Hannibal.

“Next week,” Hannibal said with a nod. He closed the door. The paint, bright and even, suddenly curled off the door, parts of it burning up until nothing was left. Wasp nests appeared so fast it was difficult to register, and when Will looked down at his feet, he found them surrounded by dead grass and fallen leaves.

There was no snow.

Chapter Text

There was a sort of admirable beauty to it, the sort handed down in the tradition of fools. Alana staggered through the browning grass, and Margot followed the trail of wide-spaced pockets her cane left in the ground. The gates of the cemetery squealed shut behind them, and Alana, her eyes pinned to that dark place in the distance, climbed up the hill with her fingers tight around her cane.

It wasn’t like this every year, but three Halloweens ago they had made the same trip. The grave was only ceremonial--Margot didn’t know what, if anything, was laid to rest in Hannibal Lecter’s grave. But when they made the trip in ‘92, the tombstone was broken in five pieces, and shards of brown, longneck bottles laid where flowers should have grown. Ever since then, Alana and Margot returned. Every fall, just to clear away the damage, prune back weeds, and pay respects.

Alana came to a stop in front of the small headstone. Twenty years, and the damage always felt the same. No less, no more than it had always been.

White-thistled plants poked around the base of the marker. These and the creeping vines were in their last stages of life, and Alana swept them aside and ripped them out of the ground. A fool’s tradition. She straightened and folded the weeds--dirt and all--into her jacket pocket.

“It’s the same everytime we come,” Alana said. “I feel like I’m tilting at windmills.”

“You’ll be tilting in a circle if you keep at it.”

“Uselessly and forever.” She smiled with her lips, but her eyes stayed fixed on the weather-beaten stone. “Are you glad he’s dead?” She paused a moment, then turned to face Margot.

“It isn’t something I think about,” Margot said. “He isn’t something I think about. I think as far as fathers go, having them out of your life is about as much as you can hope for.”

Alana swallowed. “I lost two fathers. Having them out of my life seems to be their only common denominator.”

“Besides the obvious one.”

“Yes,” Alana said quietly. “Besides the obvious one.”

Margot handed Alana the bouquet, a white bunch of gladioli. Alana laid them flat on the headstone. Then, changing her mind, she picked them up and laid them down in front of the marker, covering whatever unrooted shoots remained of the milk thistles.

“Rather unimaginative,” Margot said.

“What?”

“Your name. Isn’t that what he said? ‘Rather unimaginative.’”

Alana laughed breathlessly. “No, that was me. Hannibal said that a name needn’t be imaginative. But I guess he would say that.”

“Anyone would, with a name like Hannibal. It was kind of him. To help you with the transition.”

Alana hummed, neither a yes or no. “He did help me. Sometimes I find it difficult to feel grateful, even though he was like my father. Well, more like a protector.”

They stood for a long time quietly, watching the grass flicker on the hill when the wind rolled through. Margot was so lost in the calm weather -- watching leaves smack lightly against the white stones -- that Alana’s sharp intake of breath startled her. She looked, and Alana stood, back rigid and chin high. Her eyes were wet, and her mouth twisted.

“He did such terrible things,” she said. “How can I pay my respects to a man who did such terrible things?”

Margot wrapped an arm around Alana’s shoulders and squeezed her with a firm grip. Alana quieted. She wiped her eyes with her little finger. She chuckled.

“I was going to name myself Fergana, for the Owlet moth.”

“Fergana. Did Hannibal have anything to say about that?”

“He had plenty to say. He said that clades are constantly changing, and that it would be fitting to select a name that reflected a change in myself. Or rather, a becoming.”

Margot dropped her voice into an approximate imitation of Hannibal’s. “Or rather, a becoming.”

Alana smiled. “He eventually talked me out of it. Got me on hormone therapy and a list of baby names.”

There was a beat of silence. Margot tucked a strand of hair behind Alana’s ear.

“And then,” Margot said, “after what happened with Mason, he…”

Their eyes locked. Something passed between them wordlessly, a silent decision to pass one more year, just one more year of grave-keeping and secrets and quiet, fond stories. One more year with at least one father figure between them.

“He was killed,” Alana said.

Alana wasn’t aware Hannibal had a sense of humor until she came out to him when she was sixteen, after two months of living under his roof.

“I’ve done extensive research,” she said to him at the kitchen table. Hannibal was studying her warmly, his eyes lit up like they always were when Alana started sentences like that. “I’m going to tell you something, and I want you to set aside the DSM for a moment while I do. I’m not looking for a diagnosis, okay?”

“Of course,” said Hannibal. His expression had changed while Alana was talking, becoming more serious. Alana took a deep breath, raised her hands to her hair, tugged at it nervously. She’d started growing it out when she moved in with Hannibal, and so far he hadn’t said anything, but lately she’d caught him giving her curious looks from time to time, like he wondered how long she would let it go before she cut it.

“I’m transexual,” Alana said. “I’m a girl.”

There was no response. Hannibal was staring at her like he didn’t realize her sentence was already over.

“Ah,” he said eventually. “Thank you for telling me.”

A beat.

“Did your parents know?” Hannibal asked. Alana bit her lip.

“No,” she said. “Not really. They caught me wearing my friend’s dress once, when I was nine. So for a while they thought I was something , but I don’t think they really knew what.”

“Then I’m doubly honored that you told me,” said Hannibal. He put his hand on his chin, a thoughtful expression taking over his face. “I don’t suppose you wish to be called Alan anymore.”

“No,” Alana conceded. “Um, there’s some people in town … some trans people I’ve met, and I’ve been calling myself Alana around them. But it’s kind of …”

Alana stopped herself from using the word ‘lame’ and searched for something that would be more impressive to Hannibal.

“Rather unimaginative,” she said. Hannibal drummed his fingers on the tabletop.

“Names needn’t be imaginative,” he said. “Mine certainly isn’t.”

Alana raised her eyebrows. Hannibal almost didn’t catch her look, but when he did, he said,

“In my family, at least.”

“Still,” Alana said. “I don’t think I want to be Alana forever. It’s easier on people but …”

Hannibal waited for her to continue.

“But who cares what’s easier for other people,” Alana said finally. “I was reading that book on moths you have. Hear me out, here -- don’t laugh.”

Hannibal sat up straighter, arranging his features into a perfectly serious expression.

“I’m thinking about the name Fergana,” Alana said.

A beat.

Two beats.

Incrementally, Hannibal’s posture became less rigid. He leaned back in his seat and, after a moment, put a hand over his mouth as though stifling a cough.

“Trust me,” said Hannibal, “you don’t want a name that imaginative.”

Alana’s mouth fell open. “Is that -- was that a joke?”

“I make jokes from time to time,” said Hannibal.

“No, you don’t.”

“It’s not a point worth arguing,” Hannibal said. He looked at Alana thoughtfully. “You’d like to look into gender reassignment?”

“Yes,” said Alana immediately, no hesitation. Hannibal smiled.

“Then we’ll look into it,” he said.

Over the next two years, Alana grew familiar enough with Hannibal to recognize his sense of humor when it showed through. But the bulk of it only became obvious in retrospect.

Chapter Text

He was sailing on a river. The water stood at a temperature so neutral, he almost didn’t notice when it slid over his skin. He wouldn’t notice it now, in fact, except that the water curled -- folded in half over his eyes like cake batter in a bowl. Washed up his nose and down his throat, and he realized he was never in a boat at all. Where did the boat go?

