The Cheshire Cat Drops His Hat

A/N: This is set after Silence but completely unrelated to Hannibal.  Clarice, Lecter, Ardelia, Catherine Martin and Crawford aren't mine but everything else is original and as such I'd really like some feedback because this is the baby I've been working on…well it feels like forever. And I can take constructive criticism. Bring it on.

 She had fallen, hard. Too hard, he thought briefly, before shaking the idea and resigning himself to keeping watch over her unconscious form. Finally, not even hours later, he couldn't take it any more; the waiting and the unaccustomed impatience only served to make him angry. He lifted her easily from her position laying straight on the ground, noting the blood, sweat and dirt, with heightened distaste.

 He didn't let himself think about it, that would have been asking for trouble. He simply carried her straight to the bathroom, cutting her shirt, stiff with congealed blood, easily with his favoured weapon. He saved the singlet top underneath, however, figuring pragmatically that she would not take kindly to having no clothes once she awoke. Once she awoke, he reminded himself, there is no doubt. He'd checked her pulse and the rhythm of her breathing with practised professionalism a hundred times over.

 He stood her in the shower, washed her and dried her, without noticing his actions too carefully except where they concerned her recently treated wounds.

 He washed her singlet top and her relatively unharmed pants, leaving her wrapped in a blanket on the carpeted floor. The blanket was a dark colour and hid the sight of her blood, which was unsettling to him. He couldn't shake the feeling. His anger grew at this second sign of losing control.

 He needed to do something.

 He took precautions of course, not being a frivolous sort of man, but it was probably unnecessary. She wouldn't wake. Not anytime soon.

 When he got back, invigorated, it was well after dark. Her clothes, hung by the downstairs fireplace, had dried and looked fairly decent, considering the ordeal she'd put them through.

 He washed himself thoroughly and cleaned his glinting Harpy with satisfaction. Then stealthily-just in case-he told himself, he brought her clothes up to the small but immaculate attic room. She lay motionless, but she's moved, he thought, elated, because the wound over her ribcage was seeping again, onto his nicely laundered carpet.

 "Habitually messy," he muttered drolly, attending to the rip, noticing with vague disgust that her ribs were sticking out too much to be healthy. Oh Clarice. She'd been punishing herself again.

 Although he was painstakingly neat as he resorted to stitches, there was going to be a lengthy scar when it healed. A pity, he mused, dressing her shoulder wound and checking the fractured bone in her wrist.

 "Trust you to fall so hard," he murmured, the unwitting double meaning jumping out at him immediately. He chuckled to himself as he recognized it, picked himself up, and went downstairs for a glass of wine.

 She woke slowly, through a hazy blanket of images and feelings. Finally she stumbled upon pain and her eyes shot open.

 Her left arm felt hot and it throbbed incessantly. There was a dull ache along her right side. What happened to me?

 The next thing she noticed was the room she lay in. She was on the floor, an unfamiliar floor, covered in a dark blanket. It was dark, but light shone through the cracks of the doorway. An unfamiliar house and there was somebody home.

 She tried to sit herself up but a nauseating dizziness swept over her and as she thrust her arms behind her a crippling pain floored her once more. She'd caught the briefest glimpse of the room, a room owned by one of expensive but not ostentatious taste. And there was a feeling about it too, a familiar sensation she couldn't quite grasp. She'd noticed another doorway. A bathroom, a closet? She determined to get up, slowly and investigate, but she couldn't keep her eyes open. She drifted back into unconsciousness.

 When her eyes fluttered open again it was daytime. Someone had been in the room. The bathroom door, she'd guessed right, was wide open, as if telling her where to go.

 She shrugged off the blanket, noting gingerly the piercing pain in her right shoulder from the action.

 "Good work, Starling," she muttered wryly.

 This time she managed to sit up and with some disciplined deep breathing, she shook the threatening dizzy wave away.

 There was a window, a diamond shaped, little window, the kind you'd see in an attic. She saw a chair nearby to her, one recently occupied, she figured, by the dented shape of the cushions.  Who was watching over me?

 She reached out with her left arm and grabbed onto a finely carved mahogany leg. She pulled it toward her and used it for support as she forced herself up. Her left arm screamed at her.

 Looking at it, she noticed the bandaging for the first time. It looked fatter than normal. Swollen? The binding was tight, too tight to allow her movement. Was it a sprain or a break?

 He heard the chair being pulled over the carpet, the floorboards underneath creaking ever so slightly with the movement. So she was awake and presumably trying to stand up.

 "Good morning, Agent Starling," he said amiably to the empty room, smiling, in what may have been relief.

 "Room service?"

 She had made it to the bathroom, which sported a full length mirror. In it she saw a tired face, a little bruised along the jaw line. She was wearing her gray spaghetti strap top and her black work trousers. Her bare shoulder showed a nastily large purple swelling and a small wound over her bone. She lifted her top and saw the cause of the pain at her side. A long wound ran from near her waist up to under her arm. It had been cleaned, although there was some seeping from the professional looking stitches.

 She'd been battered pretty bad.

 Just about then her stomach gave up the fight of control and she began to retch helplessly over the pristinely white sink.

 Once she'd gathered herself together and washed her face and mouth thoroughly, she tried walking over to the little window she'd seen earlier. Her legs shook furiously and a strange new pain began at her left hip as she staggered back to the chair. She rested a moment then made it over to the window.

 It was a breathtaking view. A harbour, glistening blue in the sunlight, a backdrop of mountains, green and luscious. Wherever she was, it was stunning.

 Lecter watched her, unnoticed from the adjoining room. She hadn't noticed that door yet, apparently. She walked from the newly positioned chair to the window, slowly, awkwardly, like a very young child. She shook and tears of frustration had started to fall, or maybe it was the pain?

 It shouldn't have been that hard to walk. There was something he'd missed. Not the dizziness and predictable nausea accompanying the concussion she'd received. It wasn't the wounds he'd treated. What else?

 And she'd just thrown up. Although the smell was hidden under the soap she'd used to clean up, he could still smell it.   

 She was looking out the window, marveling at the beauty she saw. He'd known she would appreciate it.

 He was about to leave her to it for a while when, leaning forward onto the window ledge, she spoke. Not quietly enough for him to miss.

 "So how did I get here, Doctor Lecter?"

 His eyes widened ever so slightly at the sound of his name. But she wasn't talking to him, she hadn't noticed him there. It was just that somehow, something had told her where she was and who had been sitting in that chair last night.

 He would have smiled, proud of her intelligent assumption, but at that moment she wavered backwards and in a flash he was there, catching her as she fell.

 She didn't faint, she just collapsed and the world spun as she fell. But before hitting the ground a firm hand caught her back and snaked its way around her waist. The jarring she'd expected upon hitting the floor was replaced by a sudden overwhelming terror as a familiar presence flooded over her.

 She tried to push away but she was too weak to move.

 He held her up, taking her weight and walking her over to the chair. She took the chair gratefully, her mind shrieking, as he stepped back to look at her, head tilted to one side.

 I'm going to die. I'm going to be dinner tonight, with some fava beans and a nice Chianti, her mind panicked, over and over. But her body was already too distressed to show her fear.

 It was her eyes that told him what she was thinking.

 Clarice was petrified. Much, much more frightened than she would ever have let herself be had she been well. Under normal circumstances, he would have been annoyed at her terror, preferring the healthy respect and guarded fear she had shown during their first meetings. But she was not herself, he understood. He let her shake.

 Clarice followed his eyes as they scanned over her. He was assessing her, making up his mind about something. His eyes narrowed briefly, then opened again and caught her gaze.

 "Not so much as a how-do-you-do, hmm, Clarice?" he asked jovially.

 She tried to open her mouth and reply, but it didn't work. She shrugged helplessly.

 "Nevermind then. I'm sure you'll feel well enough for chit-chat soon. " His eyes were still assessing as he spoke. He was looking for something.

 Eventually his gaze fixed on her side and narrowed once more. Self-consciously, she looked down and noticed her side was pooling blood again.

 "I do wish you hadn't been in such a hurry to assess your surroundings, Clarice. You've quite ruined my handiwork," he chided.

 Clarice swallowed, trying to calm her mind. He was chatting, not munching on her liver. A very good sign. He had done her stitches, he was trying to look after her. Where's the fun in slaying the injured beast, she thought, surprising herself with her sarcasm.

 She found her voice.

 "It started to bleed again a while ago. When I got up it had already dried." Her voice sounded detached, surreal.

 She spoke. A good sign. And she'd quieted the wild look in her eyes. Very encouraging. He didn't particularly want any hysterics. Then he really might have to take actions. What she'd said about the knifing over her ribs was worrying, though. He'd have to use firmer stitches. A bigger scar.

 As he stepped back toward her he noticed her sharp intake of breath. Still afraid. Well good. He didn't want her forgetting who he was.

 Ignoring her feeble attempt at protesting, he lifted her up, supporting her back and under her legs and began to walk, trying not to move her too much.

 Clarice felt her heart rate accelerate as he lifted her. He  carried her out of the room and down a flight of stairs to a landing. She couldn't see anything, her eyes squeezed tightly shut. She felt another flight of stairs and then heard the sound of his shoes on marble.

 He laid her down on something smooth, hard and cold. She opened her eyes and saw a large stainless steel fridge. The kitchen.

 Oh God, oh God, oh God.

 "Lay still, Clarice, "he told her firmly. "You're making it worse."

