Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The Sinister Chesapeake Abbey

A place soaks up death like a sponge. The very softness and fullness of a place is death. The ashes of the dead flowers make the earth for the living flowers; the flesh of the dead animals feed the present animals; the effort of the wasted few bears the prosperity of the descendency; and the blood of those murdered fuels the victory of the living.

•

The undergrowth was black.

Will had walked the extent of the sprawling prairies to the east, made his way through miles of green pasture grass and gardens more beautiful and flourishing than the garden of Eden – now for the first time in a week he saw nature fade, as if God itself had run out of colour in His palette or smudged the green with the black. Everything was black, grey, wet and sickly. The little flowers, where Will could spot one, were pale as bone.

The land was not barren nor dead – but the life there was of a strange sort. 

Ahead the prospects were worse. Fog covered the grey field. There was to be a manor erected at the very top, if Will was to believe the words of the innkeeper in the town below. He was not a man, however, who'd inspired Will's trust: a tall narrow shape, slimy, cadaverous, his eyes had looked like black beetles twinkling on his face. 

The man and Will had met the previous night, at the door of the town’s inn. He had denied him any service and said:

‘Go to the abbey if you come begging, just don't  beg to me, that if I didn't have what I could give you I would be a beggar also.’

And his beetle eyes had twitched.

Hours had passed. There was no abbey. Perhaps the man had wanted to torture him by sending him on a long quest to nowhere. Not that Will could turn back. There was nothing there: he burnt the ground as he walked. Ahead, past the hill, even if there was no abbey, there would be other towns, other innkeepers.

There was the ghostly sound of hooves. Will looked over his shoulder. The head of a black horse had appeared, the animal slowly trotted up the path. At its back was a carriage. Silver glinted off the ornate edges, but other than that it was a slick black.

Will stepped out of the way. The coach-man was a man in his middle-age, round and bloated in the face with a protruding upper lip that was covered by a glistening black moustache. His fit was black and very prim. From his gloved left hand dangled his whip. As he passed, the coach-man raised one thick eyebrow at Will. The carriage window was entirely covered by a blood red curtain.

‘Pardon me,' Will said.

His voice faltered from disuse. It didn't sound polite. The coach-man looked down on him silently.

‘Pardon me,’ Will repeated. ‘I think I might be lost.'

The man clicked his tongue. 

'You were in town last night,’ he spoke at last. ‘Carter told me about you. A ruffian, not letting a man walk into his own establishment. He said you wanted directions to the abbey.'

'I wanted directions anywhere. I didn't know there was an abbey.'

'You don't know Chesapeake Abbey?' the man frowned like he thought he might be lying. He had not yet halted the horse, and Will was forced to walk steadily alongside it. The dark compartment jostled behind them.

'I'm not from around here. Do you know where the abbey is? Are you headed there?'

'What do you want with it?'

The coach-man was prickly with suspicion. His wielding hand tightened like he might use the whip on Will if he got too close.

'I should like employment, at the most.'

Now the man finally halted the horse. The  wheels crackled over wet black dirt and small pebbles. The coach-man filled his large chest with prideful air, looking halfway between a bird and a boar, and leaned forward on his narrow perch.

'You won't get employment at the abbey, that I can assure you,' he sneered. 'See, I'm employed there myself and I know this: my lord is hiring no-one at the moment, and he never hires the likes of you.'

Will sighed. ‘Could you point me to the abbey? I'd like to be rejected by your lord himself.'

'He will eat you and spit you out!’

No sooner had the man spat out those words than he seemed to regret them. His hand slackened; the whip fell on his lap. Then Will heard the sound of a curtain being drawn, and both him and the coach-man looked back at the silent carriage.

Will cleared his throat. He ventured a step, no more. From there he could see the silver frame of the window, but he couldn't yet peek inside. He waited. The horse huffed.

'Do you revoke your words? You should not like me to reject you?'

The mysterious voice came from inside. Will took another step, then shook his head and quickly took the necessary rest. 