Hannibal smoothed his thumb down the pavillon of the phonograph. It was new when he’d picked it up in Florence, and it looked that way now, but it did not play. Hannibal rubbed the pads of his fingers together, felt no dust. He clapped his hands against his trouser leg all the same.

“The art of conversation is becoming a lost one,” he said. “So why don’t we talk?”

He turned to face Franklyn. The hair on Franklyn Froideveaux’s head was flat in the back, matted together as if he’d slept on his back every night and never brushed his hair in the morning. His eyes, milky and unfocused, followed Hannibal as Hannibal came away from the phonograph and the high shelves, trailed down the second-level steps, and took a seat in a black leather chair.

“You aren’t afraid to talk to me?” Franklyn asked.

When Franklyn opened his mouth to speak, Hannibal saw a glimpse of Franklyn’s tongue as it flicked against the roof of his mouth. It was backwards. Or upside down, and Franklyn’s strained speech reflected that.

Hannibal paused. “There is nothing to fear from old friends.”

He gestured for Franklyn to take the seat across from him. But Franklyn turned his back instead, making his way almost idly around the office in a curious study of Hannibal’s plants, tables, and papers. Hannibal’s stomach sunk when he saw that, as Franklyn turned around, his head did not follow, but stayed, fixed backwards to Franklyn’s wandering body. Franklyn picked a drawing off Hannibal’s desk and examined it.

“Seems like you have fewer friends than me,” he said.

“I would call it prudent to select one’s friends carefully. Tell me, Franklyn. Do you select your friends carefully?”

Franklyn’s mouth formed a hard line, and his attention drifted back to the drawing.

“This is nice,” he said, turning it so Hannibal could see. As if he didn’t already know. “Ever been here?”

“It’s the grindlestone bank farmhouse in Calderdale,” Hannibal said. The drawing was in graphite, and so large Frankyln had to unscroll the sheet for a view of the entire composition. A grim depiction of a two-story stone farmhouse with a stone roof glared back from the paper in black and white. A black tree with no leaves stood out front, obscuring a row of mullioned windows that decorated the ground floor. “I visited this place many times,” said Hannibal, “and places just like it on my tour through Europe.”

Franklyn smiled. “And he lies under the grindlestone…”

Hannibal’s breath stilled and his mind quieted, waiting to hear the rest, but Franklyn simply slid the drawing back into place on the desk and faced him.

“You don’t seem surprised to see me,” he said.

“Some say that those who are easily surprised should be surprised more often.”

“And you don’t like surprises.”

“I prefer not to be on the receiving end.” Hannibal gestured again to the leather chairs, and this time, Franklyn and Hannibal both took a seat. “It has been some time since we last saw each other. I was beginning to think I’d lost another patient.”

“It’d be pretty discouraging to lose the same patient twice in one lifetime.”

Hannibal tented his fingers and brought them to rest on his lips. He closed his eyes. When Franklyn spoke, his breath splashed against Hannibal’s cheek. But he was still in the chair. Hannibal was positive he was still in the chair.

“Are you wishing me away, Dr. Lecter?” Franklyn whispered.

“No,” Hannibal said. “I am remembering my time at Calderdale.”

After several seconds passed, and Franklyn made no response, Hannibal opened his eyes. Franklyn was still sitting in the leather chair, his eyes boring into Hannibal.

“Did you ever hear the rhyme, Ladybird, Ladybird ?” Franklyn asked.

“I’ve never been familiar with English-language nursery rhymes,” said Hannibal. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

Franklyn showed his teeth in an eager smile. “We called them doodlebugs. But in the rhyme, she’s called a ladybird. I don’t remember the whole thing, but there’s a part at the end with a little kid, and something about a grindlestone.”

Hannibal fought to keep his eyes from closing. A wave of nausea bubbled in his stomach. “Did your mother teach that to you?” he asked.

“No. I read about it in a book.”

Bored with his own line of thought, Franklyn twisted his head to look at the bookcases behind him. Seeking more, his head twisted further until it made a 180 degree turn, then a 360. Then round and round and round without end.

“Ladybird, Ladybird,” Franklyn said.

The phonograph kicked on and Hannibal tensed, forcing himself not to jump. A loud song poured out of the horn as Franklyn continued.

“Ladybird, Ladybird, fly away home. Your house is on fire; your children are gone. All but one, and that’s little Joan.” Franklyn paused, his neck twisting as he cocked his head. “Or is it Jane?”

“It’s John,” Hannibal said. He turned away from Franklyn, out the window, and caught a glimpse of broken glass, of falling leaves. No snow. Hannibal’s eyes squeezed shut and he heard a gasp in the middle of Franklyn’s nursery rhyme.

“That’s right,” Franklyn said. His head turned again on his neck with an audible crunch. The music on the phonograph sank into a low-pitched distortion. “All but one, and that’s little John. And he lies under the grindlestone.”

And then nothing. The phonograph’s song, garbled beyond recognition, grew suddenly quiet. Hannibal listened, his teeth clenched, his eyes still closed, for the crunch of the bones in Franklyn’s neck.

“Wishing me away again?” Franklyn asked.

“You died, Franklyn,” Hannibal said into the darkness. “Your life was cut short, and you are a hallucination. Perhaps, a symptom of an underlying disorder. I’m afraid I don’t indulge in hallucinations.”

A huffed laugh. The creaking of the chair. Hannibal could feel Franklyn moving closer, the disturbance in the air, but he couldn’t hear footsteps.

“Cut short,” Franklyn said, voice low and close and raw with anger. “Life can be short, Dr. Lecter, but the forgetting can feel … long. Hallucination or no hallucination, I hope you didn’t forget what you did to me.”

Hannibal swallowed. “A doctor is only a doctor when he has killed one or two of his patients,” he said, and then added, “You are certainly a symptom of something.”

He moved his lips as little as possible, fighting a wave of nausea that could only get worse with Franklyn so close, the smell of death emanating from his lips.

“Cute,” Franklyn said, moving away again. “That’s cute. You better figure out your own head, Doctor. Snuff out those boogeymen neck and crop.”

As if to punctuate that point, Hannibal heard the bones of Franklyn’s neck give a sharp snap. He opened his eyes and let them move over Franklyn like water. He sought out the window. The frosted window, uncracked, keeping them safe from the snow. From the corner of his eye, he saw Franklyn’s neck turning to follow Hannibal’s gaze.

“You’ve had a long winter, haven’t you?” Franklyn said.

Chapter Text

It was the pig ears that got Will thinking. He had twelve dogs at home, seven living, five dead, and all twelve got pig ears when Will came back from the butcher’s. The ghosts of dogs were short-lived, and none of them knew they were dead; Will could imagine no greater cruelty than depriving half his dogs of bones.

Even if they couldn’t eat them.

He distributed the pig ears evenly, to the living dogs first, then laying the remainder down where the ghost dogs were gathered, their tails wagging. The living dogs didn’t know their brothers were dead, either, so they’d never touch those pig ears.

Will stepped over a years-dead golden retriever to reach his bookcase, where the Lounds and Chilton books were stacked together, an inch or so of them dangling off the edge. Will had met some murder victims who remembered everything, but they were rare, and if Lecter’s house was anything to go by, he wasn’t one of those unlucky few.

