#myversionoftruth

[baisunas]

✘

[unsent text]: he who licks knives will soon cut his tongue.

[baisunas]

Napper

Hannibal preferred the conservatory on the institutions grounds to the monitored and regimented social areas. Abigail's room was lovely, sparse and neat as a teacup, but there was something about the wildness of growing things. There was a simple metaphor of glass houses filled with the verdant green scent of orchids and richer spice of basil and rosemary that grew large and wild in the thick walled pots. He waited there, eyes turned up to the vaulted ceiling, tracking the white painted lines between the misted panes. It frosted with the heavier humid air in the winter and glazed gray with mineral deposits in the summer. He touched the broad flat leaf of an orchid, turning at the sound of Abigail's shoes on the linoleum floor in the adjoining hall.

She was growing stronger by the day, pale skin flush with youth that pulled the freckles over the bridge of her nose. She was wearing a scarf, a clunky hand knit thing that looked too thick for her delicate bone structure. He smiled, knowing he'd brought the correct gift in lieu of a picnic and bent to pull the long flat box from his valise. "Abigail," he began, voice warm and rich as the scent of earth as he held the box to her. Inside, nestled in a soft robin's egg blue tissue was a silk scarf, the pattern a loose interpretation of antique china. "This will suit your coloring quite nicely."