 Then she saw a box emerge, a medical kit. Lecter pulled a needle and some coarse looking thread from it, along with a thick bandage.

 "I am sorry about the cosmetic blemish," he told her, still fishing in the box. Medical swabs appeared. Then scissors, then tweezers. "I tried to keep it neat, but someone decided to make this hard on us."

 He was going to redo the stitches, she understood now. He wasn't going to kill her.

 Yet.

 With a delicacy she wouldn't have believed possible from him, Lecter lifted her top up to reveal the wound. Carefully he assessed his job and picked up the scissors.

 "Who?" She asked him, staring determinedly at the ceiling, noting absently the expensive light fittings. She was not going to flinch, or scream or tremble.

 "Hmm?"

 "You said, 'someone decided to make this hard on us'. Who did you mean, Doctor?"

 Lecter picked up the tweezers and began to remove his previous handiwork. The tugging hurt but she bit her lip and tried not to think about it.

 "What do you remember, Clarice?"

 A very good question. Funnily enough, she hadn't really thought about it.

 "Ah…"

 "What were you doing?"

 "I was…" She thought about it. Images started to come back to her. "I was chasing a murderer."

 "Indeed. And did you find him?"

 She let the images sort themselves out.

 "Yes, I tracked him down to a holiday home, in, in…" her memory gave out on her.

 "Move on."

 "He was traveling with a girl. The daughter of, of, of…"she frowned in thought "…a US politician. It was a priority assignment. I was surprised to get it…I…" Her thoughts had wandered. The facts, Starling, she told herself sternly.

 "I was by myself, I should have called for help…" The facts, Starling! "I saw the girl, she was in a bedroom, tied to the bed. I rammed the door. He, he, I saw a knife…I…"

 That was it. In her mind she could see it. Going up to the front door. Noticing through the stain glass, the distant figure of a human tied to a large object, making the connection, crashing through the door, the flash of steel. She hoped there'd been a fight at least.

 The realization struck her suddenly. She'd failed. That girl is dead.

 She couldn't stop the shaking. She'd failed.

 Lecter had just finished the unpicking when Clarice stopped talking and started to shake. She had realized something in her mind. Was she reliving the attack? No, she'd been doing that as she spoke. This was different.

 All at once, the answer became clear. He should have known that this would happen.

 "Oh, Clarice, is it entirely necessary for you to keep jumping to these unsubstantiated conclusions of yours, hmm? I do wish you would ask first."

 At his mocking tone the shaking stopped, as abruptly as it had begun.

 "Do you mean that she didn't die?" Clarice asked quickly.

 Lecter chuckled. "Keep still now.  There's already enough of a mess here," he said, avoiding her question. After all, why make it too easy for her? She was going to have to figure out what happened all on her own. He certainly wasn't going to have anything he said used as evidence against him in a court of law.

 Clarice found the pain too hard to combat whilst talking. She could feel the skin, raw from the stitches, stretching as the blood began and then Lecter's fingers pinching at it hard, putting butterfly stitches over one end and began swabbing the other. A kettle boiled over. She hadn't even noticed him fill it. He sterilized the needle with patient efficiency. The thread was deftly inserted and he squeezed tightly on her skin. Her breath caught.

"Try to breath normally, Clarice," he told her calmly, biting back the urge to tell her to count sheep. Now is not the time. "Think, if you will, about a calm and happy place in your life. Perhaps a childhood retreat, the path you habitually run on, your days out with Agent Mapp."

 He noted how she didn't flinch as he casually referred to her private life. She was concentrating.

 He began to work as he spoke, watching his fingers now and not her profile. She didn't cry out as the needle pierced her skin.

 "In this happy place of yours, you are noticing a calm breeze, it gently moves the tree tops nearby. It is a warm day, you don't need to wear a jacket, you are smiling, something is making you smile. You feel like laughing. It is a nice feeling, you want to treasure it. You sit down in a comfortable place. There is nowhere you would rather be. Your eyes drift closed, contented, secure. You know that you will still be here when your eyes open once more. Close your eyes."

 He looked up and checked. She'd closed her eyes.    

 He finished his work minutes later, carefully knotting the thread and severing it with the scissors. Just to be on the safe side, he swabbed the wound with more antiseptic and grabbed the bandages.

 "You can open your eyes now, Clarice," he said softly, supporting her as he sat her up on the bench, her top still gathered under her arms. Her eyes remained closed.

 How interesting.

 It was just a precaution, but the seepage had bothered him and as she was hardly likely to stay still till the healing began, he had decided to let her live with a bit of discomfort. He wrapped the bandage tightly around her torso. There was no way her twisting and turning could break his stitches again.

 Afterward, he pulled her top down for her and lifted her up again, much the same way as he had carried her downstairs and took her back to the attic room. The adjoining room had a bed in it, but he was still concerned enough about her back and head that he decided to leave her on the floor. Once he had set her down, he brought out a clean blanket and took the other to have the blood soaked out of it. Pity about the carpet.

 It was after he'd seated himself back in the chair she'd used as crutches that her eyes finally fluttered open.

 "Thank you," she whispered, barely audible. His eyes twinkled at her.

 Clarice brought herself out of her dream world, knowing that she had to face what was real. In the back of her mind she reminded herself sharply that she was being held captive by a psychotic cannibal but she couldn't help feeling secure coming back to reality. It had been his words as he'd stitched her up, she knew that. There was something quieting about them, a trick he'd learned through psychiatry, no doubt.  Nonetheless it had worked.

 She opened her eyes, noticing the figure in the chair watching her benignly.

 "Thank you," was all she had the strength to say. Back in the real world she wasn't working as well as she should have, she was injured, beaten, exhausted. Her mind tried to race ahead, forgetting about its outer shell, but she couldn't quite manage it.

 She slipped back into unconsciousness. And probably a good thing too.

 "Sleep well, little Starling," Lecter murmured, leaving her to sleep a while, sure that no harm would come of her for a few hours. He would come and check up on her again before dinnertime. He locked the door as he went, reminding himself firmly that he was still dealing with FBI here. There was something strangely ironic about the whole situation, about him looking out for and locking up the FBI agent and not the other way around. About him killing the bad guy, saving the spoilt little American brat. Something Clarice would no doubt appreciate when she came back to herself.

 Lecter smiled luxuriously, pleased with progressions so far and set himself by the fire with a good book.

  He heard her stir from time to time but it was hours later when she finally awoke once more. And again, her first move was to the bathroom. He moved back to the adjoining guest room to watch her.

 She felt much better upon waking up. Her vision was sharper, as was her mind. She still ached and throbbed in various places but the pain had dulled. There was no sickening feeling in her stomach. She sat carefully, remembering the last time she'd woken on the floor.

 Bathroom.

 Clarice took the fact she needed to use the bathroom as a good sign, a sign that her body was returning to normal. She also felt grubby.

 Doctor Lecter, I don't suppose I could use your shower? She thought almost sarcastically, smiling at the ridiculousness of the situation at the same time as the familiar fear tingled away in the back of her brain.

 Bathroom first.

 This time she made it without too much drama, but it was still very hard to walk. Clarice didn't understand it. She'd checked her injuries; her legs had been fine.

 Oh God, my back?

 The bathroom door clicked shut. Lecter was pleased that she was feeling well enough to think about her bodily needs, but the idea of being locked out bothered him.

 He walked in a stately manner across the little room and knocked on the door politely, imagining with a wicked little smile, the look of shock on Clarice's face.

 "Yes?" She called out, nervously he noted.

 "Don't lock the door, Clarice," he told her, then thinking better of leaving it at that, continued. "I'm so glad you're feeling better. Perhaps you'd like to take a shower? You'll find towels and soap and all those things in there."

 "Thank you, Doctor Lecter."

 Ever polite.

 "Mind you take care of your side, though. The bandage is meant to help the stitches do their work. I'd advise you not to take it off, but I imagine that washing with all those layers of cloth would be rather irritating. If you decide to take it off, be careful, unwrap it slowly, don't touch your wound."

 "Yes, Doctor Lecter."

 Just like a child answering her school teacher.

 "And don't try to redo it again when you're done. I'll do it."

 "I'm sure I could manage," Clarice protested, obviously a little upset at the idea of him redoing the bandage. Was it different now that she was more aware? This was professional, not personal.

 "No. Let me know when you're ready."

 It was an order and specifically for a reason. Lecter knew perfectly well that Clarice responded excellently to orders, it was her way, the way she'd been brought up. As long as there was logic to it, as long as there was some rationale she could follow, her sense of order allowed her to act. He knew she would do as he said, as little as she liked it, because he was taking charge of a medical situation and she understood that he knew more than her about it.

 He retired to the chair and waited.

 Clarice stepped out of the shower, leaving the water running for a minute. She felt cleaner, that was nice. She'd been able to check out her bumps and bruises. She guessed that the shoulder one had become infected after a brief meeting with her assailant's knife. The swollen and discoloured look was most likely due to that. Her arm was safely strapped, there was little she could tell about it. The fingers hurt when she moved them; perhaps a break then, an unfortunate mistake putting out her arm to catch her as she fell. Clarice mocked herself gently, recalling the way she'd been taught to fall at Quantico. Regulation Ass and Head Beating was what she and Ardelia had called it. Pity she never remembered these things when she needed them.

