The golden flicker is mirrored in the sheen on Hannibal's face, and in his eyes, many images flicker in turn -- an old decrepit castle, the face of Will Graham swallowing a tiny fried bird whole, dogs happily clustering around Hannibal, a black stag with raven feathers, a little girl all forlorn and ragged, a cheap fragrance mixed with motor oil and wet dog into something wholly homely and welcoming, a beautiful young man writhing in bonds like Saint Sebastian, and golden hair spilling over a marble couch.

And blood, blood and blood.