There was a man inside the solemn carriage, seated between walls draped in red. He was regal, no doubt: he knew he was regal from his birth and had grown around the word. The bones in his face had arranged themselves accordingly, high and proud in his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. His hair was silver. His lips were full and pursed with the dignified seriousness of the british. Yet he did not seem like a man from England. A queerness in his eye hinted at exoticism. He wore a suit of pressed black. Will could not decide whether his tone had been one of interest or impatience.

'Before you do, sir, I should at least offer my service.'

'And what is your service?'

'I could work in the stables.'

'What's your name?' the man asked.

'Will, sir.'

'Is that all?'

'Will Graham.'

'Then, Will Graham,' the man drew a close-lipped smile. 'I believe you are overqualified.'

Will frowned. 'With all due respect, sir, you and I have exchanged two sentences. You can't know whether I'm a scholar or a farmer.'

'I know you are neither, as I knew before you said anything at all, when I caught sight of you through the window. You are still overqualified.'

'You're prejudiced.'

'Terribly,' now the man smiled with his teeth. 'I'm what you might call a snob: everyone must be in their proper places, or else I refuse to take part in the play.'

He spoke like he was confidently sharing a secret, like he knew he was not playing extra nor even leading man: he was the director, he'd written the script. It was the fancy of rich men, Will supposed. He wondered what his own part might be. 

'This is not your place,' the man said, as if in answer to his thoughts.

Will persisted, 'If there's an available position in your property, I should happily change to fit it.'

The man's head tilted a little. 'A very eager, very foolish offer. You'd change yourself for a job in my stables?'

'I would change nothing. You require it, sir.'

'I've required nothing yet,' the man hummed.

'Then what do you require?' Will insisted. He thought he heard the coach-man laughing from his perch.  Will feared that he was wasting his breath when he had so little to spare. 'I'm overqualified by your own words. I have what you need and plenty more. Take my plenty at your will. I'll dust your silverware and tend your garden. By all means, abuse my spare time. I don't even ask for wages. A bed and food would be payment enough.'

The man did not answer immediately. Will could feel the weight of his stare but did not dare meet it.

'You mean it?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Don't answer so fast. Think first.'

'I've thought enough.'

'Then you will work at my stables, Mr. Graham,' the man said. Still Will did not look at him. 'And if need be you will dust silverware, tend to the garden, run errands, wait on me and my guests. And as to my requirement: you will move into the abbey at your earliest convenience, and you'll make sure your earliest convenience happens to be before the sun sets. Tonight you shall have dinner with me.'

'I can move this very hour, sir, this very walk in fact, if you should be so kind as to point me to the abbey.'

'You have no belongings?'

'Of course I do, sir,' Will spread his arms. 'They are as you see them.'

The man laughed. 'You were going the right way, but the abbey is still far. Would you like to join me in the carriage?'

The coach-man was eerily silent now. Will shifted his weight, testing the strength of his legs.

'How far away is it?'

'Two miles.'

'Then if it's alright with you, sir, I'd rather walk. It's refreshing out.'

Once more the man let out that rumbly laugh.

'It is refreshing, if one is stout of heart. I must say you look anything but.'

'Then the exercise will be good for me.'

'Mr. Graham – you will not look your new employer in the eye?'

Gritting his teeth, Will looked up. The lord's eyes were between brown and red, the colour of dried blood.

'I'll see you at the house, sir.'

The man tilted his head in goodbye. Will did not answer his smile. The coach-man snapped the whip and the horse began its slow trot once more. The carriage shook ever so slightly over the gravel: it disappeared in the grey fog, for Will did not move, did not chase it. He could not bring himself to lift a foot while the funerary coach was within sight; long after it was gone, he had still to sweep it from his mind.

He took a deep breath. There was a roof for him somewhere. Food. A stable. He missed working with horses. Only two more miles, and an infinity left behind him.

Onward.

