Author's note: This is a direct sequel to my earlier story "Breaking Free," taking place approximately three weeks after the final scene, in June 1993.

I'm always interested in hearing what readers have to say about a story, good or bad, so feel free to speak up in the comments/reviews or send me a PM. I try to respond promptly to everyone who has PMs enabled for review replies.

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine but the use of these particular words in this particular order. Everything else goes home to its proper copyright owner at last call.

Hannibal Lecter laid the knife on the counter and carefully wiped his hands.

The phone rang a second time. Not the house phone, no; this was the mobile phone he had obtained for this singular purpose.

"Guten Morgen."

"It's done; the package is on its way."

"All went well, I trust?"

"She seemed suspicious, like you said, but it looked like the letter helped."

"And the other?"

"No one followed her off the plane. No one met her at the gate. No one picked up her trail at the airport. No last-minute suspicious ticket-buyers at the station."

Excellent. It seemed this was to be a true holiday and not an exercise in evading Jack Crawford's little minions. Such trust, Clarice?

"Very well. The remaining funds will be wired to your account within the hour."

"It's been a pleasure. You need anything else—"

"I will be certain to call upon you should that be the case. Auf Wiedersehen."

The doctor ended the call, placed the phone back on the table, and picked up the knife once more. He had time yet before he must meet Clarice. He hummed as he worked. He would not suppress the thrill of anticipation their meeting invoked; no, that he would savor, as he did each feeling she inspired.

She is coming. To me. I must prepare a proper welcome.

The lack of butterflies in her stomach no longer surprised Clarice Starling.

As the train pulled away from the station, she was calm, relaxed… happy. Destination Hannibal Lecter. She was, she suspected, the only person in the world for whom the very idea was not unnerving.

But she had done her thinking already. She wouldn't have contacted him at all if the benefits hadn't outweighed the risks. It was that certainty that had allowed her to slumber, untroubled, all the way across the Atlantic, from D.C. to Paris.

That same certainty had permitted her to set aside her apprehension when her name came over the announcement system, a polite, feminine voice directing her in accented English to a courtesy desk. He had left a letter for her there, a reassurance and challenge both, with the train ticket – and American travel documents with her photo under the name Caroline Bell – tucked inside.

The letter now lay folded in the slim pocket on the outside of her carryon. The small bag and a medium-sized suitcase had accompanied her on the trip. She'd asked Ardelia for help packing, laughing and joking all the while about the fabulous men she'd be sure to meet during her weeklong vacation in Paris, as though the women still shared the close friendship they appeared to on the surface.

And if they had… if she were still that woman… well, the doctor had prepared for that, too. Of course he had.

Clarice fished the letter out of her bag and held it close as she re-read his words, her fingers lightly rubbing against the heavy paper.

Dear Clarice,

Are you still determined to embark on this mad adventure? What of Uncle Jack and the nobility and justice of the FBI? Do they mean nothing to you, my dear?

Perhaps you'll find they do, indeed, mean more to you than the promise of my company. Should that be the case, Clarice, please, make use of the enclosed reservations. The accommodations, alas, are not what I would choose for you, but they do fit within your undoubtedly limited budget.

If you are not tempted by the prospect of a week in Paris on your own, Clarice, I do hope you'll find the train ticket more to your liking. Does it excite you to know I am waiting?

Would you tell me if it did?

Pleasant journey, Clarice.

Fondly,

Hannibal

The train was taking her to Saarbrucken. She'd never heard of it, but the guidebook she'd grabbed before boarding the train seemed to think it was a decently sized German economic and cultural center on the French border. Hardly D.C., but a hell of a lot bigger than anything Montana or West Virginia had to offer.

Deficiencies of the American educational system showing once more, Clarice? Americans are a rather insular breed. Had your father lived, you might have spent your entire life on a tiny patch of land in the West Virginia hills. Church on Sundays, a ring on your finger and a good ol' boy in your bed, a new baby to keep you occupied every other year—

"Shut up, Doctor."

She put the letter away and watched the countryside pass by. It would be hours yet before she reached him. And then?

Her pulse picked up just a tick.

Excited. That's a good word, Doctor. Maybe I'll even tell you so.

She wouldn't have to, of course; he would know. But still….

"You'd like hearing it, wouldn't you?"

I know I do.

Hannibal Lecter arrived at the station early, entering only after scrutinizing the flow of foot traffic, looking for anything – or anyone – out of place. He had made several previous visits to familiarize himself with the building, its architectural quirks and the most expedient means of egress. Trust was not necessary when one was properly prepared.

The arrivals board indicated Clarice's train was approaching on schedule. He had perhaps 30 minutes before she would be here, standing before him. The image of their last meeting came unbidden to his mind. His hands once more felt her warmth. His lips tingled at the brush of her tongue. Her understanding eyes pierced him as he backed away from where she knelt on the bed.

He inhaled deeply, bringing the mingled odors of machines and the mass of humanity that passed daily through the station to his nose, banishing the memory of her presence. He could not expect to pick up where events had left off – certainly not in the middle of a train station, in any case.

It would be necessary to assess her attitude toward him before selecting an opening gambit. Most of a year had passed since he had seen her last; who knew what changes such a length of time spent under the FBI's watchful eye, without his influence, might have wrought?

