#bluedprints

plain as day, a pair of footsteps descend the stairs, gain volume down the length of the front corridor, and come to rest in the empty doorway that separates it from the room beverly and molly occupy, atop a board which creaks under its invisible weight. bev has been watching through the ceiling and walls from the second thump, his head turning in time with its audial path.

the dust has been stirred where something ought to be standing, flurrying unusually around nothing. he’s even kept himself concealed from him.

he reverts to his original posture and blinks down into his book.

"the absence of evidence is not evidence."

her mouth is unsmiling, but her eyes sparkle. where have we heard that one before.

Old portrait paintings linger throughout the corridor. Their varnished canvases matte-shimmer like manicured fingernails in the dim light. Each wears a protective, plain frame as needlessly ornate as golden horseshoes freshly hammered into hooves. As if to promise they could move. They never have. Ironic, because the art is perfectly leveled to standing height—not the low slouch of the two waiting seats outside Dr. Lecter’s office door. Hung to be viewed in passing. Ephemeral. Eery—these weekly ill-conceived, long-exposures to what is meant to be glimpsed not gazed. Radiant and irradiating. She could be projecting. She did name that one—the man posing on a rearing mare—Marge.

The second seat is always empty; Margot wonders why it’s there. Dr. Lecter staggers his appointments—or just hers, she suspects. In effect, arriving is a monotonous game of musical chairs he has considerately rigged in Margot’s favor. Except for today. A man walks in. Well-clothed. His moody stare already dip-dyed to the same tenebrous hue of the hall.

MOODBOARD: frederick chilton & will graham: patsy.

I know that guy, she's so close her tongues practically in his ear, bootlicker, pig, fascist, and he remembers, the woman sat next to him does not speak English. Shiver down his spine, he wonders if the pig knows what it's like to be in love. He must have ghosts of his own to tend to. Better keep him waiting as long as possible.

Bubblegum pops. The foreign women seem bored. The low techno drones on.

he hasn’t seen this man before, james realizes, as he briefly—politely—tracks his entry from the left of the room. there’s a halo cast around him, faint but unpleasant, and james isn’t sure if it’s merely a memory of the effects of his arctic journey or if his weak eye still plays such tricks with an image.

he doesn’t feel up to introductions, which he’s been lucky enough not to have to do thus far.

cabin in the sky.

he washes, she dries. his forearms are soapy and damp. mutt hands her a finished cup. shuts off the water.

"i only did it for marco." it is always very difficult to tell whether or not he means it, saying things like that.