•

Chesapeake Abbey was at the summit of the hill. The land was plain there; the undergrowth dark and wet from past rains. The left incline of the hill descended into a large forest. It was large and the pine-trees very tall; it was the sort of forest that has plenty of squirrels, rabbits and deers foraging in its heart. The residents of the abbey likely hunted there. The right of the abbey, from what little Will knew of the county, might meet the main road he had abandoned two days prior and from then on lead to the great towns, with London one hundred and fifty miles southeast. As for the very flattened summit of the hill, that belonged to Chesapeake Abbey itself. The manor was old and imposing, built entirely on old stone blocks that had been eroded from the frequent rains. It reminded Will of the rocky escarpments he had seen on northern beaches: great walls of grey porous stone carved and scarred by the waves for thousands of years. Dark green ivy crawled up the sides. The roofs were dark and tall, peaked sharply at the top. The windows also were thin, dark and peaked.  The west wing turned and extended forward to wrap around what might be a patio.

The carriage was nowhere to be seen. An hour must have passed since Will had seen it. Although Will had no wish to reencounter it, it left the question of how to enter the abbey? There must be a lateral entrance for servants.

The manor was so large that it took him very long to walk around its side. The gardens were simple and solemn, overlooking the lands below. The plants there were also dark and ashen, a lifeless beauty. The dirt was black and wet under his feet. There was no-one in sight.

Will headed for the stables and carriage-house. Inside he found a lanky boy brushing the mane of a dark horse.

'You're Mr. Graham?' the boy did not look at him.

'Yes,' Will frowned.

'I was going to go find you. Mort was almost ready: I just needed to change the saddle and then I was off. Mr. Budge said I had to go in an hour – but that was an hour ago. Said you would probably faint.'

'Mr. Budge is the lord of the house?'

The lanky boy laughed. 'Mr. Budge is the lord of the servants. Who owns the abbey is Mr. Lecter, but we never talk to Mr. Lecter.'

Lecter. The foreign name must belong to the man in the carriage. 

'Can I talk to Mr. Budge?'

Mort whinnied when the boy patted the side of her face. He dropped the brush on a cluttered worktable and perched on it.

'Are you going to faint? Mr. Budge said you'd be very weak. That I should search the path a mile away, that there might be a body in the field. I thought only women fainted.'

'I'm not going to faint. Where is he?'

'Are you sure? Mr. Budge said it was very important I help if I found you. He gave me…' the boy grabbed from the table a little glass vial and showed it off proudly. '...he gave me these salts to put under your nose to wake you, and he said "make sure the boy is really awake before you help him onto the horse" and then he said "if the boy falls off you'll sleep with the horses for a month."'

'Where's Mr. Budge?' Will repeated wearily.

The boy told him where the side entrance was, and Will followed the muddled instructions. He entered the abbey through a little black door that opened wide into a servants' dining-room, two maids who were playing cards glanced as he passed; and through an archway in that room he could hear the clinking of pans and the running of a faucet. Before the kitchen there was an anteroom and, in this anteroom,  inspecting a box of produce with his hands behind his back, was Mr. Budge.

'You're the boy? Where's Wally? Did you fall off the horse?'

'No, sir,’ Will said. He asked weakly, ‘Can I have a room?’

Can you have a room?' Budge mimicked in distaste. ‘Can you have a room? - what did you say to the lord, I wonder, that you should feel so entitled to a room... Go up two floors, you wretch, the room with the open door. The key is on the lock. Be sure to lock it, else your things might be taken,' he looked Will up and down with obvious distaste. 'Do you have things that might be taken?'

'No, sir, I'm very lucky.'

He was happy to leave Budge behind. Will's room was one of the two very last. It was cramped and cold, with two walls exposed to the wind outside and a very low ceiling. The closet was empty save for two hangers. On a table under the window there was a basin with water. The bed had two grey fur blankets.

Will collapsed on the bed and fell asleep with barely a thought as to where he was. He'd forgotten to lock the door. All the servants could – and did – look in.