The Last Victim contained an interview with a socialite who claimed to know Lecter, who said Lecter had hated the snow, that his house (when they slept together, she claimed) had always been warm, that his closets were littered with blankets and sweaters. Chilton’s books, especially When Winter Came to Florence, suggested that Lecter feared the cold, or at the very least disliked it, due to a traumatic childhood.

Based on his short first visit with Lecter, Will wasn’t sure either book was accurate, but he knew two things for sure: everyone liked to be warm, and everyone liked to eat, dead or alive.

Will decided to make chicken soup.

While the broth boiled, he thought about the last twenty years, about everything Lecter had missed while the seasons changed and Lecter stayed stuck in winter. He didn’t suppose Lecter cared about the movies he’d missed -- Back to the Future came to mind -- but Will got the impression he’d care very much about the 1981 Goldberg Variations by Gould.

Will left the kitchen for a moment, this time stepping over a very-much-alive golden retriever to get to his aunt’s old record collection. Aunt Brenda’s records were, for the most part, in excellent condition, as she’d liked to collect them mainly for appearances, not to use. The Glenn Gould record contained two vinyls; one of the 1955 recording and one of the 1981. Will checked every word on the cardboard slip carefully and used a Sharpie to blot out any and all reference to 1982. If Hannibal thought only two years had passed since his death, it was best not to challenge him.

On his way to Lecter’s country home, Will balanced the bowl of soup on top of the record. One of his dogs -- a dead one -- climbed into the backseat, her long tail thumping against the leather. Every now and then, she leaned up to sniff the soup, unaware that her paw had slipped through the seat itself.

“You’ll have to go back home,” Will told her, eyes on the road. “I’m going to meet somebody.”

She didn’t listen. At the Lecter house, she wiggled right through the car door and onto the grass, sprinting from their end of the yard to the woods. Will juggled his gifts in his arms and kept an eye on her until she came bounding back, eager to go inside.

Will wondered if Lecter would be able to see her. He trudged up the broken pathway and knocked on the old blue door with the ghost dog dancing around his feet. Ten seconds went by, and the dog whined, and Will was just about to knock again when Lecter opened the door.

“Will Graham,” said Lecter, smiling. His hair had been slicked back when Will last saw him, but now it was falling over his face, and he’d traded his suit for a thick wool sweater. The passage from The Last Victim rose unbidden in Will’s mind.

“Nice sweater,” Will said. His dog interrupted him with a bark, and Hannibal’s smile twitched, though he didn’t look down. “I think I’ve seen it before, on one of the Blackwrens.”

“Constance?” Lecter guessed. Will’s grin widened.

“Julian,” he said, and was rewarded when Lecter’s face warmed with the palest blush.

Of course, it had been Constance Blackwren who told Freddie Lounds about sleeping with Lecter, but that bit of gossip was a few years past Lecter’s timeline.

“I didn’t know you knew the Blackwrens,” Lecter said. He stepped back to let Will in, and this time, when the dog barked, Lecter looked down and smiled at her. Will was glad for the moment of distraction; it gave him time to rearrange his face, to banish the stupid expression he’d made. The Blackwrens were dead. Julian of complications related to AIDS, Constance of heart failure. It had been ten, maybe twelve years now.

“Jack knows them,” Will said. “He told me you were close.”

“Some might say,” Hannibal said. He waited for the dog to come inside and then closed the door, and Will caught a sound on the wind a moment before it closed -- a sound like a rushing river. Hannibal’s eyes fell to Will’s hands, to the soup and the record.

“I know you told me to set up an appointment with your secretary,” said Will, working hard to infuse an apology in his voice. Hannibal said nothing. “But technically,” said Will, “this is a social call. I saw on the news that it was snowing all night out here.”

Hannibal pulled his sweater sleeves over his hands and hugged himself, as though Will’s words had somehow influenced the temperature. A moment later, Will felt it, too, and suddenly, he could see his breath. He was glad he hadn’t removed his coat yet.

“Thought I’d bring you some soup,” he said. He held the bowl out to Hannibal, who hesitated a moment before taking it. His eyes, a peculiar shade of maroon, landed on the now-visible picture of Glenn Gould in Will’s hands.

“Strange,” said Hannibal, ignoring the soup. “I don’t believe I’ve…”

“It’s new,” said Will. He held up the record so Hannibal could see every detail. “Jack told me you don’t leave the house often and I thought you might want to hear it -- you’re on the board of directors, aren’t you, for the Philharmonic?”

Hannibal’s face twitched, but his eyes never left the record in Will’s hand. “I was,” he said.

The dog wound her way between Will’s legs and then through Hannibal’s. Hannibal shifted his feet so that he wasn’t touching her, but didn’t look down.

“Well, then I figured you have an appreciation for music,” Will said. “Do you have a record player?”

“I’m sure I can find one,” said Hannibal. He led Will through the hall to the kitchen, where he left Will alone with the dog and the soup. Will leaned against the counter, watching it age as Hannibal moved farther and farther away in his search for a record player. A loud crack brought Will’s attention to the window; shards of glass were falling from it only to disappear before they hit the ground.

There was no snow outside. The temperature was rising, leaving Will overly warm in his coat, and he was just getting comfortable again when the cold came back and Lecter entered the room. He carried a large record player, one Will was certain he wouldn’t be able to carry on his own, and set it down on the kitchen counter near Will’s soup.

“May I?” Lecter asked. Will handed him the record. Lecter removed the vinyl and examined both sides before placing it on the turntable. It was a moment before the music started playing; Lecter’s eyes turned to the sleeve, reading the description.

At Will’s feet, the ghost dog sighed and slid onto her stomach, resting against the tile floor. Outside, it was snowing again -- of course -- and the Goldberg Variations filled the room, building from a barely-audible gentility.

“He’s dead,” said Hannibal suddenly.

Will turned to look at him. “I’m sorry?” he said. Hannibal was still reading the cardboard sleeve, but now he was pale.

“Died a year later ,” Hannibal read. He looked at Will. “I didn’t realize.”

“Oh,” said Will. He should have read the sleeve more carefully himself; if he’d needed to, he could have just slipped the records into something else before he brought them over. Next time, he’d have to think more carefully.

“A year later,” Hannibal repeated, reading from the sleeve again. His eyebrows knit together. “A year after 1981?”

“Er,” said Will. Hannibal looked up, eyes locking onto Will’s. There was a red spark in them now, something that made Will’s stomach churn.

“It can’t be 1982,” Hannibal said. His accent was thick now. He swayed suddenly, losing his footing and leaning against the counter, but he didn’t break eye contact with Will. “Is it 1982?”

“It -- it is,” Will said, trying to sound casual. He shifted, accidentally stepped on the dog’s paw. She yelped and moved away, but Hannibal didn’t seem to hear. “Only just,” Will said. “Hence why I said ‘Happy New Year.’”

Hannibal’s eyes narrowed. Will hadn’t said Happy New Year, not on either of his visits, and he knew that, and he suspected Hannibal wouldn’t fall for that lie for a second.

“Auld lang syne?” said Will weakly. Hannibal finally looked away, removing the needle from the record. He slipped it back into its sleeve, then laid it on the table, then thought better of it and held it out to Will.

“Keep it,” said Will. Hannibal put it back on the table, and Will got the impression that Hannibal would have thrown it if it weren’t so impolite. Hannibal glared out the window, at the snow.

“Thank you for the soup,” he said, not looking at Will.

