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Summary
His eyes flicker once, up to Will’s. The candle catches in the glassy wetness of them. For a moment, Will imagines him without skin. Or with too much of it. Something in the symmetry of his face is too perfect to be true.
“I’ll dress it now,” Lecter says, and his voice has shifted lower, as if speaking through something thick.
He doesn’t move right away, staying there, knelt in the hush between breath and decision, hands warm on Will’s leg, as though still waiting for permission.
As though, in some old, quiet language, he is praying.
—
There is a monster aboard the Terror. Will Graham may be the only one to see it.