•

'Mr. Graham?'

Will stirred. Wally's face hovered a few inches over him.

'Mr. Budge sent me up to call you.'

Will rubbed a hand over his face, mostly so he wouldn't have to look Wally in the eye.

'What does he want?'

'Don't know. But you should go downstairs.'

'Downstairs where?'

'Don't know.'

Will sighed. His head hurt. When Wally finally stepped away, Will could see the dark blues of the sky through the window. It was almost nighttime.

'Mr. Graham?'

'Yes?'

'You fell asleep with your overcoat on.'

'I guess I did,' he hadn't taken off that frayed overcoat in weeks. Through cold nights and wet dawns spent in his endless march, it had been his greatest comfort. In that overcoat, in a secret pocket sewn over the heart, there was a letter; and in the envelope of that letter, there was a poem: 

My raven,

It falls upon your shoulders,

upon your breasts.

I wish it were my darkness,

Your hair in my eyes as I kiss you

to kiss you in the depth

where the flowers bloom.

And that poem, and that letter, these were the reasons for his march. 

'It's all dirty,’ Wally complained. ‘Creased too. Mr. Budge shouts at me when my clothes are like that.'

Will cracked a smile. When he sat up his head hit the low ceiling and pain shot down his spine. He cursed.

'Mr. Budge also shouts at me when I say those words. Were you really close to fainting?'

'No.'

'You looked close to fainting. You look close to fainting now. My sister fainted once in church. I think she sinned. Do you know Franklyn was peeking into your room?'

'Who's Franklyn?'

'He works at the stables too. Well, sort of. He drives the coaches. Your closet is empty – did he steal anything?'

'No,' Will wondered whether this Franklyn might be the unsavoury coach-man he had met. 'Did you send him away?'

'He ran when he saw me. But I would have told him off, you know, if I had to.'

Will stretched his legs slowly, then forced himself to stand. Before he could leave the room, Wally cleared his throat, looking pointedly at him. Will was too tired to argue: he hung the tattered coat in the closet, feeling as if he'd stripped off a bit of skin. He ran his fingers over the secret pocket and the letter.

Wally walked down the stairs with him. Back at the kitchen level, Budge was waiting. His hands were still folded behind him.

'You didn't wash up.'

'I fell asleep.'

'Wally,' Budge's voice was stern. 'Your food will get cold and Miriam won't heat it. Off you go.'

The boy hurried out of the chamber, but not without laying one bony hand on Will's arm as he passed. It was the first time in a long time that Will had felt a friendly touch. He didn't quite know what to do with it – and then it was gone, left with the lanky boy, the room was cold and sharp once more, Will could breathe.

'Mr. Lecter is expecting you.'

If Will were one to speak rashly he might have asked is he? He held his tongue. 

'Where is he expecting me?'

'I'll show you,’ Mr. Budge hissed, and he made it very clear that what he meant was: I don’t trust you.

Will was chaperoned from room to room. When they finally left the servants’ side and entered the heart of the abbey, Budge gave him no time to enjoy the magnificent rooms. If Will strayed too close to anything that might be slipped into a pocket, he could feel Budge watch him closely. He might have stolen something out of spite, but one of his pockets had a hole in it and he could not remember which.

Budge stopped in front of a closed door. His posture was instinctively straight. He must wait on his lord quite often.

'Mr. Lecter is in there. He wants to speak to you, I'm sure, in order to know just what sort of man he has been kind enough to employ. He does not know what we know, we the servants I mean, but I did not see it fit to tell him, though he would plainly trust my insight, because the lord should make his own judgement of your character. But Franklyn told us all what his friend said. You're a wild man and a ruffian. We do not tolerate the violent sort here, nor the rude, and especially not the uneducated.'

Will had not been paying attention. He nodded and made for the doorknob. Budge stopped him.

'Mr. Graham. You will eat here once and once only. I can personally assure you of this.'

'Yes, sir.'