The window cracked. The dog whimpered. Above Will, a yellow stain grew on the ceiling, then turned brown, then cracked, and rafters fell to the floor around Will with a resounding crash. He ducked, covered his head, told himself that none of this damage was new, that it couldn’t hurt him. It was all just settling into place.

Dust rose all around him, until Will couldn’t see anything, and all he could hear was his dog barking, high-pitched and scared.

When he opened his eyes, Hannibal was gone.

The soup and the record sat on the counter, untouched by the destruction of the kitchen.

Chapter Text

A Tragedy

For one man, Agent Nelson’s good fortune spelled tragedy. Michael Bloom, a noted art dealer and socialite in northern Minnesota, had rented a room in a local exhibition hall to showcase some of his paintings. Bloom was deeply in debt, moving his family from house to apartment to house again in an attempt to escape his creditors. He hoped that the new show would free him from some of this debt, but the fresh onslaught of investigators, and the newly discovered bodies of Dale Roseberry and Lana Hudson, had the entire tri-county area in a state of fear. Potential buyers preferred the safety of their own homes over Bloom’s collection.

“About suffering they were never wrong,” Bloom wrote in his journal. “Here I am suffering, and all of Minnesota carries calmly on. Eating their frozen dinners, walking their ugly mutts. I’m surrounded on all sides. On one side is Harper Nelson and a fleet of police. On the other side is a pile of empty credit cards.”

Having earned a grand total of $999.49, Bloom closed his show and moved his family to his father’s home outside Water Point, Wisconsin, claiming that the city was too dangerous a place to raise his four sons. On March 3, 1977, police were summoned to the Bloom residence when a neighbor, who later reported having heard screams coming from the Bloom household the previous night, became concerned that the Blooms had not collected their mail and wouldn’t answer the door. Michael Bloom was found dead in his study. He had opened fire on his wife and three of his sons, before slitting his throat with a razor and shooting himself in the head with a pistol.

Welcome Home

Later that same year, after three months in a Wisconsin hospital, Alan Bloom, the lone survivor of his father’s deadly rampage at the delicate age of fourteen, returned to the scene of his father’s carnage at Water Point and appeared in front of the press to give a brief statement. “My father was a complicated man,” Bloom stated. “I had no knowledge, nor any involvement in the crimes he committed, and I hope to put that chapter of my life, as well as my father’s victims, to rest.”

Having sold the house and the long-held land, Alan Bloom seemed to be severing himself from all the worldly things that once attached him to his father in favor of a new father: family friend and noted psychiatrist, Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

Chapter 12: Twenty-Two Hours

For thirty-two hours on December 8, 1979, Hannibal Lecter and his then sixteen-year-old ward, Alan Bloom, were confined to the lower part of their two-story country home in Middleburg, Virginia. The first hour of their captivity began at 6:30 p.m., when Alan heard a knock on the door.

“Hannibal was like my dad,” Alan later told police. “He had lots of friends. So I didn’t think it was strange that someone would knock on our door that late at night, even out in the country like we were.”

But it wasn’t a friend who stopped in for dinner that night. Bloom answered the door to FBI Agent Miriam Lass, the same agent Lecter claimed had been harassing him with late-night phone calls for the past two months. Bloom described Miriam Lass’ behavior that night as “nervous and erratic.”

“She didn’t say exactly what she wanted,” Bloom wrote. “She only asked if she could come in to ask a few questions. Hannibal seemed to know that something was up, or else he would have invited her inside without hesitating. But this time, he hesitated.”

It was that moment of indecision, Bloom says, that changed the course of his and Hannibal Lecter’s lives, but the following events, as described by Bloom, have been disputed by hundreds of conspiracy theorists and forensic experts over the course of fifteen years.

According to Bloom, Miriam Lass entered the residence and withdrew a Bureau-issued firearm from underneath her coat. Closing the door, Lass ordered Bloom and Lecter into the living room.

“Hannibal expressed to Jack Crawford before the incident that he firmly believed the Ripper was deeply involved in the federal investigation,” wrote Bloom. “He didn’t point in Miriam’s direction, but the whole team was on edge. Any one of them could have been the Ripper.”

Any one of them turned out to be Miriam Lass. Handing a knife to Dr. Lecter, Lass instructed him to kill Alan Bloom. To “open me up,” as Bloom would later describe.

“She wanted a scapegoat,” Bloom said. “She knew the FBI was looking for one of their own, someone with an intimate knowledge of how the Ripper killed and cooked his victims. Hannibal matched that profile. The year before, when they took Miriam Lass into custody for the first time, it was because of the evidence Hannibal helped the FBI discover. Lass knew that if she tried to frame anyone else for the murders, Hannibal Lecter would catch on like that. So it had to be him.”

Standing at gunpoint with a knife in his hands, Dr. Hannibal Lecter refused Miriam Lass’ order. Frustrated, Lass grabbed Bloom by the back of his neck and pushed him toward the good doctor.

“She let her guard down,” Bloom said.

In the half-second in which Lass’ weapon was lowered, Hannibal Lecter stabbed Lass through the back of her free hand, effectively pinning her to the living room coffee table. Lass made to fire her gun, but Bloom, standing to her left, was able to wrestle away the weapon. But the two men were no match for the Chesapeake Ripper.

“It still seems like kind of a blur,” Bloom said in an early interview. “One minute, I had the gun. The next minute, Hannibal was shoving me away, down the basement stairs. Lass was so fast--it felt like fighting against smoke.”

Hannibal Lecter joined Alan Bloom in the basement, holding the door closed as Miriam Lass rallied to get in.

“I have no doubt that Hannibal’s first thought was to protect the boy,” said James Price, a friend and colleague of Dr. Lecter’s. “But he could only stay hiding in the basement for so long. There was another door down there that led to the outside. They couldn’t barricade both at once.”

At the two-hour mark, Miriam Lass suddenly fell silent. Bloom and Lecter strained for any sound to tip them off on her whereabouts, but heard nothing.

“And then the doorbell rang,” said Bloom. “I remember Hannibal turning to look at me, face frozen. I couldn’t tell if he was scared or relieved or just shocked. The doorbell rang again, and I heard someone yelling. Hannibal seemed to recognize the voice.

“I never expected him to leave. Hannibal threw open the door and, in an instant, he was gone. I guess he figured Lass would go after whoever was the door, and Hannibal wasn’t the sort of man to let that happen. But Lass wasn’t going for the door. I watched Hannibal go up the steps and disappear, and I heard him answering the front door, and the whole time I was staring right into the eyes of Miriam Lass. She was smiling at me from the second door to the basement.

“I knew I couldn’t fight her,” said Bloom. “She had a gun. But I was right next to the breaker box, so I could make sure she couldn’t see me.”

Bloom plunged the house into darkness. Upstairs, in the parlor, Jack Crawford saw his young protege’s badge lying on the floor a moment before the lights went out.

“I didn’t know what to think,” said Crawford in an interview with James DeLaire. “Hannibal was my friend. Miriam was … my pupil. There had been controversy surrounding her, but she … like all psychopaths, she was charming. Convincing. At her first trial, she was freed due to lack of evidence and reinstated at the Bureau. Just a few months later, she had half of us convinced she was truly innocent. And so naturally, we started looking for other suspects. None of us wanted to believe Miriam was the Ripper.”

When someone reached out to Crawford in the dark, Crawford swung back.

