Clarice Starling looked up into the clear sky above her. She saw a single bird fly out from behind an oak tree that stood in the middle of the square in front of her. She smiled. As she watched, another bird flew out and joined the first; they swooped together, dancing and spiralling, rising to heaven before finally flying out of sight. Her smile slipped slightly and she felt herself tense, ready to battle the emotions rising up in her throat. She had asked for and been given a break, a few weeks they had said, to recover herself after "the experience". She had hoped for these few weeks to be relaxing-or at least, if not that then something approaching calming. So far however, they had just reminded her of what had happened. Every little thing she saw she seemed to subconsciously attach symbolism to, something that was very unlike her. Even things that had happened in her life which to others would have seemed full of meaning (she shuddered slightly at the thought) had always to her remained blank experiences, sheets of clear glass with no hidden meanings. Recently though, these sheets had become coloured for her, and everything she now saw she seemed to see through a prism of colour, a riot of hidden agendas and hidden sadness.
And, of course, everything she saw reminded her of him.
But that was why she was here. Not to think of him. The scenery of Oxford, a place she had always wanted to go to but had never been able to, had so far only opened up new vistas in her memory she had never even considered before. New vistas which seemed to lead to one person, one man, one thought.
And it was not a thought she particularly wanted to reflect on.
True, she had felt special; charmed even in his presence, but then it was also true that that presence was that of a murderer. A murderer and a cannibal at that. Someone whose nature seemed to be one licking the very barrel at the bottom of humanity. Someone, with whom association should be avoided, disliked, loathed. Anything but desired. Yet that was what she wanted more than anything right now. To see him, to talk to him, to ask him questions of her own-without Plexiglas between them.
And as Clarice Starling pondered, staring at a patch of sky through which nothing moved, either ontological or mechanical, a man observed her from a cafe on the side of the street. He sipped a glass of white wine and adjusted the angle of his hat slightly. He wondered if she would recognise him if she looked over. If it had been anyone else, he would have said no, but there was something special about Clarice Starling. Something that, once he had finished the dregs of his glass, made him call a waiter over and pay without even consuming one of the pastries the cafe was famous for.
Clarice Starling started from her reverie, suddenly aware of eyes on her. While this was not unusual, and over time she had built up a shield against them, she felt something different about this set of eyes. And as she raised her head and looked over her shoulder to the direction she had felt them, she glimpsed a white fedora disappearing into an alleyway.
Could it be...?
She had already started towards the alley when she stopped herself. She was being ridiculous, and worse, she was assuming. Shaking her head and starting towards the Bodleian, she left the scene.
In an alleyway, Hannibal Lecter smiled.
Above them, the starlings flew.