 The thought of Ardelia reminded her of her surroundings and who she was. So she was in a house somewhere very nice with Hannibal the Cannibal. Now what? How to catch him? Even in his own home, it seemed an absurdly difficult question to answer. If she got violent so would he. She wondered momentarily who would win, then decided it was better not to think about it at all. She wasn't fit to take on Lecter yet, she'd have to wait till she'd healed some more, till he'd fixed her up, she realized.

 Finally the water was stopped. She'd gotten out minutes before, he'd heard the dripping of water on his tiles. She'd been taking her time, thinking about things, making decisions.

 "Doctor Lecter?" She asked softly, a little trepidatious.

 Lecter got himself up smoothly, rubbing a tight muscle in his neck briefly, before loosening then tightening each muscle individually as he walked toward the door, a habit he'd picked up years earlier. It honed his senses, made him sharp. He loved to be sharp.

 "Are you ready?" He asked at the door, remembering how awkward this was going to be for his fully conscious patient.

 A slight laugh. "Yes, sir."

 He twisted the handle, finding it unlocked as per request and stepped into the bathroom.

 Clarice watched his eyes quickly survey the room, cautious always.

 "Couldn't find anything to cuff you with," she quipped, grinning lopsidedly. Her inner voice scoffed at her. What the hell did you say that for, you lunatic?

 Lecter looked right at her, eyes shining. He smiled ever so slightly then his eyes seemed to flicker closed, just for a second. He breathed in deeply, then opened his eyes once more, reaching out-without even looking in that direction- for the discarded bandage.

 Clarice had dressed herself as much as she could. She'd also found a string holding a pack of spare toothbrushes together and had used it to tie up her hair.

 He worked fast, his hands barely touching her as he worked. He didn't say anything, too intent on his task. She'd never seen him so careful over anything,

 "Was it a bad cut then?" She asked eventually.

 "Hmm?"

 "Was it bad?"

 "Don't repeat yourself, Clarice, it's an annoying habit of yours."

 "Doctor Lecter, you don't answer my question," she pointed out. Always the same. Always talking in circles.

 "It will be fine. In time. Complete healing is going to take a patience I don't believe you've learnt yet."

 "Well, I'll just have to learn it then, won't I?" She replied without thinking first.

 Lecter laughed. "Indeed."

 He stepped back, checking the bandaging, noting how she flinched involuntarily under his watch.

 "Would you like to eat now? You haven't eaten in at least 48 hours," he informed her, signaling that the bandaging was over.

 Clarice pulled down her top, forgetting for a second about the pain in her shoulder, then remembering when it complained at her fast movement.

 "Watch that!"

 She looked up at Lecter in surprise.

 "It's not serious. You contracted some infection from your little friend's weapon. Try not to make it worse."

 She nodded.

 "Okay."

 Lecter had brought up another chair whilst Clarice was showering, a hard-backed, rigid looking thing, made beautifully but hardly inviting. Lecter gestured for Clarice to sit in it. A tray of food was resting beside it on a foldable coffee table.

 "Can you tell me what's going on now?" She asked him, forcing her eyes up to meet his.

 Lecter glanced over to the window, noticing his view. Could she figure out their location, he wondered briefly. It would be such a shame to have to get rid of her. So different from Will. Will had gotten boring, careless, rude. And it had been such fun to play around with that silly amateur, Dolarhyde. But Clarice wasn't the same. From the way Chilton had first introduced her, he'd known that.

 Just as long as she behaved, he thought.

 "Don't be afraid to try your dinner. I assure you, there's nothing alarming in it," he teased, turning back to his 'patient'.

 Clarice sucked in a fast breath as she realized what he meant and shot a look at the tray. There wasn't any meat there at all.

 "That's not funny, Doctor Lecter," she said in relief. "Please answer my question."

 Ah, yes. The question.

 "You've had an unfortunate incident. You did put up quite a fight though. I'm sure Daddy would be proud of you. Of course, the police will assume that you've been abducted by your little friend. They'll be looking for you. "

 "They won't find me here?"

 She was worried. Lecter smiled as she tried to mask it by picking up the tray and attempting to eat something.

 She looked up self-consciously.

 "Excuse me, Doctor Lecter. I can't eat if you're watching me."

 So frank.

 Lecter chuckled.

 "What you need, Agent Starling, is a little confidence booster."

 Clarice was staring at her food, knowing he was toying with her.

 "I'm going to keep you here. You obtained a concussion and some strain to your lower back. You've also bled a lot. I don't recommend trying to stage a grand escape right away."

 "And once I'm better?"

 And this was exactly the point he'd been thinking about all along. It was one thing to keep her there until she was well enough to be back on her feet, but then came the real issue. Once she was stronger she would inevitably try to come after him. One of them would lose.

 "I would recommend visiting a hospital to make sure that broken arm is healing. Then I would go home and tell Jacky Boy how very poorly I treated you," he said dryly.

 Clarice put back her tray. Her jaw had gone hard; she had tensed.

 Clarice hadn't really got much out of him, other than the fact that her life seemed to be in tact for the time being. She sensed that more than anything he was curious about what she would do once she was well enough to be FBI again. She would have pushed for more, but a sudden pain shooting down her leg made her tense. It was that same pain as before, when she'd been walking to the window and then to the bathroom. The pain froze her.

 Lecter watched, curious as a child to her every expression.

 Finally she had to say something.

 "Uh, Doctor Lecter?"

 His eyes focused on her's.

 "You said I hurt my back?"

 He continued to stare at her in silence.

 "Would that give me pain in my legs, like when I walk?"

 His eyes narrowed and he leant back.

 "It may do. What are you feeling?"

 "I had it earlier. When I first got up, then later when I was walking. I have it again now."

 Abruptly he got up, walked over to her and moved the coffee table out of the way.

 He held out his arm.

 "Stand up."

 Like he was her God damned grandfather, she thought. So authoritarian.

 She reached out her good hand, admittedly shakingly and grabbed onto his arm. It was so solid, so strong. She was surprised.

 She hauled herself up, noting somewhere in the back of her head that her weight didn't even move him. The pain intensified and she fought not to cry out.

 "Doctor Lecter…"

 Lecter stood there, Clarice was trying to hold herself up on his arm, her voice pleading, scared. Not scared of him now, not so much, anyway. Scared of something more immediate, scared of her own body.

 She needed to know what was hurting her.

 "I'm going to lie you down, we're going to try some exercises later," he said, swiftly shifting his weight so that she fell against him.

 He lay her on the floor.

 "If it gets better try to get up and walk about. Otherwise stay still. I apologize for the sleeping arrangements. There is a bedroom next door but I was concerned for your head and back. I think a flat surface is wiser for now."

 "Okay."

 Meek, like a chastened child.

 She lay straight and still as he knelt down beside her, noting the bloodstain on the carpet nearby with a repeat of disgust. Strange, this sudden adverse reaction to blood.

 "Be still," he warned, although she was already perfectly stationary.

 He put his hand along her side and felt over her hip.

 "Tell me if it hurts to touch."

 There was silence for a moment while he fiddled until a slight hiss and a "there. A bit."

 Lecter sat back on his heels looking critically at her, his mind turning over the possibilities. He did not like the chance that she had cracked a hip but he said nothing just then, leaving her on the floor while he consulted his memory palace.

 Clarice could feel all the floorboards through her back. She lay like a dead weight, estimating how much courage it would take to get herself up. About as much courage as facing Hannibal Lecter again, she figured.

 It took more than an hour for her to roll herself over to one side and begin to stand. Lecter had moved the chair when she'd lain down, so she had no help this time. Lecter was standing near the window, looking out, or maybe not looking at all. He had been perfectly still for the longest time. Clarice wondered where his mind was; certainly not in this room. He didn't stir as she got herself up, legs trembling wildly. A sudden burst of pain soared through her and she felt everything tip. She focused her eyes on a stationary point and fought for control. Very slowly her stationary point began to turn toward her.

 "No! Don't!" She cried without thinking.

 He froze as her mind leveled out again.

 A smile. Like he'd made progress with something.

 Clarice could guess what that was. Her sense of control had finally come out-something she'd never been able to do in Lecter's presence before.

 "Don't be too happy. It's a matter of fight or fall," she whispered, shocked at how casually she was suddenly speaking to him.

 He raised an eyebrow.

 "Isn't everything?"

 "Okay. Sure."

 "Okay? Sure?" He mocked. "No argument, Agent Starling?"

 "Well, I agree with you," she protested.

 "Ah." He didn't say anything else. He didn't have to.

  Clarice was surprised one day when she checked the date only to discover she'd been there for over two weeks. At first time had been a little disjointed with pain and interrupted sleep, irregular food and movement. She'd seen little of Lecter in that time. He would come and check on her and bring her food every morning and night and after three or four days he moved her into a room next to her first chamber that offered a very nice bed. Occasionally she tried to focus her attention on some kind of plan of action but they never progressed too far.

 It is simply amazing, the healing properties of the body. After two weeks Clarice's shoulder was it's normal size and colour and had a full range of movement. She could hardly see the mark where the knife had cut her. Her appetite was back, the concussion had disappeared and the swelling had gone down in her wrist. Lecter had let her remove the torso bandage and promised to retract the stitches soon. The puffy skin had already scabbed over and was trying to scar.

 It was only her non-ability to walk and one other thing that hampered Clarice's spirits. Two weeks and no officers had been sent to find her, no APB put out, no news of her disappearance in the papers.

 Every morning now, Lecter brought up an American newspaper with her breakfast, so that she could check on the FBI's progress in various matters. He also brought up books for her to read, among them the infamous Meditations of Marcus Aurelius. She savoured the moment when she was able to tell him she'd already read the ancient writings.

