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When the lungs whistle, the dish is done.

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Hannibal glanced down at the cup cradled in his hands. In the background he was faintly aware of Bedelia conversing with their two guests. After dinner coffee being the done thing he had made the expected pot along with some mint leaves dipped in dark chocolate, left to harden into a delicious crisp in the freezer. They too were as cooed over as Sogliato’s lungs had been, served up under the guise of lamb, an unwitting and impulsive sacrifice.

He sighed. For all that the coffee was rich and dark and to his many tastes he missed the fact that Will often opted for a simpler cup of tea after an evening meal citing sleep and caffeine and their mutual incompatibility. Only once had he admitted that it reminded him of his father and late evenings with a vacuum flask shared whilst night fishing. Coffee frightened the fish, his father had told him.

The tea, in this moment, Hannibal missed acutely.