Title: Mirror, Mirror On The Wall

Author: Melanie-Anne ([email protected])

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize belongs to Thomas Harris, anything else is mine.

Summary: "He asked me to go with him, but I couldn't. He was everything I wanted but his life was the complete opposite of everything I believed in. He knew I would stay, like he knew I would let him go."

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Emma Starling looked in the mirror and saw herself as if for the first time. The face staring back at her was as unfamiliar as any passerby on the street.

She thought of all the times she'd asked about her father. In sixteen years, all her mother had told her was that his name was Henry and he was dead. Now, thinking back, she realized she should have known her mother was lying. But she'd been told often enough to believe it, and had developed a fantasy of the kind of man her father had been. How he had swept her mother off her feet just like in a fairytale. How he had been good and perfect and romantic.

Henry. She should have known. Her mother would never have fallen in love with someone called Henry.

There was no grave. That had always bothered her. Cremation, her mother had said, but she had wondered then why her grandfather and the Uncle John her mother always spoke about weren't cremated too.

She raised a hand to her face and slowly outlined her features, trying to attribute them to a parent. Her cheekbones were high, like her mother's. They had the same shape eyes, the same thick hair, only hers was jet black, unlike her mother's fiery red.

Jet black, like her father's. Real and imagined.

She'd found out by accident. Today, coming down the stairs, she had found her mother curled up in an armchair, crying. A newspaper was open on the coffeetable. The Tattler. It had surprised her; her mother hated the Tattler, called it trash and refused to buy it. She had slowly crossed the room. The newspaper was dated almost seventeen years earlier, to the day. A headline screamed CLARICE STARLING! THE FBI'S KILLING MACHINE! Then she remembered it was the anniversary of her Uncle John's death. She picked up the paper to read more, surprised that her mother didn't object. Underneath it was another newspaper, older than the first. BRIDE OF FRANKENSTEIN! the Tattler proclaimed.

Curiosity killed the cat, she thought morbidly, and half-wished she hadn't read further. But she had always been too inquisitive for her own good. When she had seen the picture of Hannibal Lecter, she had known. Jet black hair, so like her own. Startling maroon eyes, just like hers.

Bride of Frankenstein.

Child of Frankenstein.

She glanced down at her left hand, a faint scar visible from a long ago operation. An extra finger, removed at birth. Her mother didn't like to talk about it; now she knew why.

She had dropped the newspapers and run upstairs, locking the bedroom door behind her. Her mother hadn't followed, probably too lost in her own thoughts. She wasn't sure whether to be angry or excited or scared. Her mother had lied to her, yes, but probably to protect her.

She wondered if her father even knew she existed.

She wondered what her friends would say, and dismissed the thought instantly. This was something she could never share with anybody.

There was a knock at the door. Slowly, she got up and went to let her mother in.

"Emma—"

She sat on the edge of her bed and stared at her hands. There was a side to her mother that she'd never dreamed had existed, a side to herself that was so new and unfamiliar, but not altogether unwelcome. Now she understood why people always regarded her as a little peculiar, now there was an explanation for her unusually high intelligence and her fascination with morbidity. The Tattler had said her father was insane; she wondered if that was hereditary too. Suddenly there were so many questions she needed answered.

"Did you love him?" she asked.

Clarice sighed, then nodded.

"What happened?"

There was a familiar sadness in her mother's eyes. "He asked me to go with him, but I couldn't. He was everything I wanted but his life was the complete opposite of everything I believed in. He knew I would stay, like he knew I would let him go."

"Weren't you scared?"

"At first. I had no idea what I was getting into when I agreed to interview him. But I knew he wouldn't hurt me."

"Like Beauty and the Beast." She couldn't help romanticizing it; after all, she was living proof. "Does he know about me?"

"I don't know. I haven't heard from him since he left. I don't know where he went or if he's even still alive."

"Do you miss him?"

"Every day."

She glanced at the mirror again, the resemblance now so obvious. "Does anybody know?"

"Only your Aunt Ardelia. She never said anything, but she cried when you were born. I couldn't tell anyone else. They wouldn't understand."

Emma shifted closer to her mother and slipped an arm around her waist. She leaned her head against her mother's shoulder. Bride of Frankenstein. Child of Frankenstein. Beauty and the Beast. It occurred to her that any normal person would be horrified to find themselves in this position.

"I think," Emma said, "He couldn't have been all bad if you fell in love with him. You wouldn't fall in love with just anybody."

Clarice relaxed slightly. "I had expected a different reaction from you."

"I'm not just anybody either."

"No. No, you're not." She brushed Emma's hair back from her face, smiling. "And I wouldn't trade you for anything in the world. Not in a thousand years."

Emma looked up at her mother and smiled. "Tell me everything. From the very first day."

"I don't know . . . it's not a very pleasant story."

"Mom! I'm sixteen. I'm not a baby." Emma rolled her eyes; for an instant she was an ordinary teenager again. "And I know he killed people. I don't want those details. I want to know how you fell in love."

"Alright." Clarice smiled. "It began when Jack Crawford asked me to interview him . . ."

As she spoke, Emma closed her eyes and pictured her father standing there. In the end, he wasn't all that far from her fantasy father; incredibly intelligent, handsome and devoted to her mother. Emma Lecter, she thought, child of Frankenstein.

But then, she had never really wanted to be ordinary.

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