“I used my knife,” he said.

The fight was quick. A blade landed in Crawford’s throat, sending him to the ground. Crawford pushed backward until he was in the pantry, and closed the door in his assailant’s face.

Jack Crawford would not leave the pantry for twenty more hours.

“My eyes adjusted quickly to the dark,” said Bloom. “I saw Lass leaving. I can only assume she was going after Hannibal. Minutes later, I saw Hannibal stumble back down the stairs. I could hear a fight upstairs. It seemed to last forever. But then there was quiet.”

Only Lecter and Lass know exactly how Hannibal was injured; all Alan knew was that the man he had come to call his father was quickly bleeding out on the basement floor.

“He had a wound in his side,” said Bloom. “I tried to stop the bleeding. But he was still dying. He couldn’t speak, he didn’t know who I was. He called me ‘Mischa.’ And then, a few minutes later, his eyes closed, and I knew he was gone.”

But the night didn’t end there.

With Crawford locked in the pantry and Lecter dead, Miriam Lass slunk back into the basement.

“Hannibal had a meat grinder,” said Bloom.

The next few hours were, for Bloom, a blur.

“I recall Lass stripping the body,” Bloom said, “because it made me feel sick, and I had to turn away. And I remember the sound of the cleaver, though I can’t remember what I saw.”

At six a.m. the next day, Lass emerged from the basement with a supply of fresh meat. In the kitchen, she cleared a space on the counter and started cooking.

“I could smell it,” said Crawford. “Meat. Cooking. I told myself it wasn’t what I thought it was.”

In the basement, Bloom waited for Lass to return. He had found a shovel in a closet near the back of the room and was planning to ambush Lass with it as she came down the stairs.

“But I never got the chance,” said Bloom. “When she came down the stairs, I didn’t see it, but she must have tripped.”

Lass collided with the basement floor with a crash Jack Crawford could hear upstairs from the kitchen pantry. Her neck snapped on impact. A freakish end for a freakish killer.

The police arrived at the Lecter residence after thirty-two horrific hours. They found Jack Crawford unconscious in the pantry, human meat cooking on the stove, Miriam Lass dead in the basement, and Alan Bloom, unconscious from a fall out of a second-story window. Why Bloom jumped is a question that has never been answered.

Some people believe that Hannibal Lecter’s body was never found.

Chapter Text

“Regard the moon, she winks a feeble eye.”

Bedelia swept a hand over the line of her jaw, then rested it on the jamb of her front door. “T.S. Eliot,” she said.

Dr. Chilton smiled. His missing lips left his teeth bared like a wolf’s, and when Bedelia averted her eyes, he took the opportunity to push open her front door a little wider.

“Your time spent studying Hannibal has given you a deeper appreciation for the liberal arts,” Bedelia said. It was more of a question than a statement.

“I’ve had my share of cultural experiences. Frequently and more frequently since I began my study.”

“The last I heard from you, you were on your way to Nevada, chasing a lead on a housekeeper Hannibal used to employ. I trust the experience enlightened your writing.”

Chilton cleared his throat to speak, but Bedelia interrupted him.

“I don’t take visitors,” she said. She moved to close the door and Chilton stuck his foot in, keeping it open. He spoke quickly, without pausing for breath.

“Yes, I understand,” he said. “I’m a bit of a recluse myself these days. And it’s funny that you should bring up my trip to the East, especially because that’s exactly the thing I wanted to speak to you about -- my sources, that is. Names, and facts, and things.” He held a stack of papers under his arm, and his hands were occupied with a pen and notebook, so when he shrugged at Bedelia, it was stiff and awkward. “You know, there’s a graveyard at the Lecter castle in Lithuania -- what remains of it -- but none of the interesting people are there. Sources are confused on a certain point.”

“What is the point, Doctor?” asked Bedelia.

Chilton bared his teeth at her in a nasty grin. “Mischa,” he said. “Is it spelled with a ‘C’ or without a ‘C’? And the bodies -- the good ones -- you wouldn’t happen to know anything about where those might be, would you? You were his psychiatrist, after all.”

For a moment, Bedelia examined Chilton’s face. She smiled at him, and he smiled back. But their eyes were hard.

“Have you ever been to the Ise Grand Shrine in Japan?” Bedelia asked.

“I’m afraid I haven’t had the privilege.”

“It’s a beautiful place,” said Bedelia. “Hannibal often showed me drawings of the pilgrimage road in Furuichi, though I never visited myself. The shrine buildings are made of solid cyprus and thatched roofs. The complex was first constructed four years before the birth of Christ. Then demolished, built again. Then demolished, built again. Then demolished and built again, ad nauseam. The Inner Shrine stands in Uji-tachi, and the chief priest -- a member of the Imperial House of Japan, watches over the shrine. No other man, woman, or child may enter. Do you know why Hannibal Lecter’s mind is like the Grand Shrine in Ise?”

“No,” Chilton said.

Gently, Bedelia wrapped her fingers around Chilton’s jacket lapel. Pulling him closer, she placed her lips next to the burnt lump of flesh and melted cartilage he used to call an ear.

“They’re both private,” she said.

Chilton placed a hand over Bedelia’s and extracted himself enough to pull away. Eyes locked with hers, he took a step backward, and then another until he was standing on the front step outside her door.

“Thank you,” Bedelia said. “For stopping by.”

She closed the door.

“It was spelled with a ‘C,’” said a voice behind her.

Bedelia closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the cool, green wood. Her front door had matched Hannibal’s once -- the same shade of blue, painted the same summer. They’d been almost friends before he died, and friends did things like that. Painted each other’s doors.

She turned to find Hannibal sitting in his usual chair in the study. Hannibal smiled at her, then faltered, his eyes flickering away. He always expected her to be young again. He always flinched when she wasn’t.

“You’ve redesigned your office,” Hannibal said, staring at the bookshelves. There were new books there, books and writers and even subjects that Hannibal had never heard of, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Any special occasion?”

“Spring cleaning,” Bedelia said. She’d replaced all her furniture a dozen times over since Hannibal died, but it was always a surprise to him. Bedelia took a seat across from Hannibal and examined his face. “Did you hear Frederick at the door?” she asked.

Hannibal smiled. “Of course,” he said. “Difficult not to.”

“His questions … didn’t offend you?”

There was a bottle of wine beside Hannibal, a vintage Bedelia recognized, because it had been special twenty-two years ago when they first drank it, and it was even more special now. Hannibal must have brought it. He poured Bedelia a glass and handed it to her, and Bedelia sipped, but she tasted nothing.

“Did you know Glenn Gould has died?” Hannibal asked.

Bedelia’s mind flipped over itself, trying to find information on Glenn Gould. It had been so long since he was relevant, since anyone brought his name into conversation.

Indeed, Hannibal might have been the last.

“Yes,” said Bedelia finally, and said nothing more.

“I hadn’t realized it was the New Year,” said Hannibal. He sipped his wine, and Bedelia watched it disappear, her eyes narrowed. Bedelia turned her head, looked out the window near Hannibal, and saw that it was snowing.

“So it is,” Bedelia said. She set her wine aside. “Hannibal. What do you think of Frederick’s questions?”

“I assume there may have been some press coverage I missed in the last three years,” said Hannibal. His eyes flashed red for a moment, just long enough to make Bedelia’s stomach drop. “It seems my sister is … common knowledge now.”