 Lecter seemed to be gone most of the day. He'd locked her in the attic at first, then gradually allowed her more roaming space, ensuring first that there were no objects attainable which could be used as weapons.

 The day Clarice asked how long she'd been there, Lecter brought her up a big white box with no label on it and a finely carved dark wooden cane.

 "A gift," he told her simply, lying both items on the bed by her feet.

 Truth be told, after two weeks Clarice was still finding it very disconcerting having the cannibal striding in and out of her bedroom. She slept horribly sometimes, convinced that any moment that Harpy would fly upon her and cut out her liver or tongue. She was also very aware that time allowed trust to be created and if she let that happen she would be taken unawares one day. However, despite her best efforts, she felt the beginnings of trust growing in the back of her mind and knew that Lecter had seen signs of it.

 "What for?" The other thing she'd noticed in the last couple of weeks was the familiarity growing between them. Nevermind that she was imprisoned in the psychopath's house.

 He regarded her calmly.

 "I presume the cane is at a decent height. Do let me know if you'd  like it altered, however."

 "All right, Doctor. Can I ask you something?"

 Clarice had been working herself up to this for a couple of days now. The nervousness made her hands a little sweaty.

 "Mmm?"

 "Can I go outside today?"

 "Shall I tell you what it is like to be locked up inside for eight years?" He replied. He still looked calm but his face had hardened just a bit.

 "At least you had your memories and your pictures, Doctor Lecter. I can't draw and my memory's not as good as yours."

 Clarice had not startled Lecter by asking about going outdoors. He'd watched her working up to it for some days. It was her answer to his comment about jail that had shocked him.

 Almost despite herself, Clarice had been gaining something in the way of audacity during her recovery period. She had tried to fight it because it indicated that she was letting herself get accustomed to Lecter's presence, but it had loomed up nonetheless.

 The way she inferred that her status was as a prisoner in his home bothered him somewhat. To a certain extent it was, of course, true, but it was the sort of thing that Lecter would have rathered Clarice was not so conscious of.  He felt like a bad host.

 It was perhaps only for this reason then that Lecter agreed to her request.

 When Lecter left without a reply to either her question or statement, Clarice was a little confused. She heard him checking doors, windows, anything that would allow her opportunity for escape and finally she heard the front door close behind him. Wherever he went almost every day, he was going there again.

 It was only after the heavy front door banged shut that Clarice remembered the white box at her feet. She put it on her lap, noting it's lightness and undid the single cream ribbon that held the contoured lid in place. As the lid slid off to reveal cream coloured tissue paper Clarice realized what she was looking at. Lecter had gone and bought her clothes.

 A little amazed, Clarice threw aside the layers of paper and discovered five very well made tops of different weights and fabrics and three very nice skirts. There was also a pair of meticulously tailored black trousers, much like the ones she had been wearing every day but much much nicer. Clarice laid each item out carefully on the bedspread. It was practically a whole new wardrobe. She had known the doctor was rich and apparently very generous but this was ridiculous.

 In the end Clarice took a shower and chose a knee length black skirt and a button up green top with three-quarter length sleeves and a nice v-neck. She felt strange wearing a skirt after becoming so used to pants, but it was a pleasant change.

 She spent the rest of the day experimenting with the cane. It was, as Lecter had predicted, an excellent height for her and helped her greatly in taking the pain out of walking. She felt a bit like a little old lady but tried to ignore the sensation.

 In the habit of exploring now, Clarice found a new door had been left open for her that morning. It was a pretty little room that housed only a bookshelf, a settee, a side table and a piano. The window was securely locked, but sported a charming view of the lake and some nearby trees.

 Clarice was sitting on the piano stool, looking through sheet music, when the front door clicked open.

 The captor had returned to his lair.

 He seemed to sense where she was and gravitated toward the room immediately.

 "I like this room," Clarice told him simply.

 He smiled to himself and walked over to her cane, resting by the piano. He picked it up and turned it over a few times in his hands.

 "Are you thinking that I'll use it as a weapon?" She asked, still leafing through manuscripts of the classics.

 "Does it help?"

 "Yes thank you." She turned toward him suddenly and smiled uncertainly. "The clothes are beautiful. I really can't accept them."

 Lecter had known Clarice would make it to the piano room that day. That was why he'd left it open for her. He wondered briefly if she knew how to play.

 He was glad she'd chosen the green top. It brought out the colour of both her hair and her eyes beautifully. He loved that she was so unconscious of her appearance, unaffected even. It hadn't occurred to her in over two weeks that she'd been walking around barefoot and tying her hair up with a length of string.

 Lecter noticed idly that the top only barely covered the bandaging of Clarice's broken wrist and chided himself on not considering to buy only long sleeved items to save her the embarrassment. But she didn't seem concerned about it, she was too busy worrying herself over accepting his gift.

 "Don't they fit?"

 Clarice looked surprised at his question.

 "Um, I'm not really sure. I only tried these. They fit fine," she told him, looking down at what she was wearing.

 "Don't you like them?"

 Again Clarice looked surprised.

 "Oh no! They're all beautiful, Doctor Lecter. That's why I can't accept them."

 "Consider them a thank you for irritating Doctor Chilton on your visits all that time ago," he replied, playing with her now.

 Neither of them had brought up the past during Clarice's stay so far. Lecter sensed that Clarice was trying not to aggravate him and he was curious to see whether environment affected their relationship. But it was too hard to resist the sly mention of Doctor Chilton.

 Clarice stiffened visibly. She obviously knew the fate that had befallen the insufferable man.

 "Can you play all these songs?" She asked evenly, not even attempting to hide her need to change the topic.

 "Not all. Music is a work of progress. You think you have mastered it and then discover a dimension you didn't know existed before. Then you have to start all over again."

 "That sounds like most things to me," Clarice replied thoughtfully, hobbling over to the settee.

 "Would you play me something?"

 The question startled Clarice. Why did I ask that? Lecter turned to her and blinked benignly. Sometimes he reminded her very much of the Cheshire Cat.

 "One request at a time, Clarice," he purred, offering her the cane. He wandered over to her other side and gestured for her to rise.

 Confused, Clarice did as she was told and soon found herself being led through a series of rooms and passageways. Finally they reached a stain glass, wood carved door and then they were in a garden.

 Lecter must have planned this. He'd set up chairs and a table, drinks and a cheese platter and guided her toward it all.

 It was a lovely garden, very green. It was the wrong time of year for most flowers but Clarice's imagination soared through the shrubbery and landscaping. It was only when she sat in the chair positioned for her did she realize that what she was being presented with was the setting of the sun.

 Lecter chose not to sit with her. He left her to her peace and strolled majestically about his garden, watering a plant here and there.

 Clarice could still feel his eyes on her. She was used to it by now, how he always watched her. She wondered that anyone could ever believe they could trick this man in anything. But it was the sunset that had her attention as she nibbled on fine cheese and crackers.

 It was breathtaking.

 Memory, Agent Starling, is what I have instead of a view.    

 Clarice was only just beginning to appreciate view and how important it was. How a man who loved beautiful things as much as Lecter had managed to survive eight years of incarceration was simply beyond Clarice.

 Without turning around Clarice asked. "How exactly does your memory work, Doctor Lecter? Do you just store everything you can? Is that how you survived Baltimore?"

 Lecter didn't reply but she heard the sharp halt of movement at her words and knew she'd made an impression.

  Lecter paused to consider Clarice's question. His memory palace was a private thing, not to be shared.

 A twinge inside him almost let him think if I were to share it with someone, Clarice would appreciate it.

Lecter took a deep breath and let the thought disappear. He had schooled himself to be secretive for a reason.  No good could come of allowing anybody any insight into your mind.

 Lecter smiled to himself as he noticed the irony in that train of thought. Insight into people's minds was his specialty. But it would never be done to him, he'd promised himself that years ago.

 Clarice's questions went unanswered, but the very fact that she could offer them gave Lecter something alarmingly close to hope for her. She was beginning to look at things in a different light, wondering about things from a different angle. The last time Lecter had met anyone with talent in that field he'd almost been killed.

 We each have our scars, Agent Graham his mind whispered. He'd learnt from that experience.

 But Clarice, Clarice was different. Lecter was sure she had the ability, the fear, the drive, to try and kill him. But she let her feelings get caught up in things so easily. It was a great flaw in an agent of the law, but a wonderful asset in character. And so much fun to study.

 It was dark and beginning to chill when Lecter finally approached Clarice. She sat in the same position, staring out at the early stars and watching patterns of darkness fall across the world. But as Lecter came up behind her she felt the fear build up inside her. Nothing was quite beautiful or calm enough to let her forget with whom she was keeping company.

 Lecter apparently ignored her tension and offered her the cane, then piled the plates and glasses onto his arm like a waiter and led her inside.

 Clarice couldn't help noticing that he was assessing her for something, watching her every move. At first she thought he was checking to see if her walking had improved but it wasn't that.

 Somewhere along the way the plates and things disappeared from Lecter's arm and Clarice found herself back in the piano room sitting on the settee.

 Lecter stood by the window, his back to her, suggesting an opportunity to strike him between the shoulder blades. Clarice noted the opportunity and ignored it. Even if she could hobble over there without him knowing and whack him with her cane, she could hardly outrun him once he'd recovered. And plus, the light-stand behind her cast her image onto the window like a mirror. It would have been a terrifically foolish thing to do.

