Chapter Text
The blade of the scalpel slid through the liver with almost no resistance, lifting each vein away clearly. When he was finished, he examined it with his hands, the pressure of his fingers revealing hidden capillaries. These were cut out too.
With the veins and fat gone, the liver had been pared down to two kilograms exactly. He smoothed the flesh over the imperfections left by this treatment. He lifted the entire thing carefully, using both hands, and laid it down in a waiting dish. It had been a gift from one of his clients some years ago; Wedgewood, manufactured in 1945, showing a scene of the Parthenon in the classical Etruria blue and white.
A Meissen pitcher of milk waited in his refrigerator. The cream had risen to the top while he cleaned the liver; he stirred it briskly with a clean glass rod, then, very slowly, poured it into the tray. The milk had come direct from the Holstein to his kitchen, thick and smooth and creamy white. As soon as it covered the liver, he stopped, and returned the pitcher to the fridge. He covered the dish with a glass lid and set it aside.