Bram Stoker's HANNIBAL

Chapter 47: Grief Racked and Tore

Chapter 47: Grief Racked and Tore

"I shouldn't be here," Will says.

"No, you shouldn't," I agree, opening the door for him and ushering him inside. This is a house of ill-repute, but it is a very expensive brothel, one of the best in London, if I'm to believe the upper-class minds I've read at the gentlemen's club where I am now a member.

Will and I spent the afternoon on an open-air carriage ride with Abigail, seeing the sights of this teeming city. More importantly, all of London saw Will Graham with me, a red rose threaded through the buttonhole of his jacket, in a state of public adoration. I want every tongue wagging. I want well-bred maidens and boys alike to look at him with green-eyed envy, asking themselves how it is possible that the glamorous foreign count has chosen the former inspector turned solicitor, mongrel foundling of the illustrious Bloom family.

Once I am satisfied that I've shown the whole city that Will Graham is precious and desirable, we drive Abigail home. She and Will have had a series of long, lovely conversations and I can see their bond reform. "I missed you," she says again. She did, in her own way I suppose; her repetition of the phrase is at my behest – the lightest touch of mesmerism. Will cares for her, wants to protect her, and is still the keeper of her secrets; I would have him believe she feels a similar attachment, though I can see into her mind. She doesn't. Will is an opportunity for her, and she understands very well how important he is to me. Therein lies his value to her.

Then, "Why did you leave, Will?"

That question was unprompted; I cross my legs and lean back in the seat, waiting for his answer, as I am curious to hear what he has to say.

Will struggles for several long moments. He won't look at either of us, and there are patches of high color on his cheeks. "I felt like I had to," is what he says at last. "I felt like... something was telling me... that I was in danger and I had to leave." He pauses, looking at her. Abigail is twirling her parasol, waiting to hear more, though I catch her glancing at the street where many a handsome youth tips his hat in her direction. She knows how lovely she looks in her pale orange silk visiting dress. "I was ill. W-when I, uhm... when I was in the hospital i-in Budapest, they said I had a brain fever. The... my brain was swelling and it was making me... I couldn't think," he explains haltingly.

"Well, you had us all very worried," she scolds him, adjusting her pristine white glove and smiling at a passing girl in another carriage.

Will glances my way, then down at his hands again.

"We're here now," I say, and he looks up at me with a tentative smile. "In this beautiful city."

He nods, and the clouds lift from his brow.

After we leave Abigail at Carfax, I tell Will we're headed to Hillingham, but that is not our destination. He is aware almost immediately, but says nothing; we are seated next to one another, our shoulders just barely touching. I can feel the heat from his body, the delicious coiled tension. We leave the conveyance and walk through a quiet neighborhood to the unassuming house full of expensive sex workers.

The parlor is full of beautiful young ladies and young men in various states of dress. All of their clothes are lovely and fine, rich and sensual, debauched in the way they hang half-on and half-off, unbuttoned, corsets and garters showing, shapely necks and dimpled clavicles everywhere, miles of sweet flesh.

I pay them no mind. There is only one person in the world whose flesh is of any interest to me, and he is blushing, hat in his hand, his face betraying the tangle of emotions and desires that are no doubt pulling him in several different directions.