“Frederick made it his mission to learn more about you,” Bedelia said. “Certain as ever in Miriam Lass’s innocence. He’s writing a book, you know.”

Hannibal’s lips twitched. “Frederick is always writing a book.”

Bedelia struggled to remember what she’d read of Chilton’s books. It would be beyond interesting to give Hannibal a book that mentioned his own death, but the consequences might be … tremendous. Bedelia’s stomach flipped at the thought. She didn’t want to find out what the consequences might be.

“He traveled to your home country,” Bedelia said. “He’s been out there with a shovel, poking around the woods for missing pieces of the Lecter puzzle. And he’s not the only one interested in digging up the past .”

Hannibal’s eyes were on the bookcase. If he just focused, if he pulled himself out of whatever mirage he was trapped in, he would see what was right in front of his nose. Blood and Chocolate, by Frederick Chilton -- the author’s name was larger than the title. But Hannibal’s eyes were far away.

“Does the name Will Graham sound familiar to you?” Bedelia asked.

The temperature dropped and Bedelia’s hair lifted on a breeze; when she turned to look, she found the window open. Bedelia crossed the room to it, her leg brushing against Hannibal’s, and pulled it shut. There was a pine tree outside covered in snow, and Bedelia was unable to identify the emotion she felt when she saw it, its trunk slick with ice, its once-noble branches stooped under the snowfall. That pine tree had fallen in a storm fifteen years ago, but Hannibal still saw it, believed in it so deeply that he could project it for others to see, too.

“I’ve never met a Will Graham,” said Hannibal. Bedelia stayed at the window, stared at her neighbor’s house -- a dull brown color in Hannibal’s world -- and the tiniest glimpse of the road that peeked through the trees. The window rose again and Bedelia fought it back down; when she turned, Hannibal was glaring at her empty chair.

Bedelia took her seat again, crossed her legs, adjusted her skirt.

“Do you remember last summer?” she asked. Hannibal’s glare softened.

“Of course,” he said. “We painted your front door.”

“What color?” Bedelia asked. Hannibal was slower to answer this time; a crease had appeared between his eyebrows. He wasn’t wondering about the color, Bedelia knew; he was wondering how Bedelia could have possibly forgotten, or why she would pretend to.

“Blue,” said Hannibal finally.

“Blue,” Bedelia repeated. She cocked her head, grey hair falling to her shoulder. “I could have sworn it was green.”

She watched Hannibal’s eyes flicker to the doorway. Bedelia couldn’t see the front door from her seat, but Hannibal could. He stared at it for over a minute before shifting in his seat and looking out the window again.

Still snowing.

“Hannibal,” said Bedelia wearily.

He didn’t look at her.

“Hannibal, do you remember what you said to me that day? There was a Little Crake in the drain on the front of my house. One Little Crake, and the shells of an egg, and we had to clear away what was left of the nest. Do you remember what you said to me then?”

“Blue,” Hannibal said distantly. “It was robin’s egg blue.”

“You said that all little birds must find their way home. That all little birds must fly.” Bedelia closed her eyes, could hear him whispering from across the room.

“It was blue. We painted your front door and sideboards. We painted the baseboards in your study. You chose robin’s egg blue because it matched the furniture.”

Bedelia opened her eyes. Hannibal’s hand moved up and down the arm of his chair, caressing it, examining it with his palm. He looked up at Bedelia and she winced at the pain in his face.

Bedelia’s furniture was black now.

“You’ve changed your study,” Hannibal said.

Chapter Text

Wednesday night. Will pulled back on the shift and his car lurched forward, then back, until it was scraping against the curved stretch of pavement outside Hannibal Lecter’s private practice. Will hadn’t brought any gifts this time.

Will stretched into the back seat and pulled a long bundle onto his lap. When the contents jostled and gave a soft clink, he bundled the cloth up tighter and stuffed it under his jacket. It was a crowbar, and a few other things. House-breaking tools, so to speak.

Hannibal Lecter’s office was pristinely intact, kept that way by a woman named Bedelia Du Maurier. An esteemed colleague, friend, and -- if Chilton’s books were to be believed -- Hannibal’s psychiatrist. Hannibal had willed most of his property and funds to Alan Bloom, but the office space and all its contents belonged to Bedelia, and she’d kept it all these years, paying the rent month after month, year after year. Will imagined no person had been inside of it since investigators last tore through looking for clues. At least, no living person had. Will hopped the gate and trudged up to the building.

The windows on the ground floor were skinny and tall with a coat of dust so thick, it was like looking through privacy glass. Will swept away some of the dust with his sleeve, but felt no closer to seeing inside. He dragged his hands down the building’s brick hull, and his fingers came away with the crumbling body of an ivy plant. He gave it a tug, but the plant held onto the outside wall. Tightly, as if it had always been there.

Will turned around, left the windows, and followed the front steps to the door, which was washed out by decades of rain and snow. He gave the door a good, hard knock. Hard enough that dirt tumbled down from around the entryway, and something else plopped down on top of Will’s head from above.

Will reached up tentatively and combed through his hair until a shard of glass poked the palm of his hand. He closed his eyes and shook his head and heard glass fall to the ground; rolling one of the larger pieces in his fingers, he looked up and saw the lantern hanging over the front door. Its glass pane was busted, and inside was an empty bird’s nest. No one had been here for a very long time.

Will knocked again on the door. “Dr. Lecter?”

He tried the handle, but the door was locked. Will leaned around the columns of the building and looked to his left and right, then pulled the bundle out from underneath his jacket. Having unwrapped the crowbar, he jammed it in at the lock point. The frame bowed, then split, and splinters of water-warped wood and dust settled over Will’s shoes. He ripped out the lock.

“Doctor Lecter?” he called. The front door swung open, and a square of light fell on the dark. “We had an appointment.”

He poked his head inside. Dust particles swept the air, rising and falling like bubbles in an ocean wave. He reached for the phone in his pocket reflexively, then shook the idea out of his head and reached for the flashlight from the bundle. If Hannibal was home, it wouldn’t do to let him see a gadget from the 21st century.

“We said Wednesday, Hannibal,” Will said. He entered what appeared to be a waiting room and left an imprint in the dust, the shape of the tracks on the bottom of his boot. “It’s Wednesday. Here I am.”

There was no answer. Will shined the flashlight around the room as he explored. It was a short room, but long like a hallway. The thick dust on the windows left it shrouded in darkness. Will passed each of them on his slow tour and stopped to wipe again at the glass, but the grime was permanent. The chairs, four in total, were covered in the same stiff layer of dirt, and Will guessed they hadn’t been moved since the office closed in 1979. He pushed one, just slightly. Its legs protested with a low squeal against the hardwood floor and revealed four clean circles on a sea of dust. Theory confirmed.

Will walked on. In the corner there was a potted tree that had long ago ceased to grow. Its trunk sloped over the side of the pot, more like a shrunken brown twig than a plant. Paintings hung on the wall. Dramatic scenes of bloodlust rendered in yellows and browns, faded now by time. Will had seen the same damage done in house fires. Wealthy families burned away in single nights, and their colorless portraits looked on like ghosts. Once even, at a crime scene, while observing the charred body of a victim of arson, Will looked up to see the same man, a dead man, staring silently into his own likeness in the form of an oil painting hanging on the wall. Will turned away.

“Doctor Lecter,” he called. His flashlight fell on the office door. It was a warm shade of grey, but when he wiped his hand across it, it bled a vibrant red.

