All that glitters (has gilded teeth)
Hannigram Saltburn AUâ¨
Rating: E
Hello đ Seven chapters out of eleven are now up! Hereâs a lil snippet from chapter 4 when we finally made it to Saltburn. I looove this world so much, I hope if you decide to read it you like what Iâve done with it x
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PREVIEW:
âYou found us,â Hannibal says lightly, as though Willâs chauffeured arrival wasnât meticulously planned ahead of time.
Will takes in the view behind him, eyeing the sea, the grounds, the impossible expanse of it all, and can only manage, âI didnât realise it was this big.â
Hannibal looks pleased with this assessment, his eyes glinting. âCome â Iâll show you around.â
Inside the manor, the air is cool and faintly perfumed with beeswax and lavender. Light pours in through high windows onto marble floors and oil portraits that seem to watch as they pass. Hannibal moves through it with easy familiarity, narrating in soft, practised tones that suggests heâs toured this place with a guest many times. He shows Will the sprawling library that smells of old paper and earth, the music room with its polished grand piano (one of several littered through the house), and the hall that opens toward the conservatory, where sunlight filters through layered leaves, each plant purposefully cultivated.
Will listens more to the sound of Hannibalâs voice than the words. Everything here feels slightly unreal, too perfect to touch. He catches his reflection in one of the mirrors lining the corridor â damp hair, travel-worn clothes, eyes wide â and thinks, fleetingly, that he doesnât belong here at all. Then Hannibal looks back at him and smiles, and the thought dissolves.
They climb the main staircase together, shoulders occasionally brushing, each step muffled by the thick runner beneath their feet. The house seems to go on endlessly, rooms leading into other rooms, long corridors where light pools and fades. Hannibal moves at an easy pace, occasionally pausing to gesture toward something with the absent pride of someone sharing a private collection.
âThis was Jackâs idea,â he says as they pass a wide landing lined with photographs â black-and-white portraits of men and women who look stern and wealthy. âDead relatives. He likes to imagine weâre preserving history rather than merely living in it.â
âJack?â Will asks, the name unfamiliar to him.
Hannibal glances at him, as though surprised he hasnât already explained. âJack Crawford. He owns Saltburn. He inherited it from an uncle who had no children of his own. He was an officer, once, in Intelligence. MI5. The sort of man who sees the world as a collection of systems, and people as levers within them.â
He slows, resting one hand lightly on the bannister as they ascend another flight of stairs.
âAfter his wife, Bella, died, he⌠Retreated here. He began inviting students, orphans, strays, anyone who seemed to have lost their direction. He calls it mentorship. Others might call it guardianship. To him, itâs his small way of keeping the world in order.â
Will listens in silence, trying to reconcile the image: a former spy turned benefactor, opening his home to lost causes. It occurs to him that he actually knows very little about Hannibal beyond what heâs gleaned from other people.
âAnd you?â he asks at last. âWhat are you to him?â
Will watches keenly as Hannibalâs face appears to harden before he looks away. âHis favourite experiment, perhaps. He likes to think Iâm proof that his methods work.â
âDo they?â Will asks.
Hannibalâs smile is small and distant. âSuccess can be a flexible term,â he says. âItâs rarely agreed upon, and often measured by the wrong person entirely.â
Will nods, and they linger for a moment before a glass-domed mongoose skeleton. He bends to examine it, feigning interest in the tiny articulated bones, though his eyes automatically slip through the reflection in the glass to find Hannibal again instead. He can never seem to help himself.
âDoes Jack live here with you, then?â Will asks, straightening back up.
âWhen it suits him,â Hannibal replies, a trace of fond irony in his tone. âHe has a house in London, but Saltburn has always been his sanctuary. Youâll meet him later, Iâm sure, along with everyone else.â
The phrase âeveryone elseâ unsettles Will slightly. He realises that he hadnât really considered what âstaying for the summerâ might entail. He had imagined the quiet Hannibal promised, long evenings alone, conversation with wine; instead, he can already hear faint traces of laughter echoing from somewhere below, a piano striking a single note before falling silent.
He takes a deep breath and sighs it out slowly, eyes drifting over the decorative moulding above, intricate leaves carved into plaster.
âCan I ask why itâs called Saltburn?â he asks.
Hannibal smiles, as though heâs been waiting for this question.
âNames tend to endure longer than reasons,â he says lightly. âBut salt preserves what would otherwise decay. And burningâŚâ He pauses, looking out of the window to the cliff top that sits beyond in the distance. âBurning leaves a mark. Between the two, very little is ever lost.â
Will absorbs this, unsure why a chill settles between his shoulders. âThatâs⌠Reassuring,â he says, not quite convincingly.
Hannibalâs smile deepens. âOld houses gather meanings the way they gather people. Some names are warnings, others are promises.â
âWhich is this?â Will asks, stilling entirely when Hannibal turns and looks at him, his eyes lingering on Willâs.
âThat depends on who you are when you arrive.â
Read chapter one