Satisfied, Budge let him through. The door closed behind him with a click so quiet that it must have been practised. He was in a formal dining-room, the one where he assumed the highest guests of the abbey might be shown to. Dozens of candles shone beside and above him. Sitting at the head of the long table was the man from the carriage, Mr. Lecter.

'I heard you found the abbey without a hitch,' he said pleasantly.

'I did, sir. It wasn't so very far,' Will replied. 

Mr. Lecter smiled like he was consciously indulging his lie.

'By all means, take a seat,' he pointed to the seat directly to his right. China was laid before the two seats: little dainty silverware, cups that looked like chalices. Will sat with caution. Mr. Lecter watched him intently. Will stared at the dirt on his pants. 'I trust Tobias helped you settle in.'

'Mr. Budge? He was very accommodating.'

'Have you had the chance to meet any of the other servants yet?'

'Yes. Wally.'

'Ah,' Mr. Lecter laced his fingers over the table with a sort of light expectation that made Will want to needle the subject. He dared look up, just for a second, gauging the lord's expression – but moving his neck doubled his headache and he soon looked back down.

'I found him in the stables. He was about to go fetch me,' he said.

'He was a precautionary measure.'

'I was not aware I required precaution– sir.'

'I recall saying you looked weak.'

'You said the abbey was far.'

'Far for you, I believed was implied.'

'But you still let me walk alone, sir.'

'Well, you had seemed so decided,' there was an amused lilt to Mr. Lecter's tone. 'And I do not regret my actions, given that you did survive the walk. As difficult as it may have been.'

'I've walked a lot in the past few days, sir. Two miles felt very little.'

Mr. Lecter hummed consideringly. 'And what was the starting point of this walk, if I may ask?'

He said it like he could ask. Will fisted his hands on his lap.

'North.'

'North?'

'Yes,' Will cleared his throat. 'I'm sorry, sir, am I– am I supposed to wait on us?'

The question was clumsy; he had not been wondering anything of the sort but simply needed a change of subject. 

'Rest at ease, Will. Not tonight,' Mr. Lecter said kindly. Will was unsettled by the familiar way his first name sounded on the man's tongue.

'Is Tobias? Mr. Budge, I mean?'

'Neither of those. Tonight I will be the one serving us.'

Will frowned. The revelation more than anything had left him uncomfortable. He wondered whether this might be some sort of mockery.

Likely sensing his scepticism, Mr. Lecter explained, 'You see, I've a passion for the culinary arts. If possible, I insist on preparing my own meals – and I've a taste for dinner parties also,’ suddenly he chuckled, a low pleasant rumble. 'Now you’re looking at me strangely, you who've been finding your lap so interesting since you sat down. You know it isn't customary for a person of means to cook for themselves. Society requires an extended limb of sorts, shall we say? – to knead dough and stir the sauce, alas, those unpleasant bits behind success,' Mr. Lecter smiled, for a moment showing his teeth. 'I cannot enjoy success, Will, without the unpleasant bits. It is its necessary counterpart, it enhances the flavour. Do you not agree?'

'I don't cook much.'

'But you live.'

'Clearly,' Will replied without thought. He cleared his throat. 'Sir.'

Mr. Lecter just hummed. 'And, in life, do you not believe what I said applies?'

Will's headache was blinding. He pretended, under that piercing scrutiny, that it was not. 

'Sometimes there is merit to the unpleasant,' he said carefully.

'Yes, there is,' Mr. Lecter nodded approvingly. 'You certainly proved it, did you not, in walking alone those two miles?'

Will felt colour rise to his cheeks. Perhaps to allow him a reprieve, Mr. Lecter stood to fetch their dishes. For as long as the lord was out of the room, Will cradled his head between his hands, dosing out deep breaths. He needed to sleep like he had not slept in a week. 

He scrambled up when the door opened. His head pulsed like a heartbeat. Mr. Lecter gracefully held a plate in each hand.

