Bram Stoker's HANNIBAL

Chapter 45: Earth and Heaven, and Heaven and Earth

Chapter 45: Earth and Heaven, and Heaven and Earth

    The dogs were barking. Will vaguely registered it in the back of his mind as he peered through the gold-rimmed magnifying glass suspended from an adjustable arm anchored to the table. He carefully added another feather to his fishing fly, then wrapped the base with more thread, binding the feather to the rest of the lure.

    Dogs still barking.

    Someone knocking at the door of his house. "Mister Graham?"

    "Just a minute," he called, applying another feather with steady hands.

    The dogs were really barking now, Buster yapping loudest of all. "Mister Graham!" The voice was more alarmed now as whoever was at the door was likely being mobbed by his pack. They weren't mean-tempered, not in the slightest, but they did like to lick faces and jump up with muddy paws.

    "Just a minute!" he called again. Wrap. Wrap. Wrap. There. Sighing, he got up from his chair and went to the cottage door, the same one he'd helped Old Beau paint sunny yellow, God, over 20 years ago? He yanked it open to reveal a footman with paw prints on his pristinely ironed trousers and dogs swarming around him like a school of fish.

    Will whistled once, and they all came to heel, plopping themselves down on the cottage's little wooden stoop. They stayed, tails wagging madly, as Will descended the steps and stood in front of the footman. Behind the younger man, across a vast lawn, loomed the stately gray stone manor house he'd grown up in, but had never felt like his home; Hillingham. Evening was coming, but there was plenty of light left – yet many of the lamps in the house were lit, the windows illuminated and full of bustle and activity.

    "Mister Graham," the young man said, clearing his reedy throat. "Mrs. Bloom requests you begin your preparations now."

    Will pulled his watch out of his waistcoat pocket. Guests wouldn't be arriving for two hours, and that was if they weren't fashionably late. "Now? How long does she think it'll take?"

    He cleared his throat again. "Mrs. Bloom requests–"

    "Fine," Will barked, bunching up his shoulders and shoving his hands in his pockets. The footman scurried after him as he crossed the lawn in long, agitated strides. They went to Will's old chambers, the ones he'd stayed in as a lad but now never frequented, not since moving into Old Beau's cottage when the kennel-keeper had passed away. The well-appointed rooms were just as unwelcoming and overwrought as he remembered, though the windows were open and everything had been dusted and aired out.

    He had a bath and a close shave, and was then forced unwillingly into a tuxedo – white shirt, tie, black trousers and coat. Ugh, with tails – he hated them, hated the shiny shoes and how tight everything was around his throat. This whole evening, he was sure, was going to be a goddamn disaster. He was going to be wishing he was back on the DEMETER staring at the dead captain's blank eyes.

    The truth of the matter was, he did think about the DEMETER. Not about the murders, or the dead man. He thought about the spirit that the sailors claimed haunted the ship. "Him" or "It," the invisible devil. The dog. He thought about the feelings of serenity that wrapped him up the moment he stepped foot into that cargo hold, as if he was a ship himself threading the harbor-needle in a great and terrible storm to find safety.

    Since returning to Hillingham he'd shut himself away in his cottage, content to spend time with his dogs, take them on long strolls through the grounds, and think about the DEMETER. And wear his ring and dream.

    But Prudence Bloom, of course, upset his plans, throwing an enormous dinner party in honor of his return, which meant, for once, he wasn't able to decline one of her social invitations. Prudence, who had barely pecked him on the cheek when he'd returned before fluttering over to Alana to hear all the Whitby gossip – was throwing him a welcome home party. Knowing full well that he was going to hate every bloody second of it.