He busied himself studying those around him while pretending to browse. It wouldn't do to allow himself to sink deeply into thoughts of Clarice, not here, where caution and attention were called for.

The train's arrival sent a small crowd scurrying forward – eager, he imagined, to greet friends and loved ones. He himself was not immune to the impulse, though he carefully held it in check. His position along the railing above the main floor allowed him the perfect vantage point.

There – behind a pair of youthful backpackers, ahead of the older gentleman even now sweeping a small child up in his arms. Clarice.

His hand clenched involuntarily around the railing. His Starling had arrayed herself in brilliant blue plumage, a short-sleeved blouse atop the standard American khaki trouser. A smile touched the corners of his lips. He had anticipated well, it seemed; his own casual slacks and button-down shirt were a near match, merely a few shades darker.

Her head constantly in motion, she surveyed the crowd as he watched. Her movements were smooth, calm; she appeared no different from the others seeking to meet up with friends at the end of the long journey.

He watched as she rolled her neck; it had been, in total, more than 15 hours of traveling to bring her here even before adding in the hours she had lost crossing time zones. She would be tired, sore, in need of solitude to relax and recover her good humor, he expected.

He could not perceive any anxiety in her at this distance, but that, too, seemed likely. Surely she had doubts about this adventure. He hoped to be able to put her at ease quickly so they might enjoy this time together, but he would not deceive her in this. If she were to accept him, it would not be from behind rose-colored glasses.

The crowd had thinned; he had not noted anyone paying particular attention to her, apart from the occasional appreciative glance from unaccompanied – and a few accompanied – men. She herself had not passed any signals that he could see, had not shown undue interest in those who remained.

It was time.

Clarice took her time exiting the train. A sense of… reluctance… had crept into her thoughts. Doubts she had thought quelled suddenly reappeared, and she sat in her seat, taking slow and steady breaths, as the passengers around her claimed their luggage and departed.

What would he be like, freed of all external constraints? Would he still be the man she knew, the courteous, challenging man who stirred her blood with the barest hint of a smile, the flash in his eyes?

She pictured him as he had been after the hurricane had passed. Respectful. Protective. Restrained despite the urgency she could feel in his musculature. He had wanted her then; she was certain of it. But he was the master of his urges. Whatever he had planned for their time together now, she could be confident that he had considered every implication, every angle, with calm, focused reason.

He won't hurt me. He would rather deny himself than hurt me.

That thought propelled her out of her seat, prompted her to gather her things, and carried her out to the platform, following the crowd moving into the main hall of the station. She kept her ears open on the off chance that a courtesy announcement would demand her attention, but she suspected he was here waiting. The game was more fun with both players on the board.

She stopped slightly to the side of the crush and craned her head, looking around as any new arrival might. Most of them, she expected, were not marking the exits, the sight lines, the possible threats in the crowd.

A pause, as she felt eyes moving over her. Discomfort suggested someone other than the doctor; yes, a man a dozen feet away, smiling as he caught her eye. She dismissed him with a curt shake of her head and a warning frown.

She resumed her scan of the surroundings. Something had changed; there, at the railing on the level above – an empty place where before had stood a man. She had no rational reason to believe it had been him. And yet… her heartbeat picked up. She turned toward the stairs. Nothing.

A slow swivel revealed the thinning crowd, the stragglers heading past her to their homes or other destinations. And then, finally, she felt it. Not a tingling in her spine, not a prickle between her shoulder blades – no, this was the antithesis of such things. It was a calmness, a dead spot in her constant awareness of her surroundings, as though a shroud had fallen. It felt… comforting.

She turned to her left. A man was approaching, his hat pulled low over his face. His khaki slacks and navy blue shirt seemed a darker mirror of her own attire. A smile spread across her face. He appeared subtly different – minor alternations to his face and hair, a healthy cast to his skin replacing the slight gauntness and wan coloration he had sported beneath the dingy lighting of the Baltimore asylum.

"Clarice." His greeting was clipped, precise. "You look lovely. Enjoying your holiday thus far, my dear?"

"You look well, Doctor. Freedom suits you."

Shit, did I just say that?

His eyes laughed at her.

"I'm pleased that you approve, Clarice. I heartily agree."

Her heart pounded as she stared at him. The butterflies in her stomach, previously at rest, had apparently decided to migrate without warning her. His warm smile was doing unspeakable things to her insides. She imagined, suddenly, that they were lovers reuniting after a long absence, that she might step forward and twine her arms around his neck and kiss him with abandon.

His smile grew.

"You look a bit flushed, Clarice. Perhaps it's warm in here, hmm?"

She nodded, unwilling to chance speaking again until she had gotten herself under control.

"If I may?" His fingers slid along hers as he grasped the handle of her suitcase. She inhaled sharply. "It's a short ride to our destination, Clarice, and then you may rest and refresh yourself."

He offered her his other arm. She slipped her hand around the inside of his elbow, brushing over the rolled-up cuff of his sleeve until her fingers rested on the bare skin of his forearm.

Get control of myself? Yeah, right. At this rate, I won't be talking again all week.

But she was pleased to notice a faint tremble in him, as well, as her fingertips slid along the soft skin on the underside of his arm. And he accommodated his stride to hers as they left the station, so she need not relinquish her grip.

I guess I'm not the only one who's been looking forward to this.