Hannibal had been preparing himself, for some time, for another loss. After Abigail he was left feeling quite unsettled for days-and this was to be even worse, as he would have no one to talk to about it.
It was dark when he reached DuMaurier's house. It was reminiscent of those nights, of their discussions and explorations of the ideas that no one else would touch. There was always a way about her, a collectedness even in the face of great fear that she had, and he admired it more now than he ever had.
The lights were all turned off, and the furniture was covered. He could still smell her scent-strong, camphoraceous but with a hint of delicacy (something floral) that bubbled up-and he paced through the room with his quiet footsteps. There was that piano he had never played; here it was, now, never to be played again. What a shame.
He took a step and from the table in the center of the room came the wan gleam of the perfume bottle, reflecting the shine of the moon that his body no longer obscured. It smelled as she did, of course. He stood there and tried to place the base notes as relief washed over him. The relief was followed by the realization that he was in her place, alone.
He admired her more now than he ever had.