'When I first settled at Chesapeake I had the adjacent room be transformed into a kitchen for my own use. The kitchens on the east wing, if you have seen them already, are used for the servants' own meals and in the preparation of banquets, when my kitchen alone won't do. Of course, in those occasions, when I have guests to entertain, I do not serve the dishes myself. But this is not entertainment – I should call it professional, wouldn't you?'

No, it was not professional. Will had always believed that the higher class was not especially easygoing – not curious of anything besides their own thoughts, condescendingly tolerant of diverging opinions at best, finicky with wording and sticklers for honorifics. In a professional context, Will had figured all these charming qualities would be doubled down. But Mr. Lecter had not been like that in the carriage; he was not like that now. His strangeness was undocumented. And this conversation had very little to do with employment.

He said nothing. A plate was laid in front of him. Slices of rosy meat were laid one atop the other, a thick cranberry-coloured sauce drizzled over it. To the side there was slightly charred asparagus. Will had never eaten anything quite so prettied up. He hadn't eaten anything at all for what would have been three days.

'Venison,' Mr. Lecter said as he sat down. 'Have you had venison before?'

'I might have. I don't actually know.'

'There's plenty of deer in the forest nearby. Do you hunt, Mr. Graham?'

'No,' Will was trying to gauge whether it would be impolite to start eating. 'Do you, sir?'

'I do, when the prey is worth chasing,' Mr. Lecter smiled. 'Let me pour you some wine.'

Doubt was put to an end by Mr. Lecter himself taking up his knife and fork. Will had to take a moment. His stomach felt so unbearably empty, churning on itself like high-tide waves or mealy dough under the breadmaker's fist, that he feared the discharge of acid he might feel upon that first bite. Most of all, he feared the relief, and with it the reaffirmation of his hunger.

When he at last took the first bite, politeness was quick to leave him. He was conscious of a pleased primitive sound scratching up his throat. He had been right: one pang of relief had opened the floodgates for all those held-up wails; his head hurt more, as if punishing him for neglect; with each bite and sip of the sweet and fruity wine, his surroundings seemed to fade. He had only enough self-control to utter a simple, 'This is very good.'

'I'm glad,' Mr. Lecter's voice seemed to be coming from very far away. Will set upon clearing his plate.

The compulsion that had overcome him eased around his last slice of perfectly tender venison. He took another sip of wine and, remembering the existence of Mr. Lecter, dared a glance at the lord. Embarrassment struck inside him. Mr. Lecter's plate was nowhere as empty as his own; his cutlery had been laid atop it, Mr. Lecter himself was staring and continued staring, for a long and unnerving moment, with a rather satisfied look. Then:

'I knew you could not be that pale. Colour has returned to you. You are naturally pink.'

Will bit his tongue. 'I don't usually have wine.'

'You've had little yet.'

'I hear pacing oneself is important.'

'It is, if one plans to be cautious and on their guard. Here, have some more.'

Mr. Lecter refilled both their glasses. Now Will felt far too observed to finish his plate, at least while his companion didn't recommence eating, but he did look down at his slice of venison longingly.

Mr. Lecter tapped the stem of his glass with one finger. He looked calm, curious and amused. 

'Tell me about yourself, Mr. Graham.'

'I fear I haven't had enough wine for that, sir,' Will said. He focused his gaze on the flittering candles behind Mr. Lecter.

'But you agree, do you not, that I should know more about the man I've employed.'

'There's nothing to tell, sir.'

'Nothing at all?' Mr. Lecter raised his eyebrows. 'You were created as you are, a fully made man of over twenty-'

'Twenty exactly, sir.'

'-of twenty years old, and dropped on my land for your first day on earth? You have no past, I've been witness to all your present?'

'No, sir, I do have a past, but it's inconsequential.'

'There is little of no consequence in a world that is all effects. You are an effect, Will Graham – will you not tell me what has caused you?'

'I would rather not.'

'Then I must object.'