 Eventually Lecter turned toward her, the Cheshire Cat look on his face again. He'd been waiting for her to process the possible attack.

 She decided to steer the conversation away from the topic.

 "How did you know where I'd be? Were you following the case?"

 Lecter tilted his head a little to one side, as if amused at the turn in conversation.

 "Were you following me, Doctor Lecter?"

 "It was a very straightforward case, Clarice, I followed the evidence."

 "You knew who the killer was?"

 "Didn't you?"

 Clarice chose to ignore that. It'd taken a lot of time and effort to figure this case, she could remember that. And there was a lot of pressure to find that girl.

 "And you just decided to go visit him while I happened to be there?"

 Clarice bit her lip in disgust as soon as she said it. That damned audacity again.

 Lecter didn't appear affronted however.

 "Would you have rathered I didn't?" He replied pointedly. And it was true she'd most likely be dead now if it weren't for him.

 "How did he beat me like that?" She asked, her stomach sinking as she recalled her failure. She was trained for this sort of thing, she should have been able to defend herself.

 Lecter's eyes were fixed intently on her as the feeling of failure swept over her.

 Finally and in a strangely soft voice, he answered, "I've kept you up too late. You must be tired."

 She nodded and it felt like the final defeat.

 After Clarice had gone up to bed, Lecter spent some time sitting in the piano room, thinking over her question.

 How did he beat me like that? Lecter hadn't seen much of the actual fight, only interrupting the proceedings when she'd cried out. He wondered what had happened to her gun.

 At the time he'd been watching Clarice from a careful distance, blending into the trees surrounding the property when she got out of her car and walked up to the front.

 He'd actually been waiting till after she'd gotten the girl and the murderer organized to see where she went next. He was just watching, curious, but never incautious. But then he'd heard her cry out and his plan changed in a split second.

 And now he had the FBI in his attic. A very bad situation really, but he couldn't help enjoying himself. It was always a challenge, having Clarice around.

 When Lecter returned home the next day he heard the sound of the piano before he'd even entered the house. He unlocked the door softly, walked very quietly to the source of the music and stood a metre or so back from the doorway so Clarice couldn't see him.  

 She sat with her good leg tucked under her on the piano stool, bending slightly over the keys. Her eyes were closed as her fingers felt out the pattern she wanted, then she pressed down on them once again and began to play. It was a nice song, played by someone who knew it very well and cared for it, soft and haunting. He wondered how it would sound if she used the pedal.

 When the song had finished she picked up a sheet from the top of a stack of music she'd created and followed the lines of melody with her index finger. As she read more of it she became more certain and began to hum the tune as she went. Finally she set it down on the stand and played out the treble clef, her bandaged arm resting on her lap.

 She was wearing a charcoal skirt, his favourite, because it was flowed nicely and a cream top. She looked oddly childlike, sitting like that before the piano. She hadn't tied her hair back and it fell across her face as she leant forward in concentration.

 The song wasn't exactly right, slightly out of time, he could tell she hadn't played it before.

 Very carefully, he came up behind her and reached his arm around her so that his hand pressed over her's. She didn't notice him until the last second and started in surprise. 

 He guided her hand along the notes until she'd gotten more comfortable with the rhythm then added the bass with his left hand.

 Clarice couldn't breathe. She was dead. Dead. Dead, dead, dead.

 But instead of feeling pain, a strong hand pushed down on her's and lifted again, guiding her to the next chord. He was teaching her. She could feel his weight against her back and felt horribly vulnerable. But then he added the bass line and being able to see both his hands relaxed her somewhat. She refused to think that it was his mouth that did the real damage.

 It was a difficult and beautiful piece of Rachmaninov that she'd chosen. With the bass it sounded much better but it was too hard for her; she hadn't played since school. Everyone had played and learnt French at that orphanage. But Clarice had learnt to play before then. When she was very young and her grandmother had come to visit them she would sit with her by the piano. The song she'd played before Lecter got home was her grandmother's favourite. Clarice had never been any good, she was far too impatient to sit and practice and she preferred riding horses or climbing trees anyway.

 But Lecter's guiding hand and accomplished bass made it sound decent. Clarice realized with some astonishment that they'd completed the entire piece without any huge stuff ups.

 When they'd finished Clarice sat still, waiting for Lecter to make the first move. After all, she was practically stuck beneath him anyway.

 But instead of backing off, Lecter turned the page back and pointed to a change in key.

 "Try from there."

 "Okay."

 She started again, expecting his hand on her's again. It was seconds before she realized she was doing it on her own. Lecter did the bass for her, patiently waiting while she went over mistakes and slowing down as she did through the tough passages.

 This time when they got to the end it was stilted and a little out of time, but she'd done it by herself.

 For the second time, Lecter flicked back and pointed to a bar, this one a little earlier than the key change.

 "Try it from here this time."

 And again Clarice slurred her way through the piece on her own.

 They went through this process two more times before Clarice understood what was happening.

 She was starting from the beginning this time and as she got to the passages they'd been over before, her confidence grew. By the time she got to the key change she knew exactly what to expect and finished the piece in time and correctly.

 Elated, she spun around and grinned at Lecter. He looked back at her calmly.

 "I did it!" She couldn't believe it. Such a simple method of learning and she'd never thought of it before.

 After a couple of seconds of grinning profusely she discovered that she was uncomfortably close to Lecter, who hadn't moved except to retrieve his hands from the keys.

 Awkwardly she sidled out and managed to stand, noticing that the leg she'd been sitting on had gone to sleep. She almost fell.

 Lecter was pleased with how fast she learnt. The piece still sounded rough and new when she was done but she'd gotten the whole way through it and she was ecstatic. She spun around, beaming at him, forgetting for all too short seconds, who and what he was. When she remembered she tried to get up and away gracefully but her leg must have gone to sleep because she crumbled and he caught her by the elbow and drew her over to the settee.

 "I used to play at school. Badly," she told him.

 "You appreciate music, Clarice?"

 "Yes, good music."

 "Oh?" And what would you call 'good music'?

 "Well, people who play well."

 "And you didn't get much of that at the Lutheran orphanage at Postman?" He inquired, remembering Memphis.

 "I didn't get any of that at the Lutheran orphanage at Postman. Our piano teacher was an arthritic old woman who sat in an armchair and yelled at us," she replied, smiling wryly at the memory.

 "Then where did you learn to play?"

 "Excuse me?"

 She hadn't realized he'd heard her play before the Rachmaninov. 

 "From my experience, Clarice, arthritic old women don't play as you did."

 It dawned on her, her expressive eyes widening then hardening in understanding.

 "It you don't mind, sir, I'd prefer it if you told me when you were listening to me," she told him, ruffled by being caught out.

 "Who taught you?"

 "My grandmother, when I was little."

 "Your father's mother?"

 Clarice caught her bottom lip between her teeth.

 "Ahuh."

 "I see."

 Clarice looked blank, like she'd suddenly run out of things to say.

 "You asked me if I would play for you," Lecter said, smoothly changing the subject. Clarice had gone dead to the old one, lost her reactivity.

 She looked up at him, still chewing absently on her bottom lip. Something in her mind was ticking over.

 "Yeah."

 "Why?"

  The question seemed to take her by surprise. She considered it thoughtfully then shrugged.

 "Don't know."

 Lecter kept his focus on her steadily, waiting for her to feel uncomfortable. It took longer than in the past-she was becoming complacent.

 "It just seemed like the thing to ask at the time. After all, it's your piano. I figured you probably played." She shrugged again. "Now I know."

 "Did you expect me to play for you?"

 "No." 

The conversation had taken a weird turn. Lecter seemed to be probing for something, but Clarice was too tired, too desensitized, to take the conversation in. Something very big had happened in that piano room just then and her mind was refusing to register it. She went to bed that night dazed, unsure of where the conversation had finished or if Lecter had gotten what he wanted.

 Later that week the stitches were gone from her side and she had the use of most of the house. She spent a lot of time on the piano working on the Rachmaninov, but never when Lecter was around. She didn't get to go outside again but she practised using her cane along corridors. The American newspapers had become preoccupied with a government scandal, a leading politician implicated in dodgy dealings. No mention of her surfaced.

  Lecter seemed disinclined to conversation, in fact he didn't speak at all one day, merely bringing her the paper and her breakfast in the morning and then setting out her dinner for her in the evening.

 Clarice had become accustomed to checking her food before eating every meal. The little voice in her head kept warning her that one day she might be eating tongue or liver or brain and not from any animal commonly on a menu. But every meal seemed to be strictly vegetarian. She wondered if Lecter was testing to see if she asked for meat, but he didn't bring up the topic of food at all.

 Being enclosed all day, Clarice began to think a lot, too much perhaps. She wondered what had happened to the kidnapped girl and what Ardelia was doing right then. She wondered whether Doctor Lecter planned to let her leave alive or whether she would ever be able to commit to the choice of her death or his. She wondered what it felt like to be eaten and what could drive someone into that kind of psychosis. She wondered over every room Lecter left open for her, whether there was some hidden test or trick afoot. She wondered whether Mr. Crawford was looking for her, if they had any idea.

 But most of all, she wondered what had happened to her gun.

 Clarice tried to remember but couldn't even though she now saw the fight in painful detail and saw the girl and felt her head hit the ground and come to think of it, she'd noticed a shadow behind her as she fell. Doctor Lecter?