“Doctor Lecter,” he said again. He brushed the dust off on his jeans and turned the handle of the door. Unlocked, to his luck. Will pushed it open.

“Doctor Lecter?” he said.

The wind picked up suddenly, and before Will could step through to the other room, the door slammed shut. The wind rushed past Will’s ear and rustled his clothes. On an end table by the chair nearest to Will, a pile of magazines that had not been disturbed for twenty full years jumped off the table and slammed against the wall. On the floor, their pages whipped back and forth as the wind changed directions. A cloud of dust rose off the ground like smoke. Will rattled the knob on the office door. Locked.

He coughed into his jacket sleeve. “Hannibal! It’s me, Will Graham.”

The wind roared. The cloud of dust thickened and condensed, sliding through the air with unnatural purpose until it reached Will’s head. Will dropped the flashlight, the crowbar. The bundle clattered to the floor. Will pulled his shirt up over his nose and, squinting to see through the cloud, ran back to the front door. The cloud followed. It broke apart at the entryway as Will stumbled through it.

He tripped down the front steps and turned around just as the front door slammed shut with enough force that the lantern above the door shattered completely. Will could hear the low hum of the wind dying down on the other side of the wall.

Behind one of the dirt-covered windows, a light flickered on.

Chapter Text

Eight hundred parcels of land, forty-eight farms, eight cemeteries, sixty stonemasons and one family fortune went into the construction of the Verger estate in North Carolina. The numbers scrolled behind Will’s eyes as he pulled up to the front gate. The Verger house sprawled on top of an enormous carpet of grass, the fields peppered by grazing horses. When a hard-faced, square-shaped man opened Will’s door, he was hit by the smell of chlorine from the nearby fountain.

“Nice landscape,” Will said.

The hard-faced man closed the car door. “Hands on the vehicle, please.”

Will obeyed, suffering through a pat-down in silence. When he was finished, the man backed away, and the front door to the estate swung open to reveal a slender woman in a black suit. She came halfway down the front steps, the clack of her heels slow and deliberate against the stone.

“Mr. Arnault,” she said. “Welcome.”

Will joined her on the steps and shook her hand. “Miss Verger.”

“Missus,” she corrected. Still holding onto Will with her right hand, she held up her left and showed him the diamond ring on her finger.

“Oh,” Will said. “Congratulations. I’ve read about you in the news, but none of the papers mentioned you had a husband.”

Margot smiled. “I don’t. This way.”

She turned and entered the foyer, and Will followed. Inside, the floor was a checkered black and white marble, and the walls were mint green. Rococo-style mirrors of different sizes lined every exposed inch of panelling. Will saw his face and body reflected back in over one-hundred different angles and scales so that, as they walked further into the body of the house, he began to feel as if Margot were leading him through a funhouse. Alongside the mirrors were paintings -- large and small -- of all kinds of exotic animals. A life-sized portrait of an ostrich folded its wings over a table in the hall. Three massive chandeliers lined the ceiling, and as they passed under the third, Will realized he’d passed three mounted stag heads in the same stretch of hall.

“I was grateful to receive your call,” Margot said. She continued walking, and didn’t look at Will as she spoke. “The team I usually employ is unavailable, and I’m afraid I’m very protective about the piece. How lucky Meryl Walton was able to bring us into contact.”

“Lucky,” Will agreed. “You didn’t say on the phone, but can I assume the painting is oil?”

“Yes,” Margot said. They’d come to the end of the hallway, and she paused to run her hand down the pearl inlay of an enormous mirror. “It’s just inside.”

She pushed lightly on the mirror, and the glass swung open to reveal a second room. Margot stepped back, quirked her eyebrows at Will, and held out her hand, palm up. Will took her hand, and she lifted him up the step and out of the hallway.

The second room was painted a brilliant red. There were no windows, no mirrors -- only red velvet walls and chairs and a hardwood floor. The room, unfurnished as it was, felt steeped in anticipation, as if somewhere inside of it was another secret, some large thing kept out of sight. Two white marble figures, snared in gilded stucco near the entrance, turned their breasts toward the door and their faces to the far wall. On the far wall was a painting of gargantuan size. It was the size of Will’s ‘95 Vauxhall Cavalier, and worth infinitely more. Will found himself stepping toward it of his own accord.

“It was painted in 1785,” Margot said, “by my ancestor, Ada Verger. It was a gift for her elder brother, Enoch. She christened it, The Deer-Pig in a Mountain Torrent. ”

Will approached the painting. It was a window into a scene of battle. Surrounded by the jutting rocks of the mountain-scape, a stag kicked its hind legs and reared its head in a noiseless, neverending cry. Hunting dogs snapped their jaws into the stag’s slow, heavy body, and a splatter of bright red bedecked the canvas. Will reached out to trace one of the curved bones that protruded from the stag’s lower jaw.

“Are those…?”

“Tusks,” Margot said. “Yes. The Verger fortune was made in the slaughter of animals. The painting is a depiction of two animals combined into one. My grandmother, Ada, was fascinated with the combination of like things. Perhaps that’s why she took so well to Enoch.”

Will cleared his throat.

Margot stepped toward the painting. “My son has a wild streak. He’s only eight, and he tells lies like birds fly. He won’t tell me how he managed this.” She pointed out the three deep scratches at the bottom of the canvas. “How much would it cost to have it restored?”

Will sucked in a deep breath through his nose and stepped away from the painting. “Mrs. Verger,” he said. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to repair your painting.”

“No?” Margot asked.

“No.” Will smiled tightly. “I actually came here for a different reason.”

“You came under false pretenses.”

Will must have given her a look of surprise, because Margot smiled at his expression.

“I did find it strange when I called Meryl Walton, and she didn’t seem to remember ever meeting an Igor Arnault.”

“Yes. I wouldn’t usually go through so many hoops, but you are a difficult person to find, let alone meet.”

“Find?” Margot said. “I’m right at home.”

“A home with no listed address.”

“A house should feel like a home, not a tourist attraction,” came a voice.

Margot went to the room’s entrance, and when Will turned, he saw her helping another woman, Alana Bloom, through the mirror door. Will knew Alana’s face; he’d seen it in countless pictures from articles and books, usually under the wrong name, usually with much shorter hair than she had now. Alana was taller than she’d been as a child, but she leaned on a hand-carved oak cane. She walked around Will in a wide circle.

“There is an Igor Buffett in Richmond who does oil restoration. And a man named Jason Arnault, who restores sacred statues out of his studio in Wilmington,” said Alana. “But I don’t think either of them have a thing to do with you, Mr. Arnault. Why are you here?”

Will smiled. “You won’t listen to what I have to say.”

“Try me.”

“Alright,” Will said. “I came to see you about a mutual friend.”

Margot and Alana exchanged a look. They communicated silently, and then Margot dropped her eyes, glowering at her ruined painting, and Alana fixed Will with a flat stare.

“Hannibal Lecter,” she said.

“You don’t seem surprised by that,” said Will. He received a sharp smile in return.

“You aren’t the first author to lie his way into my home.”

“I’m not an author.”

“Journalist then.”

“Not a journalist either,” Will said. He concentrated on relaxing his face, on smiling, on seeming as kind and approachable as a teddy bear. “I’m actually a close friend of Hannibal’s. Or I was, before…”

Alana inclined her head, her eyes narrowing. “Hannibal Lecter didn’t have many close friends. I’m surprised he never talked about you.”

