Chapter Text
Mr. Chatelain sat on the overstuffed purple settee in the hall atop the stairs drying his forehead with a handkerchief. It was so damned hot in there he thought, the downstairs fire blazing despite the heat wave and throngs of people in the house. A roaring fire was traditional, after all, regardless of ongoing warming trends.
Mr. Chatelain tugged at his collar to let some steam out. He was in a full white tie affair he had taken out of storage and let out. His wife sat next to him, pretending to look bored and unconcerned while tapping her fingers on the leather clutch in her lap and tunelessly humming every few minutes or so. Mr. Chatelain wished he he had his flask, but it was confiscated during the ride over.
“Do you think I should check on things?” He said.
“I’m sure everything is fine. Otherwise-” The hall door opened. An older woman wearing far too much pink walked out, smiling.
“She’s ready.”
The Chatelains stood up. The woman in too much pink opened the door behind her and out walked Theodora Marie Chatelain.
She was in white, another tradition, a small corsage of pale yellow roses on her wrist. Her hair had been dramatically bobbed and curled into something platinum and old-fashioned. Her father cooed over her, saying she looked like Carole Lombard. Her mother just smiled, looking at her with a mix of affection and pity. Theodora was used to that look. Lots of people looked at her like that after the accident.
The woman in too much pink got father and daughter to link arms and start walking down the stairs at the cue from the band below. A man in a booming voice at the base of the stairs announced them as they descended.
“Miss Theodora Marie Chatelain and escort, Mr. George Jeremiah Chatelain.”
There was some polite applause in the crowd below, practically a standing ovation by Hunting Club Standards. The Hunting Club’s debutante ball was a small affair, even by insular decaying institution standards. Just a few girls a year, mostly the same four families. It was tradition, just like the blazing fire and Ohio Hunting Lodge party. Unlike other balls, young ladies were traditionally not escorted by their fathers, but everyone there knew why Theo was.
“So brave.” They whispered among themselves, “To suffer all that at such a young age.” A man walking home from work reported the crashed red Chevy Impala on All Saints Day. It was wrapped around a tree, half-hanging into the open water. It was a miracle it didn’t fall in. Theodora was alive but unconscious when they found her. Bo was never found, his body most likely fallen into the bayou, food for scavengers and swamp things. Unlike Theodora, he wasn’t wearing his seat-belt.
The car crash was covered up of course, too personal a matter to get into the press. So too Theodora’s testimony to the police that the crypt robbery and investigation drove Bo mad. He got violent, irrational, started drinking a lot. Taking drugs to cope. They found narcotic patches and whiskey bottles in his bedroom. She said he forced her into the car, said he wanted to get away from everything and he wasn’t leaving without her. I thought he was going to kill me if I said no, she said.
And so Theodora came out with only physical scars. “But those doctors are miracle workers!” people said. “You’d never know. Except-” Except for the thing everyone was trying not to notice.
Theodora survived the crash intact except for her left ring finger which investigators figured got jammed or crushed in impact. Totally inoperable. It was removed at the knuckle.
In its place, she had a slender silver finger. Custom made. Spared no expense.
Theo and father reached the bottom of the stairs and bowed slightly. The small band in the back of the ballroom began up again, a simple waltz. Theodora turned toward the fireplace and greeted the two men standing beside it.
“It’s traditional that the debutante chooses her first dance with someone other than her escort.”
She held out her left hand, the fire reflected in her silver finger.
“Would you do me the honor Mr. Van Meegeren?”
Hannibal looked at Will looking at Theo’s invitation.
“It would be my pleasure.” said Will. Hannibal sipped his champagne.
“Be careful with him. He’s got two left feet.”
Will and Theodora took to the floor with the other couples, turning and swaying in the stuffy ballroom. The Hunters Club was over-embroidered and over patterned and over-full. It reminded Will of a hot house or natural museum exhibit, something to cultivate a rare and delicate plant.
They danced for a while. Will looked at her silver finger as they turned.
“Does it hurt?”
“Not anymore. Mother wants me to get one of those new things. Won’t shut up about servos and nerve interfaces and nanoparticles. I think it’s how she deals with it.”
“And how do you deal with it?”
“I like it. It’s a good reminder.”
“You’re not angry about losing it?”