'Mr. Lecter, I beg your pardon, but must you know the life-story of the man that helps tend to your horses?'

'And dusts my silverware and trims my garden,' Mr. Lecter smiled. 'I will see you very often and wonder who this boy is, that's truly just a boy for I am twenty years your senior, and I will have nothing but a memory of you arguing with my coach-man.'

Will had to lift his glass to cover his embarrassment. Avoiding Mr. Lecter's amused eyes, he took a sip.

'I thought you would be content, sir. It cannot be too bad an impression, considering it granted me this position.'

'No,' Mr. Lecter hummed. 'It was not a bad impression.'

Will dug into his last slice of venison so that he would be spared from answering. After a few seconds Mr. Lecter followed. The clinking of knives against plates was all that was heard for a while. Shortly after Mr. Lecter stood to get dessert, two pieces of moist raisin cake. He hadn't lifted the wine bottle from the table; it stared tentatively up at Will. He drained his glass.

'Sir,' he said halfway through the cake. 'Will I be working under Mr. Budge?'

'All servants here work under Tobias, yes,' Mr. Lecter replied. 'Does that concern you?'

'Not at all.'

'Did you expect to work under someone else?'

'No.'

Mr. Lecter raised an eyebrow. Will looked down and cut his cake into small bits.

'Wally told me- he told me, when I found him at the stables, that Mr. Budge was "the lord of the servants". So I'd guessed as much; that I'd be working under him that is.'

'Are you used to working under others, Will? What did you do before you came here?'

'This cake is delicious, sir.'

Mr. Lecter drew an indulgent smile and did not insist. They finished their dessert in silence. When Mr. Lecter suggested some more wine, Will forced himself to shake his head no; then Mr. Lecter stood and took both their plates, and Will, sensing a sort of finality to the occasion, pushed himself to his feet also. It might have been the wrong thing to do, because Mr. Lecter stopped to look at him.

'You're tired,' he said curiously. Will did not see what could be so curious about it.

'Yes, sir.'

'Then off with you. Tobias, I should suppose, is outside waiting for you.’

Will nodded. He had to keep a hand on the back of the chair for support: exhaustion was creeping in once more.

'Thank you, sir. Goodnight.'

'Goodnight, Will Graham.'

They left through opposite doors. Will walked haggardly. To the right of the door, like he and Mr. Lecter had surmised, Tobias stood more statue than human, with a disgusting sort of placidity that made him blend into the wall. His eyes sharpened when Will came in sight. Life returned to him in pieces. He waved one neat hand like he was shooing him away. 

'Mr. Lecter usually takes longer with his guests.'

Will guessed the comment was meant to spike him somehow. It rather relieved him.

Little maids scurried through the corridors in order to extinguish all the candles. Soon the abbey would be plunged into the same cold darkness that reigned over the hill. In front of Will's room, Tobias seized his arm. It was clear to Will that he was dying to know what had been said during dinner. Will did not plan to satisfy him. 

They were like that for a moment, a tense not-speaking. Will looked at the bridge of Tobias’s nose rather than his eyes.

'I will have you fired,' Tobias hissed suddenly and coldly. ‘As soon as you give me a reason.'

Will dug nails into the soft flesh of his own palm. 'Yes, sir.'

Tobias released his arm but not without a vicious squeeze first. This time Will made sure to lock the door behind him.

He had to duck his head to get to the window. Bent like a twig under that low ceiling, he looked down at the eerie expanse of the hill, the soft curve of it disappearing into a sea of inky black. Chesapeake Abbey was the heart of that ashen place. If a sunflower should sprout in that land, it would turn its great eye from the sun to seek the manor. It commanded the black of the rotten undergrowth, the grey rains that wet the afternoons, the meek creatures in the dark forest. It commanded Tobias Budge and the quiet maids killing flames between wet fingers.

Will put on his overcoat. He ran his fingers over the secret pocket and the letter again. When he fell asleep, it was with his back against the wall and his face turned to the door. He did not dream.