 It was one morning while she was scanning over these details and perusing the papers that something caught her eye in the personals.

 "Little bird

 Call to me

 if you can see

 And let me know

 Wherever you go

 What company you keep

 Little starling

 Traveling far

 Do you fall under Orion's star?"

A.M.

Clarice gasped in astonishment. She'd known Ardelia was clever but this was beyond belief. How could she have possibly guessed that Lecter had gotten to her? Clarice giggled a little at the terrible attempt at poetry, still shocked at her friend's cleverness.       She searched all day for a phone and tried to pick a lock, anything. Suddenly hope of escape had flared in her. But Lecter's locks were very complex and he'd hidden his phone. She was just getting the hang of one lock when footsteps sounded up the walkway.

 Clarice had also begun to wonder whether Lecter made so much noise on purpose when coming home. Just to give her time to be where she wanted. Because some days he didn't and she'd turn around and there he'd be, watching her with that damned Cheshire Cat look all over his face.

 She was grateful that today was a noisy day, it gave her time to hide the coat hanger she'd been using and move into a sitting room.

 Lecter came in holding a newspaper under one arm and made his way straight into the sitting room. Clarice still found it disturbing how he always knew where she was, as if he'd smelt her out from the front door.

 He opened the paper and began to read out loud as he walked toward her:

 "Little bird

 Call to me

 If you can see

And let me know

Wherever you go 

What company you keep

Little starling

Traveling far

Do you fall under Orion's star?"

He paused, then added softly, "A.M. Lovely, isn't it? I presume you had the pleasure this morning?"

 "Yes, Doctor Lecter," she answered truthfully.

 Suddenly something strange occurred to her.

 How did Ardelia know about Orion?

 The same thing seemed to be troubling Lecter.

"Clever girl, isn't she? Your friend Agent Mapp."

 Clarice nodded. "Well somebody had to notice eventually," she murmured.

 "Well somebody had to notice eventually," Clarice murmured. She sounded quite bitter, sure she'd been forgotten. All the same, Lecter was still feeling irritated that Clarice would have shared that last conversation over the phone with anybody and wasn't in the mood to be sympathetic.

 And he'd noticed the scratching around one of his gold door handles on his way in.

 "I suppose you're going to return that coat hanger when you're done," he said sharply. "I wouldn't want you to trip on it accidentally."

 Clarice's eyes widened in shock. She'd thought she'd gotten away with that one.

 "And Clarice, if you really wanted to use the laundry you could have asked," he added acerbically.

 He walked out on her. Clarice had never seen him be so moody.  He was almost stomping as he went. She felt dismayed at the discovery of her escape attempt, then embarrassed at being caught out only to find that she was opening the laundry door, but most of all she was shocked at Lecter's irritation over it. How could he not expect she wanted to get out? It couldn't possibly have been that?

 Clarice thought over it a little and concluded that it must have been the Orion thing. Was that supposed to be a personal conversation? Clarice had presumed as much, she'd never told anybody that, not even her best friend. She'd never even alluded to it except in her diary and even then…Clarice could have kicked herself. The diary.

 Indignant at her friend's snooping she stood herself up on the cane and walked out after Doctor Lecter. Perhaps if she hadn't been so impassioned she would have realized what a stupid thing that was to do.

 She wasn't sure exactly where he'd gone. It was a big house, huge, with large portions locked off to her. She followed the corridor she was in down to the end, the investigator in her reasoning that the time Lecter had taken to slam a door had been too considerable for him to have taken any of the other entrances. It was good reasoning. Clarice tested the handle without hesitation.

 The door swung open.

 A chair facing a fireplace in a large library. A desk removed to one corner. A leather couch and reclining chair facing toward the doorway. Everything very clean and nice looking.

 Suddenly Clarice's nerves kicked in. At her ornate surroundings, at her sudden realization that she was walking in on a psychopath. Where was the psychopath?

 The chair facing the fire moved very slightly as if in indication.

 Clarice gulped down her nerves.

 "I didn't tell Ardelia, Doctor Lecter. I wouldn't have told anybody. She…"

 Clarice summoned the anger of moments past to strengthen her.

 "She read my…" The anger hit home. "She read my fucking diary, Doctor Lecter. She read my fucking diary and that's the truth."

 The chair swung round.

 Lecter listened to her coming up the hall and realized he'd left the library door open. He decided to wait and see what happened. In his sleeve rested the comforting weight of his Harpy.

 When she said she hadn't told Ardelia anything he was both pleased and annoyed. Pleased that she'd known what he was irritated about and annoyed for the same reason. Why should it have mattered to him who Clarice told?

 She sounded nervy, as if she'd suddenly gotten the wind knocked out of her. But she stopped and regrouped and whatever she was thinking made her angry.

 He turned to face her.

 He remained silent, watching her, noting how red her face had gone. The indignation in her eyes. The hurt at the unspoken accusation lying between them. His eyes drifted down and caught the sight of two straight and strong legs. The cane cast fire-flicked shadows onto the wall. She was recovering. Whatever had happened was healing and with it her spirit was healing too.

 She'd tried to escape today, as he'd known she must eventually. He was going to have to come to a decision soon. Lecter hated to think of himself as indecisive. He had made a policy of never regretting anything he did so there was no need for hesitation over decisions.

 So why was the bravely indignant woman in the doorway causing him so much thought?    

 He shifted his weight in the chair ever so slightly to allow it to swing back toward the fireplace.

 "Thank you, Clarice," he whispered to himself, feeling the warm air of his breath fill the space around him. He didn't speak to her and after some time, quite some time to her credit, she retreated, closing the door after her.

 It was then that Lecter perceived the thrill of danger.

 Clarice was offended in part by Lecter's silence in the face of her confession. She stood there and waited and while she waited a little plan began to formulate itself in the back of her mind. She knew she was far too weak still to try and outrun the doctor or take him on in a fight-and anyway her confidence in that respect was completely shattered-but what if the coat hanger, or anything really, could be used to jam the lock into that library and enclose Doctor Lecter?

 Clarice knew she was playing with fire as soon as she shut the door behind her.

 When she came back with the coat hanger-she'd dropped her cane in the piano room to avoid added noise-the house was still. Clarice felt the prickles at the back of her neck that meant fear and the tension in her fingers and toes. She had the oddest feeling that Lecter was waiting for her to dare. Her nerve broke and she retreated, walking backwards toward the piano room, just in case he sprung out of the doorway. She ran into him from behind and screamed.

 She spun around, holding the coat hanger up like a weapon in front of her face. He stood intimidatingly close to her, eyes blazing and animal.

 "I didn't," was all she managed to say before the silver blade flashed before her. It hovered against her neck. She didn't dare speak. The coat hanger fell to the floor. Her legs were beginning to give.

 "Why is that, I wonder?" He murmured dangerously.

 She remained intensely still. In her head the voices of her Quantico instructors began to shout at her. In times of personal danger…When dealing with hand-held weapons…Always try to talk down before taking threatening action… They were all useless! Clarice felt an irrational surge of resentment that none of them had any idea of what she was going through.

 You try talking down a brilliant psychiatrist cannibal serial murderer psychopath with a knife in his home while injured and without fucking backup, she thought illogically, as she tried to comprehend the seriousness of her situation.

 "Mmm?" Did he actually expect a reply? Clarice forced herself to look into his inhumanly unemotive eyes. He stared right back at her. She tried to ask him with her eyes how he expected her to answer with a knife pressed to her throat. He seemed completely past reasoning, so she took a deep and testing breath before whispering; "Doctor Lecter…I…I thought better of it."

 He must have believed her because the knife disappeared as quickly as it appeared.

 He took her roughly by the shoulders and lifted her so that she was raised a foot off the ground and entirely incapacitated.

 Ignoring the rapid beat of Clarice's heart, he took her back to her room. Her pulse pulsed through him as well. It was just as well that her complacency had been remedied, he told himself, fighting his internally directed anger at the cheap scare he had pulled. He knew he very well could have killed her back then, just to prove a point. What good would have come from that?

 You may regret that leniency, Hannibal he thought to himself, before remembering that he didn't believe in regret. After all, Will Graham was still alive today.

 If Lecter had not been so angry he would have been disgusted at his own pettiness. He knew when he was being unreasonable, but the important thing was whether he cared or not and right now he didn't care in the least.

 He put Clarice down-not particularly gently- on the landing in front of her room. He turned his back to walk away and heard her shaky footsteps retreat. The door began to swing shut before she stopped. He'd already started down the stairs and told himself quite firmly not to stop when he heard her hesitation.

 Cheap, hustling rube he reminded himself venomously.

 "I thought better of it," she said again, strangely subdued. "Just like you thought better of killing me downstairs. I don't know if I'm going to be alive tomorrow, I haven't known that for weeks. You keep thinking better of it. You understand thinking better of something. You haven't pushed me once until now. Doctor Lecter-one of us is going to lose," she said. Her voice was disjointed, emotional. Always so honest.

 Lecter continued down the stairs without pausing. All she did was say the obvious. She was being foolish, still just as young in some ways as she'd been when Jack Crawford had first sent her over to him. And now he'd done it again, however unwittingly. Crawford really needed to learn how to look after his agents better.

 After the fight, if that's what it could be called-Clarice was tempted to go for attempted murder, but it wasn't that either (pulling rank maybe?)-the house fell silent, a silence that lasted almost a week. Lecter didn't leave the house at all and Clarice-caneless and fearful-stayed upstairs. Food appeared from time to time on the landing but the newspapers had been confiscated and once when she was having a shower, Lecter must have come in because all the coat hangers were gone and her clothes had been neatly folded and put in shelving. She found a note with her dinner In case of another unexpected burst of creativity. Ta. She couldn't help but laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation.

