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Summary
As much as Will Graham is pale and retiring before others, or a mosaic before Jack Crawford, he is prismatic in Hannibal’s view. A seething garden to rival all the temptations set before Saint Anthony by the hosts of Hell. It smells of sweet decay; Will is sick with it. And it takes as little as the effortless slide of a fingernail below the surface of his tenuous calm to set the corruption blooming on his skin.
Mesmerizing. All the more so because Hannibal is intent on teaching Will to want it. Or, rather, showing him that he already does.