Will half listened to the conversation between Hannibal and the community midwife. Once he’d registered that their story was holding; medical records lost sometime during the regime transition in Eastern Europe at the end of the 1980s, he’d let himself drift. Remembering.
The tomb for Mischa Lecter had been kept clear of the encroaching forest. The castle might be testimony to a lost future but the quiet grave was a remembrance to an unforgiving past. Hannibal might think he happened, but Will knew that Mischa’s ghost clung to him like the ivy winding through the forest. Choking all life slowly but inexorably. Killing what sustained it.
He sat up in his chair and turned to Hannibal.
“We need a pruning knife.”
The midwife quirked an eyebrow, but something stirred within Hannibal. In quiet certainty.