 Clarice knew that Lecter hadn't respected her final outburst on the landing, her brutal honesty about the approaching confrontation. That she also knew he respected her honesty was not in the least significant. That day of the-well, whatever-she'd seen something she hadn't even fully seen back in Baltimore, an animalism, a madness in his eyes, unreasoning, unforgiving, uncompromising. A negotiator's nightmare, pure psychopath. Pure anger, pure hurt of something long forgotten by the rest of the world. Clarice had no idea what it was and was positive she never would know. Somebody who could share their secrets was far less likely to eat people in her experience.  The odds of her making it out of there suddenly seemed far less favourable.

 Clarice had remembered where she was. Such a small island for such a huge coincidence to occur on. More and more she became convinced that despite his promise, Lecter had been following her. From the States? That seemed highly unlikely and a bit too foolish for Lecter. So how had he done it? Had he heard about the politician's daughter? It was always a politician's daughter. Catherine Martin, Jenna Kazmaric…

 Clarice sat up in bed with a start.

 "Jesus Christ!" She swore with shock.

 Lecter sat up straight, still, listening.

 He heard, "Jesus Christ! Jenna Kazmaric! On vacation to Corsica!"

 Clarice felt her stomach fall fast, as if she were on a roller coaster.

 He heard, "What the fuck happened to my gun?"

 Clarice staggered out of bed and made it to the bathroom next door before the heaving feeling in her stomach took over. Graphically, the events of the fight took over her mind as automated response took over her stomach. She vomited until she was retching dry, the man-early forties, tanned, tall, greasy, smelt like salt and cigars, a hunting knife, a baseball bat, a bedroom in the background and a kitchenette, tiny, tiny cottage. The walls were a feminine colour, lavender maybe, she was kneeing him when the knife caught her side going down. He shoved her, her wrist cracked loudly, he threw himself at her, his weight slammed against her excruciatingly. She screamed. A shadow fell across the doorway. The girl was making muffled noises, desperate, pleading noises, cut off by something strapped across her mouth. Clarice could hear the girl thrashing against the bed she was tied up on, making as much noise as possible.

 Cold, black, cold, heat suddenly. Enormous pain. Standing up, trying. An arm around her waist, tears in her eyes, so nice to feel a friend, to lean on something warm and friendly and…

 Clarice gasped for air and flung her head up out of the basin. She breathed deeply, trying to combat the head spin. The inside of her mouth tasted revolting. She rinsed it out as much as she could with handfuls of water gulped down greedily until her stomach threatened to make her stop. She caught her reflection in the mirror.

 Clarice had been avoiding the mirror during her 'stay'.

 She was still very thin, very pale. She didn't look bruised any more, but there was a wide wildness about her eyes. As her breathing settled her eyes did a bit too. Her hair was hanging loosely, in parts wetly, on her shoulders and down her back. It needed brushing. She had bags under her eyes from her fitful sleeping, but scarily enough, she looked much better than she had when she'd first arrived. She'd been eating much better and more regularly, she'd been resting a lot.

 Clarice postulated that had she looked before the 'fight/attempted murder/whatever' she would have found herself looking a hundred times better. But that was just a guess.

  It was then, searching her face with critical eyes that her own words came back to her.

 So nice to feel a friend, to lean on something warm and friendly and…

 She'd known, she must have. Somehow.

 Clarice felt her legs crumble and let herself sink to the floor.

 She cried.

 He heard her stagger up, throw up, gasp, collapse, cry.

 The fight was over.

 Clarice's automatic response to the footsteps on the stairs was to catch her breath but because she was crying she began to choke and splutter. The footsteps were punctuated by a voice.

 "Breathe in, Clarice. Breathe in! Hold it! Hold it, that's it. Count to eight, let it out slowly. Now breathe in…"

 He couldn't have seen her; the stairs were still creaking with his weight. Clarice did as he said. Her breathing calmed, her throat loosened. The tears continued to fall.

 Finally the footsteps stopped, just beyond the bathroom tiles.

 "You remember," he stated softly.

 She didn't reply, she couldn't.

 "Everybody bears the scars of their confrontations, Clarice," he told her. "You will learn to live with yours."

 Her tears felt hot and angry against her skin.

 "There is a place in your mind where you can watch from a distance. You can register your feelings but you are detached. You would have felt this way when you walked up the aisle at your father's funeral. Go there now. Feel that detachment. Watch yourself. You're sitting on the bathroom floor. Can you feel the cold touch of the tiles? Are your tears stinging your cheeks? Watch, Clarice."

 Without noticing any intention, Clarice found herself in a little hole, the hole she'd discovered when her father had died. It was warm and little, nobody but her could fit in there. It was the size of her as a ten-year-old girl. In her head she was ten once more. She slid into the hole, feeling the security drift over her like a blanket. She saw her own pain, saw everything, but it was vague, like a dream from days past.

 She sat with her knees pulled up to her chest in her hole. Everything glowed yellow, like sunshine in the morning, still pure and pale.

 Someone outside the hole was talking to her. His voice, precise, clear, echoed around her musically. Nothing was loud or harsh in here.

 He was telling her to close her eyes and imagine a smiling face, anyone she wished. Her father perhaps?

 Daddy! He sprang up before her eyes, smiling, laughing, playing hide and seek-but she could see him there behind the curtain. He was far too big for the little space.

 She giggled.

 "I see you, Daddy!"

 And now the game was over.

 "You're sitting with Daddy. You want to tell him something. What is it?"

 "So much, so much," child Clarice giggled. "You'd never believe. I failed and failed, Daddy. I always will. I know that. And now I don't know anything any more. I'm deluded."

 "What's your delusion?"

 Clarice felt the breath rush out of her. The voice echoed louder and louder in her hole, no, her head. The warm light was gone, the child was gone. Daddy! Where had he gone?  

 She felt big, clumsy, choking, suffocating. She wished she could scream but her chest closed over. Daddy was dead. She was deluded.

 I'm deluded, he's gone, I'm alone…so nice to feel a friend. What friend?

 She found herself looking up at the figure in the doorway.

 "What's your delusion, Clarice?" He asked again.

 "I thought, when you held me…I…I saw your shadow…I felt you pull me up…I thought…"

 "What did you think?"

His voice was so soft it almost belonged to another place. And yet it was commanding. There was no returning to the safe now.  Her hole was gone, too small for her to crawl back into.

 "I thought…I mean, I felt…" she swallowed. Something inside her went numb at the thought of sharing this horrible truth.

 Lecter waited silently, still as a statue. The words found themselves. The same way they had before.

 "So nice to feel a friend," she whispered.

 She realized then that she was still looking up at him. He didn't let her see what he was thinking, but she knew he was surprised, if just a little. His eyes remained trained on her, searching for a reaction to play off.

 All she could do was shrug.

 He couldn't deny he was somewhat surprised. Her honesty had outdone itself. Her shock, he realized, was at much at this revelation as it was about the remembrance of the Jenna Kazmaric ordeal and the need to answer to her father for her failure.

 The indoctrination that she'd spent years perpetuating had let her down. She was no more a brainless tool of the law than he was an upstanding citizen.

 Lecter had to admit he was particularly pleased with this development. There was hope for Clarice after all. And perhaps, an answer to the dilemma he'd been mulling over. However, he didn't give her the chance to close over the wall of her denial once more, as much as he wished to respond. He allowed a sense of calmness to remind him that all he need do was wait a little longer.

 All good things to those who wait.

 He stepped back, not permitting either of them to break eye contact and closed the door between them.

 What was he doing? Clarice jumped at the sound of the bathroom door clicking shut.  

 She permitted a deep breath to settle herself. He'd got what he wanted and now he was giving her space, she supposed, once her mind had stopped racing. The numbness was replaced with a bone weary exhaustion. She had, after all, been on edge ever since she'd been here.

 Gingerly, she got herself up, ignoring the ensuing and predictable headspin. She tested the door handle and found it unlocked so she continued into the little attic bedroom. The stain of her blood from weeks past remained a faint outline on his plush carpet.

 "Sorry," she muttered, but she found it funny for some reason, imagining Lecter on his knees scrubbing at her pool of blood. She giggled to herself. There was something very wrong about that image.

 The bedroom door was locked. So he wanted her to stay in confinement a little longer. To what end? Clarice shook her head and tried not to think about it. 

 The next day Lecter brought her breakfast not to the landing where she was now used to picking it up, but to the little fold-out tray next to her bed. 

 He watched her stir restlessly. So his presence still meant something after all? Well, good.

 She sat up quickly to meet him, eyes flung wide open in shock.

 "Good morning," she managed, but she didn't look so good.

 "Good morning, Clarice. Hungry?" He pointed to the meal he'd prepared and leant back against the windowsill while she did her now familiar perusal for meats.

 "Isn't it time you learnt a little trust, Agent Starling?" He asked coyly, toying with her profession intentionally.

 She pursed her lips, obviously having pulled herself together.

 "Oh, sure, Doctor. At the drop of a hat…To what to I owe this pleasure?" She was wiping sleep out of her eye and straightening her hair.

 He couldn't help but smile.

 "Never forget to secure your investments, my dear," he replied cryptically. He felt rather chipper this morning.

