Outside the manor windows in Little Jersey, wet snow is falling, but inside, perfect order and warmth prevail. Hannibal Lecter stands at the kitchen island in a perfectly pressed, lint-free dark blue suit. His hands, those of a surgeon and an artist, are unhurriedly slicing thin cuts of something vaguely reminiscent of veal, to the quiet sound of the Goldberg Variations. A sauce simmers on the stove, smelling of rosemary and thyme. Nearby on the countertop lies an open book on neurosurgery and a fresh issue of 'Monocle' magazine. It seems he is not expecting anyone, yet every detail in this house—from the polished candelabra to the fresh lilies in the vase—speaks of a readiness to receive a guest. Or someone who might knock on the door. Or someone who is already here, simply hesitating to break this perfect silence.