“I gave up a finger. I lost a classic car. Mr. Tessdale is going to be so upset.”
Her glibness angered Will but it was also comforting. There was nothing they could do to her. She arrived fully-formed and unmovable. She wasn’t his fault. They didn’t create her. She just happened. Still, he was pretty aggressive with the dip and spin.
“Where did you learn to waltz like that Mr. Van Meegeren?”
“Miami. We tracked down an arms dealer. I left a Krugerrand where his heart should be.”
Theo smiled, leaning in a bit closer.
“I was thinking of applying to Georgetown. Figure I could get a better start on the inside there. A letter of recommendation from local celebrities might help that.”
Will blinked. They had become local celebrities. The real Le Deluge contacted him for a photo-shoot and Hannibal’s print shop became a legitimate tourist attraction. Will and Mrs. Chatelain even got the go-ahead to make the model streetcar exhibit at the museum. They had been profiled, photographed, interviewed, listed in bold letters in society columns and not a single person noticed they bore a resemblance to the most famous couple in America.
It was impossible, The Murder Husbands were beyond true crime, beyond sordid cable TV melodrama and airport novels. They were myth, folklore, the murder tableaux sign of a decadent society taking justice into their own hands. The editorial pages raged. But lost was the idea that they were actual people, with actual skin and actual faces. It was impossible they were at the party. It was impossible they were anyone but James Caradoc and Nathan Van Meegeren. Everyone knew them. They were in the papers. Of course they’re who they say they are.
Will knew this was all from their connection to Chatelains. All their doing. Their endorsement made them real. Putting the spotlight on the paper moon outshone the real one. The audience was dazzled, like a magician's misdirection. They only saw what they wanted to see.
“I thought we agreed. You go to Tulane.” Will wanted her close, keep an eye on her.
“I can find out more in D.C Not waste time with Blind Item bullshit.”
“And how can we be sure you won’t turn us in the instant you’re over state lines?” Or worse, thought Will.
The waltz ended and Will leaned in for the final dip. Theodora extended her neck outward and brought her head up.
“What kind of girl do you take me for?”
The dance over, Theodora bowed and moved on to another partner. Will returned to Hannibal’s side by the fire. Hannibal had a drink waiting, the ice in the bourbon and water already melted. Will drank it eagerly.
“I should’ve killed her.” Will said.
“And miss the party? She’s far more interesting alive I think.”
Will grumbled into his drink. “She’s a complication.”
Hannibal stared at Will with an appreciative eye. Will had changed so much, yet still remained Will, no matter how many new growths and strange tendrils he put forth. He was blooming, even now with his worried brow and half-empty drink. He couldn’t have imagined this Will Graham. He couldn’t have planned it out and set it in motion, but here he was. By his side. Where he’d always be. As long as they both shall live.
“Tell me Will, what will you do when I die?”
“Don’t be morbid. It’s a party.” Will finished his drink.
“I’m older than you. It’s only natural you’d think about life without me.”
“I don’t. And I could get hit by a bus tomorrow.”
“Now who's morbid? Will you take another? Teach them what I taught you?”
Will passed his empty glass to a waiter. “You didn’t teach me anything. You just showed me what to look at. You expanded what was possible.”
Will pointed to Theodora, dancing with the heir to a beer fortune who could barely be counted to wear pants most nights. “She’s got a father. She’s got a life. She’s not like us. I’m not taking in strays. This stops here. When we die. This is over.”
Hannibal’s eyes drop. “No care to the future?”
“None whatsoever.”
Hannibal pursed lips and raised his head. “I like that. It’s very freeing.”
“We get to chose our fortunes. I chose this one. I like it.” Will put his hands in his pockets. “Except for one thing. I want one thing in the future. The near future.”
Hannibal’s eyes went up.
Will leaned in.
"It doesn't feel like a house without a dog. “
Hannibal smiled. “As many as you want.”
The band started up another song. An old fashioned song about midnight, the stars, and you. Will held out his arm to Hannibal and they danced on the humid ballroom floor with all the other endangered species. Soon there would be dinner, catered by Mr. Caradoc, with nods toward the season with smoked meat atop chestnut and sage stuffing. Will wondered if the guests would comment on the gaminess and unusually strong flavor.
After all, it would’ve been a shame to waste him.
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