Bram Stoker's HANNIBAL

Chapter 9: Gone is Gone

Castle Lecter has prepared for months for the solicitor's arrival. There were mortal comforts to be seen to.

No.

It is not the solicitor I await.

Yes, it is. Mister Graham comes from London.

Then why am I standing in the courtyard in the snow, surrounded by my household, my sister Mischa at my side?

My heart flowers, seeing her beside me, her long hair braided into a crown and decorated with holly leaves and red berries, wearing a gown for once, a fur cloak thrown over her shoulders.

I miss you, I want to say, but that is not what comes out of my mouth. "Thank you for humoring me," I say instead. "You look lovely."

"I'll find a way to make you return the favor," she says with a little grin. "And not to worry. You look fetching enough that you might have a chance to claim him." She turns back to the open gate. "Might," she teases me.

I'm dreaming a memory. I haven't dreamed in decades. When I first became what I am, I suffered them nightly, twisted nightmares of Iliya and Mischa dying before me over and over, or sweet dreams that were even more painful upon waking, because reality was far more cruel. I trained myself to recognize dreams over time, and came to control them entirely. Once I could do so, I shut off the part of myself that allowed them at all.

This is a dream, but it is also the past, and I cannot control a single thing. I am memory's puppet. I have no choice but to comply, though I try and will myself to wake. This memory is beautiful but in waking from it, I anticipate torture.

At last, a company of sledges caravans into the courtyard, their gleaming runners gliding over the crystalline snow; some are pulled by shaggy horses, the others teams of dogs. I have prepared words to say to welcome the entire assembly — the guards and attendants and drivers all – but they are forgotten in an instant. There, in the bare winter sun, is Iliya, throwing off the blankets and carpets he'd been snuggled under to stay warm, laughing as he desperately tries to free himself. Just as he manages to fling off his cloak and step out of the sledge, I am there, lifting him into my arms in an enormous embrace, uncaring where one of my hands cups his backside, the other clutching his chest against mine. I nuzzle into his neck and inhale deeply of his scent like a dying man's last gasp of air.

He's pulling my hair now, tilting my head back to kiss me, and it is indecent, especially in front of his retinue and my entire household, including Father Davies. And yet, there is nothing but benevolent laughter peppered with chatter and greetings, the excited yipping of the dogs.

At last I release him, but just enough to put his feet back on the ground. I did not think it was possible, but he is more beautiful than when I left him at his uncle's last May. May 25th, to be exact. I know all of the days of import. May 25th was the first day I kissed him, and May 4th was the day we met for the first time. May 14 was when we sparred at the training ground.

More beautiful. How? Hair a little longer, yes, curls cascading down the back of his head to brush the back of his high-necked collar. Just a little more man than boy since I've seen him last, perhaps that's it.

Constance is a virtue that requires strength in the heart and soul.

And what is Iliya, if not constant? All summer long, through the harvest and into the winter, we have written back and forth to one another, long letters dripping with longing. I send him my sketches. They grow progressively more sensual as time goes on. I cannot help but draw him, and add my image as though I am there to visit. It began as a simple series of drawings suggesting things we might do together when next we met – hunting, dancing, reading to one another. It evolved into something else, and I sincerely hope he's able to read my messages alone.