Bram Stoker's HANNIBAL

Chapter 49: Cry to the Power On High

Chapter 49: Cry to the Power On High

When Will passed the doorway of Hillingham's drawing room on his way out after breakfast, he caught sight of an enormous puff of white spread over one of the couches, a ghost in his periphery. He did a double take and stepped back to peer through the doorway. "Alana?" he called tentatively.

The mass shifted, and Alana sat up on the sofa with a little groan, stretching up her arms, which were encased in sleeves of intricate lace.

"Will," she greeted with a little smile. "Help me, I'm turning into a snow drift."

He approached with a chuckle, hands in his pockets, surveying the swaths of white fabric that practically buried her, the dress half-pinned and shaped. "What happened to you? Looks like you had a fight with a bedsheet. And lost."

"The seamstress had to run back to the shop," she said. "Left me in dire straits. I was supposed to keep standing but... I'm exhausted."

"Sleepwalking? I, ah, I let the dogs out the other night and I saw you at the window."

"Really? Hilda said I was in bed all night," she mused, rubbing her forehead a moment.

"Maybe she slept through it." Will came to stand by her, sidestepping some scraps of fabric on the floor. What he could see of the dress was, he supposed, beautiful — cream white and lace, sewn with gold beads. Perhaps it was because it was unfinished, but Will thought Alana looked like she was drowning in it. It didn't help that her face was pale and the circles under her eyes prodigious. She smiled at him, but it looked more like a crack than a curve; her fingers fidgeted with the high lacy neck of the dress as if it were irritating her skin.

"Are you..." he ventured.

"I'm fine," she assured him, reclining on the couch again. "There's just so much to do before the wedding."

Will reached over and picked up a stiff lace collar, wide and rigid and flat like a snowflake with a hole in the center. "Channeling Shakespeare?" He slid it over his own head for a moment and she laughed gaily, bringing warmth back to her cheeks.

"I'm not even sure I'm going to wear it," she said, reaching carefully for a cup of tea she'd set aside. "Mother's dressmaker says it's all the rage in Paris, but... I have the same reservations you do."

"How's Margot supposed to lean in and kiss you?"

Alana sipped her tea a moment and shook her head as if refreshed. "She'll find a way. When she puts her mind to something..."

Will couldn't agree more. She'd shown up at his house all those years ago with one very singular idea in her head, and achieved her goal.

"Tell me everything about the lawn party," she requested, smoothing the swaths of fabric around her.

Will shrugged, feeling heat gather on his neck and feather up his face. "It was a lawn party," he said vaguely.

"Will," she chided. "You know what I want to hear... how was Count Lecter?"

Sensual. Loving. Voracious. Enamored and vicious, insatiable. "The perfect host," Will said. "The house is coming along. He has... taste."

"Stargazing is rather... romantic..." Alana prompted, wiggling an eyebrow. "Did he sit next to you for the meteor shower?"

Will nodded with a little half-smile, looking at the floor, then the window. When he glanced back at Alana, she looked like the cat that got the canary. "I think he's a perfect gentleman," she said. "Intelligent and charming. Talented. Undeniably handsome. Mother would mention his title, but I'd rather know... how does he make you feel, Will?"