a garden, tucked away safely on the balcony of the apartment,
bathed in sunshine. mischa, still speaking in the coos and
cries of a one-year-old, makes a noise of delight when he
takes her to the flowerbed—where spring has started to
show and the flowers have started to bloom. she wriggles
in the grip of his lithe arms, excited.
not for the flowers, though—but the plants beside them.
the boy approaches them, holding her carefully in one
arm in a way motina certainly wouldn’t approve of. taking
one of the aubergine in hand, he leads her palm to touch
it gently. she tries to pull it out of the roots with her feeble
strength, eager to hold it and investigate on her own.
he pulls her away before that’s possible.
“be careful. they are not ready to be picked.”
he’s met only with baby gibberish and a pinch to the nose.
like every other year, mischa falls ill with pneumonia in the
winter, right around the christmas season. she’s kept in her
room, resting and constantly drinking fluids, too ill to do
anything besides that.
despite how contagious she is and how much he’s warned to
stay away, he doesn’t. instead, he creeps into her room around
an hour or so before her designated bedtime, a copy of the
snow queen tucked under his arm and a sack in his hand.
hannibal is both alone and lonely, and needs something
besides the solitude of his own mind—needs someone. mischa
provides him something that his parents cannot, that chef
cannot. that caesar cannot.
he hears her wet cough when he enters, sitting in the chair
beside her bed. in the dark, he sees glassy aubergine eyes
staring wide in his direction, hears a familiar but raspy “anniba?"
hushing her, he turns on her bedside lamp, showing his copy of
the children’s book. he’s met with a wide grin, and outspread and
eager arms. taking the aubergine out of his sack—stolen from the
kitchen, chef will hardly notice it—he hands it to her to hold. she
hasn’t seen one in months, and her eyes shine the color if it as
they always do.
when he begins to read in low, practiced russian, she whines.
"sit with me, anniba,” the two-year-old demands, making space in
her minuscule bed for him to slide in. “sit. please.”
because she uses her manners, he slides in, taking up as little
space as possible with her shaggy blonde head tucked under
his arm and arms wrapped around him, fists clenching the
fabric of his pajama shirt. he’s not even halfway through the
first chapter before she’s asleep, breathing heavy and wheezy
on his chest, the eggplant forgotten. he runs his fingers through
her hair, smiling, feeling the burn of her feverish skin on his
fingers.
it’s a strange thing, love. but hannibal knows he feels it for mischa.
if he had to, he would tear the whole world down for her. there
would be no question.
but perhaps that’s what love is.
it is not often that hannibal turns to god.
but when he does, he’s met with nothing, and mischa is gone.
he’d prayed and mischa is gone, only her baby teeth and femur
left. he knows the femur from the anatomy books he’d devoured,
back in the library. with the swing of an ax, she’s gone.
the vibrant palace forming in his mind with its vast gardens
bathed in sunshine and blooming with spring flowers and aubergine
goes grey, turns to sand.