 Never forget to secure your investments? What the hell was that supposed to mean? Clarice raised an eyebrow only to find a sly smile creep onto her captor's face. All is going to be revealed in time…yadda yadda yadda…she thought, somewhat cynically. Lecter had woken her too abruptly and she felt out of sorts.

 However she soon got up, showered, dressed, noted as usual the slow progress with the remainder of her injuries. As she did this a strange thought popped into her head; Hannibal's Hospital Hotel. She laughed at herself and went back to the bed to eat her breakfast.

 Soon enough she found the door unlocked, but the piano room, the laundry and most of the others were closed.

 Still being punished, am I?

 But day by day the new routine established itself. Lecter would wake her in the morning with breakfast, stay to say a few snide comments, then disappear for the day, leaving a couple of doors open for her. By nighttime she'd be tired and would generally be back in her room when he came to bring her dinner, otherwise she'd be  escorted there anyway.

 All good things…Lecter was proud of himself, although not enough to allow himself to leave the piano room for her. That period of her stay was over. Obviously he wasn't about to give her the kitchen either, that was plain stupidity, but he did decide on the library. He removed a letter opener from his desk first, along with the scissors.

 These days everything is childproof, he hummed to himself.

 Clarice didn't seem to find the library for three days, or she was too nervous to intrude there. But on the fourth day he smelt the scent of her there and smiled. Two books were missing too, a Jung and a Milton.

 Diverse, aren't you, little Starling?

 That evening he brought her a soup for dinner and stayed with her to talk about her books.

 She said little other than, "I didn't think you'd mind."

 "Oh?"

 "Well, why else leave a library open, Doctor Lecter?"

 Too true.

 He inclined his head graciously.

 Clarice was not surprised when evenings become literary discussions. Every few days he'd leave a new one on his desk for her to try. A week and a half passed that way, quietly but very quickly. Then one day she awoke to hear Lecter's footsteps on the stairs and smiled to herself. She'd begun to anticipate his arrivals.

 She greeted breakfast with a little smile and eyes that scanned her food before it even reached her bedside.

 Lecter opened the window to let the morning breeze in. The air carried the scent of spices.

 "I shall not be home till late tonight," he told her, "so your dinner will have to be postponed. I apologize for that."

 Clarice shook her head.

 "That's fine. I've a book I want to finish anyway."

 She discovered that she wasn't surprised at her own ease with him either.

Securing your investments?

 Lecter, true to his word, arrived home very late, much later than he had led Clarice to believe. This was intentional, as he planned for her to be asleep on his returning and if she awoke, she'd expect his footsteps to be the sign of dinner.

 He approached the room ready, chloroform in hand splashed over a clean towel. He'd been extremely careful with the dosage.

 He let the door drift open quietly and discovered his ward propped up by pillows, an old leather-bound book in hand. She started to stir as his presence hit her senses and he heard her mumble, "I almost finished it, but…" before the towel smothered her face. She was too sleepy to really struggle.

 Clarice awoke in a white room with a starchy smell. She knew where she was right away, but sat up fast in astonishment.

 A hospital?

There were three other beds in her room, two occupied. She flung her head about wildly but nothing looked familiar.

 "Doctor?" Where are you Doctor Lecter?

 She must have called loudly because a youngish dark man in blue and white, stethoscope slung about his neck, appeared in the doorway.

 "Miss Starling? Is that right?" He asked in halted English.

 At her look of amazement he continued. "We found you in Emergency with your bags. You are American, no?"

 "Yeah. Um…Where am I?"

 "Hopital de la Corse, I presume you were dropped here by kind passer by. You're in pretty good condition, but I reset your arm. Do you know what happened to you?"

 "Ah, yeah, I was in a fight."

Where was Lecter? Had someone discovered his house?

"Not in the last month though, I would guess. It may be that you sustained significant head trauma which has now cleared."

 "You mean amnesia?"

 "Is possible, Miss. I have taken the liberty of having your number at FBI contacted. If you are well in the morning you can go home."

 The room threatened to spin. After so long she could go home? Just like that?

 "My hip hurts," was all she could think to say.

 "Ah, oui. There was evidence of a hairline crack in your x-rays but as long as you are careful walking about, you will be fine. There is nothing I can do for such an injury. It is not serious enough to warrant a pin being placed."

 "Right. Thanks. Um, je peux aller au WC?" She asked, pulling out carefully formed French from her Lutheran orphanage at Postman days.

 The doctor seemed impressed and smiled.

"Bien sur, it is right through there." He pointed to a door adjoining her room.

 Clarice managed to walk gracefully enough to the bathroom and back, even in her ugly old hospital gown. Suddenly it occurred to her that her clothes were missing, but a bag of items protruding slightly under her bed explained that away.

 The next day Clarice found herself in the arms of Ardelia before she really understood what was happening. She only had the one bag and handbag with her. All the other things from her misadventures in Corsica were probably still safely locked in the boot of her hire car, which had been left at the house of the fateful fight. Unless somebody had already plundered it.

 Ardelia rained the questions down on her, as she knew Crawford would as soon as he got a chance, but he hadn't been able to meet her at the airport for some reason. At least the press hadn't got wind. That was something to be grateful for.

 Ardelia told her over coffee that Jenna Kazmaric had tearfully managed to get herself on a flight home with the help of local police. When questioned by the FBI as to the involvement of the officer they'd sent over for her, she shrugged.

 "There was a female at the cottage the day I escaped. She fought him. I dunno what happened. I saw her hit the ground. Maybe she took him down with her. He was definitely dead. There was blood everywhere."

 Ardelia told her that Crawford had feared the worst after not hearing of sightings for over a month. She hadn't given up though.

 "Yeah, I got the lovely attempt at poetry," Clarice giggled.

 Everything felt surreal. Maybe she'd just had amnesia and finally the police had found her at the cottage. Maybe the rest was in her head. The scarring from the stitches in her side could easily have been the work of doctors at l'Hopital.      

  Ardelia promised to take her straight home and run her a bath.

 "You can probably get the lowdown on the Kazmaric girl tomorrow if you're up to it."

 Clarice let herself be shouted coffee and bundled into Ardelia's old hatchback.

 "Yeah. Time I got back to work, right?"

 "Right. A month's vacation in Corsica? You lucky bitch!"

 They giggled together. It was nice to be home.

 Ardelia helped Clarice into the duplex and brought in her bags.

 "I'm not an invalid, you know, Delia," Clarice complained.

 "Take it while you can, girl. It won't last long!"

 She even tried to unpack for her but didn't get very far. On the first garment, a skirt, she paused and looked over at her friend who was busy making up the bed she'd left messy so many early mornings ago.

 "Where'd you get the designer clothes, Starling?"

 Clarice spun around, jolting her healing hip.

 Amnesia, my ass!

 "Um, cheap shopping in Corsica," she shrugged. But she didn't believe herself. It would be easy to check if she'd drawn out cash from her account or made any transactions since the hotel she'd stayed in all too briefly. She knew at heart that she hadn't bought those clothes.

 Eventually she got rid of Ardelia, arguing that she really needed a couple of hours decent sleep. She promised to check in again with her friend in the evening.

 "Come over for dinner," Ardelia offered.

 Clarice nodded.

 "Yeah, 'kay. Bet my battery's dead though."

 "Pick you up at eight then."

Once alone, properly alone for the first time since the whole thing had started, Clarice poured herself a glass of wine and took the annoying sling off her arm. The doctor at the hospital had set it with plaster and it was heavy so she rested it on a pillow as she curled up on her very own couch, handbag beside her.

 She'd had an idea when she'd seen the clothes she'd acquired during her sojourn. But she hadn't wanted to tell Ardelia, she was afraid that the one sneaky mention of Orion would multiply. No one had had the suspicion yet, she was pretty sure. And Ardelia must have dismissed it some time back not to mention it as soon as she saw her girlfriend.

 You let me live. No one will believe I was with you all that time if I can't sport some missing organs for the show.

 Her hunch paid off. After pulling out everything in the bag, going through her wallet and receipts, as well as her badge pocket and cosmetic case, she found it. A small, glossy, very white envelope that almost smelt of an essential oil but she couldn't place what exactly.

 She used a long nail (they'd grown nicely in her time away without the constant chew set on by work) to delicately open the flap, only briefly considering that she was tampering with evidence.

 It was a satiny card in the same white gloss as its envelope. She unfolded it and encountered the familiar cursive hand.

 Her heart jumped a little.

 I'll give you amnesia she giggled. It was all a bit funny somehow. Like the pool of blood she'd left on his carpet. Everything was a bit perverse.

 Dear Clarice,

Or should I say Special Agent Starling now that you're back to being FBI again? I do hope you kept your promise and have told Jacky Boy how very badly I've treated you. Somehow I get the feeling that you've decided against it. How very thoughtful of you. Of course I couldn't let you keep the cane, fingerprints, you know. But I would be honoured if you'd wear the clothes I gave you. Please don't feel unworthy of them, beautiful things are created for beautiful people.

 It's a pity about the Rachmaninov. May I urge you to continue that on your own? Although, "falling under Orion's star" as you do, I hope you know that you shall never really be alone.

 I have decided to discover the enchantment of a new home. I trust you are happy for now to return to your old one with the knowledge that it is indeed very nice to feel a friend…"at the drop of a hat" as some would say.

 Goodbye.

HL. MD.

     

The end! Don't forget to review now you've made it all the way through. Tee hee, that rhymes!