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The faint sound of music was the first thing January became aware of, but that wasn’t what had woken him. The room was dark and Rose was quiet and warm on her side of the bed, but something was wrong; January stretched out his other arm and touched nothing but sheets and an empty pillow, both already cool.
He found Hannibal sitting on the floor of the gallery overlooking the yard, back against the railing and violin under his chin. His eyes were closed, but January must have made some sound, because Hannibal cut off the song in the middle of a phrase. “I’m sorry. I thought out here I wouldn’t disturb anyone.”
“You didn’t. I woke on my own.”
Hannibal raised his eyebrows and glanced up at the sky, still midnight-black with stars shining bright. Dawn wasn’t far away, though there was no sign of the coming light yet. But whatever he privately thought, he made no comment. There were sleepless bruises beneath his eyes, and a certain tightness to his mouth that spoke of pain endured.
“Couldn’t sleep?” January said, trying to keep his tone light. “Is your leg bothering you?”
Hannibal lowered his violin and bow to the floor by his side, and reached for his lower right leg, where he’d cracked the bone in a fall a month ago. He pressed cautiously against his shin, taking stock. “I’ve felt worse,” he concluded. “Of course, I’ve felt better, too....”
There wasn’t much January could do for him. Hannibal was past the time when fever or sudden clots were likely, and into the period where there was nothing to do but wait for the body to heal itself, and meanwhile try not to discourage the slow reknitting of bones. If the pain was bad enough, January knew Hannibal would simply dose himself with laudanum until he found relief. In fact, the first place January had looked for him was in the bed in January's study; Hannibal had already shown a preference for sleeping alone when he was drugged. Neither January nor Rose had told him to do so, but Hannibal was scrupulously careful to never give offense.
Persuading Hannibal back to bed seemed unlikely, and January knew from previous experience that too overt sympathy would only make him uncomfortable. There might be nothing to do but keep him company in his hardship, but at least January could do that. He moved closer to Hannibal, leaning his elbows on the railing to look down into the shadowed yard. Over to the east, a few stars had begun to fade, and there was the slightest hint of grey to the world, though the sky remained black. “Go back to bed, Benjamin,” Hannibal said softly after a few silent minutes had passed. “I can manage.”
“I’m awake now. May as well stay out here with you.”
Hannibal looked up at him, but his protest was interrupted by Rose. “What are you two doing out here in the cold? Come into the kitchen; I’ve lit the fire.”
Hannibal turned to her, his expression halfway between regret and amusement. “Is no one going to sleep this morning?”
“It seems not,” Rose said. “I’m going to start the water for coffee.” She disappeared back through the door. January offered Hannibal a hand and, when he took it, helped him to his feet.
“Come to breakfast with us. Unless you’d rather sit out here in the dark, all alone,” January said, and was rewarded with Hannibal’s quiet laugh, and an increase in the weight he allowed January to take.