“We lost contact,” Will said.

“Long lost friends,” said Alana. It was clear by her clipped voice that the lie wasn’t going over well. She regarded Will with a long look, then turned to face the painting of the stag. She and Margot made brief eye contact again, before Margot took a sip of her wine and moved away. Alana ran her finger along the frame, then examined the high velvet walls. “In Hindu mythology, the goddess Saraswati is said to take the form of a red deer. Saraswati is the goddess of learning, and men of a learned background sometimes use the skin of a deer as mats to sit upon.” Alana turned to look at Will. “Mr. Arnault, what did you come here to learn?”

They stared at each other for a moment.

“I wondered if you could tell me about what happened the night Hannibal Lecter disappeared.”

“That would be difficult,” Margot said. “Considering she doesn’t remember a thing.”

“She remembers some things,” Will said. “You said that Hannibal didn’t have very many friends. But in the book Freddie Lounds wrote, she quotes you as saying the opposite. If that piece of testimony’s changed, who’s to say others haven’t?”

Margot attempted to catch Alana’s eye; both Alana and Will pretended not to see her. Their eyes were locked on each other.

“I have often been misquoted by the press,” Alana said. “And misled by them more often still. I’ve met more than one journalist who bore a resemblance to that fictional emperor, the one who preferred the song of a mechanical bird to that of the real thing.”

“I told you. I’m not a journalist.”

“Whatever you are, you’re a liar.”

“If some people are to be believed, we have that in common.”

Alana smiled. “There is nothing common between us, Mr. Arnault.”

“Except the friends we keep.”

Alana’s smile fell. Her eyes were cold; Will had seen a similar expression before, the last night he saw Hannibal. “You want to know if Hannibal really died that night,” Alana said.

“No,” said Will. “The books were clear on that point. In fact, Hannibal’s demise seems to be the only thing anyone can agree on. I was hoping you would answer some questions I have about how he was killed.”

“That depends. You’ll have to ask the right question.”

“Alright,” Will said. “Did Miriam Lass attack you or Hannibal Lecter when she entered the premises?”

Alana blinked, her face unyielding.

“Did...Miriam Lass attack you or Hannibal Lecter without provocation when she entered the premises?”

Alana smiled slowly, but didn’t answer.

“Is that a ‘no’?” Will asked.

“You haven’t asked me the right question yet.”

“Did Hannibal Lecter have motive to kill Miriam Lass?”

Alana flicked dust off the handle of her cane.

“Aside from hunger,” Margot said from the other side of the room, “does the hound have a motive to kill the stag?”

The silence sat heavy in the room as Will digested the question.

“Was Hannibal Lecter the Chesapeake Ripper?” he asked quietly.

Margot’s eyes were heavy on the painting. Will thought, for just a moment, that she might be looking at the hounds -- but she wasn’t, nor was she looking at the stag.

She was looking at the tusks.

And Alana was smiling.

Chapter Text

It’s nighttime, and the moon is shining off the snow, and Hannibal has read the entire sleeve for his Glenn Gould record seven times. He’s made note of every single blacked-out word. It is January, 1982. He isn’t sure what day. The snow outside is fresh and it absorbs sound waves, insulating Hannibal in a delectable hell of silence. The record player is back in the closet where he found it, and the thought of listening to the record leaves an ashy taste in Hannibal’s mouth.

He closes his aching eyes and sees a flash of purple bleeding on the snow around his mother’s body. His memories are twisting and rupturing like old ropes inside his head -- there was no purple around his mother’s body. There wasn’t. It’s a malevolent trick, hard evidence that his Memory Palace is crumbling. Whenever Hannibal is truly tired, he sees purple.

Spelled with a C.

A taste like algae-ridden water coats Hannibal’s tongue. He clears his throat and shakes away a burning sensation in his lungs and nasal passage. For a moment, he thinks he might throw up, but the sensation melts away again when he looks out the window, at the snow.

It feels like it’s always snowing. Hannibal stands slowly; he’s spent the last several hours at the kitchen table, unmoving, and his bones creak with effort. There’s a calendar somewhere in his house -- he remembers taking it off the wall, folding it up and placing it somewhere out of the way, but he knows he didn’t throw it away.

He finds it in the cellar, of all places, underneath the rickety old stairs. A dusty calendar, year 1979. Three years, then, since Miriam Lass died, since Alana went to live with…. Hannibal furrows his eyebrows and tries to convince himself Alana wasn’t wearing purple that night. She would never wear purple. Purple was a garish color, really only fit for … for toddlers, who didn’t know any better. Anyone who lives long enough outgrows their love for purple.

Hannibal is grinding his teeth again, a habit so pervasive that it almost never stops. He forces himself to stop the gnawing motion but can’t seem to unclench his jaw. A memory sweeps over him with terrible force and he flinches, and suddenly he’s seven years old, and Mr. Jakov is laughing at him, a great smile taking over his face as Hannibal’s jaws weld themselves together. It is his first taste of peanut brittle, and beside him Mischa chomps loudly, unsticking her teeth through sheer force. Hannibal can’t seem to do the same. He looks up at Mr. Jakov, still laughing, and feels betrayed.

And then the memory fades, and Hannibal is himself again. He pries his teeth apart and tries to let his jaws rest, not touching each other, inside his mouth. He puts the calendar back in its spot under the stairs. The taste of brackish water is back, no matter how many times he swallows it down.

It is 1982, he reminds himself. He is wearing a green sweater, Irish wool. When he doesn’t comb his hair, silver streaks fall over his forehead. There is a scar on his left hand where he had his sixth finger removed; on his right hand, his index finger is crooked from setting wrong after a break. There are scars on his wrists, both self-inflicted and not.

It’s been ages since Hannibal felt pain. He breathes deep through his nostrils and still tastes dirty water. Beside his kitchen sink is a wooden block for his knives, each sharpened to perfection. Hannibal hasn’t used them in days. He can’t remember the last time he cooked, the last time he ate.

He takes the knife with his scarred left hand, draws it over his wrist, tracing the most prominent scar precisely. Blood comes slowly to the surface of his skin.

Purple.

Hannibal’s eyes squeeze shut without his permission and his throat flexes; cold water runs up his throat, into his mouth and out his nostrils. He coughs past the burning sensation, wheezes for air. He can’t seem to find it. Sacred rooms of his Memory Palace are flooded and the furniture, the scenery, it’s all floating down the same stream at once, blurring together, until he’s raising his arms to scare away a black swan, and the water is cold around him, and Mischa is taking the eggplant from his hand and cooing and he can taste meat for the first time in months on his tongue, is so hungry he’s willing to pretend he doesn’t know where it’s from.

And he can’t stop shivering, and he can’t seem to swim, and it’s getting harder and harder to tilt his head above the surface, to find the surface, to see the stars. Mr. Jakov runs a hand through Hannibal’s wet hair, praises him on his equations, asks if he’s ever tried peanut brittle. And when Hannibal’s head goes under the water again, he isn’t cold. He’s wearing a new sweater his mother has just helped him put on. He’s five years old and entranced by the deep-purple dye of the wool.

And he isn’t cold anymore.

It’s 1982 and he isn’t cold, and the snow is freshly poured, so he cannot hear a thing outside his head.

When did he lose the sound? He couldn’t remember when it went away.