Hello! This is my first Lecter fic, so be gentle, but tell me what you think of it, becasue otherwise I won't know what you like or dislike or hate with a firey passion!

Disclaimer-I do not, nor will I ever, own the Hannibal Lecter Series

Clarice Starling woke that morning in a cold sweat from a dream made of memories that she couldn't bear to remember. Her alarm had been the reason the shatters of deluded memories had finally freed her, and she already heard rustlings from the room across the hall. A small smile came to her mouth as she rolled out of bed, knowing that Maelie would already be up and preparing breakfast by the time she got downstairs. Starling threw on the uniform for her job at the Baltimore Police Department, and did something that she rarely cared to do-she looked at herself in the mirror. Even though at forty-nine she certainly wasn't as young as she used to be, she had aged with a certain beauty and grace that kept her looking fine.

A buzz from the phone on her nightstand sent her spiraling back into reality from the locked place inside her mind. The caller I.D. said, quite simply. 'Ardelia' and Starling picked it up with a flourish.

The sound from the other end was busy and loud and sweetly chaotic; it was the bustling music of a household fully filled by personalities and well-structured havoc. Ardelia herself was just as neat as she had ever been when she and Starling shared a duplex, but now she had the added burden of three children with her husband's spirit.

"Benson! Let go of Frankie right now! Oh, hi Clarice!"

Ardelia had changed. She had married, settled down and, amazingly, become a housewife.

"Morning, Mrs. Derby. How're the kids?"

Ardelia sighed at Starling's steady accent, as faint as it had become over the years; they had switched positions since Starling had left the F.B.I. Now, if she wanted to escape the chaos of her own home, it was known that Ardelia was allowed to come over and sit in the quiet of the Starling household.

"Oh, they're good, they're good. Benny's excited to go to work with Darren, Frankie can't wait until it's his turn, and Catherine is still my grandmother reincarnated. How's my Maelie doing?"

Starling felt a twinge at the possessive in Ardelia's sentence. She knew that it was only coincidental, but she couldn't help the fact. By this time Starling had made it to the kitchen where, as predicted, Maelie was in the midst of doling out a hearty breakfast of goat cheese omelets, toast, bacon and hand-squeezed orange juice.

"Making breakfast as usual. She's so picky about the ingredients it's as if she wants to supervise the slaughtering of the pigs!"

That drew a slight, amused smile from Maelie as the two of them sat down for breakfast.

"Alright, I've got to go. I'm getting the 'Mom It's Rude To Be On The Phone At The Table' look. Dinner tonight? Belle Giornate at 8? Bring the whole family-we'll make a party out of it! Bye, Ardelia."

Starling repented, and causally observed the child that was somehow hers. As they chatted and ate, china clicking bell tolls through the perfect quiet, she once again tried to find Paul Krendler in Maelie Starling's mysterious features. Starling herself was quite visible there. It was her nose and mouth on the delicate, attractive face, and so was the pale, creamy skin. The fit, slender body was hers as well, streamlined, small and sleek, built for movement and high-endurance activities, sheltered by outfits far classier then most at her age. The fifteen year olds strong sense of right and wrong, along with her strict ethics of justice, were so clearly her mother's it was laughable.

But there were parts of her that Starling just didn't understand.

Thirteen years ago, when she had arrived in Washington, D.C. via plane, holding hands with a sprightly two year old, with no recollection of the last three years of her life, they told her that Paul Krendler had raped her. There had been a call, they said, admitting to his murder, and stating that as the reason for it. She had been unable to prove them wrong, as she could remember nothing after being hit on the Verger estates by what she assumed to be a tranquilizer gun, they had no reason to disbelieve the caller, and DNA tests proved inconclusive. So they told her that the child, who called herself Maelie, was the product of Paul Krendler.

But Starling simply couldn't see it. There were certainly paternal aspects to her daughter, certain things that resounded through Starling's memory like a gong, traits that came from a father she couldn't seem to place.

The child didn't have Starling's auburn hair. Hers was dark, flowing and sleek, as if each strand had been ripped off the head of one with wealth and status. This made sense, in essence, as it almost matched Krendler's in shade. Her eyes, too, made it seem as if belonging Starling was a lie, through and through. They were also dark, and colorless, and closed. There had been rumors, whispers tossed around locker rooms and closer-door parties, that if you started into her eyes for long enough, she would do the almost impossible and stare back, eyes alighting with such a frightening glare that you could trick yourself into seeing something pin wheeling around down there in the dark.

Her voice is what was concerning.

"Mom, is something wrong?" Starling, preoccupied with her musings as she so often was, was snapped back by her voice.

She knew it from somewhere, of that she was absolutely certain. Where, though, she just couldn't place. In her dreams her daughter's voice ricocheted off the walls of a brick-laden hall, echoing taunts and playful jibes at her, as she advanced ever down the hall, never finding the end, but dreading when she does with a sordid excitement of sorts. It was low, far lower than Starling's West Virginia chimes, but still had a sensual, feminine appeal in the harsh rasp of its growl.

"What? Oh, no I was just thinking."

Starling smiled the slightest bit, reassurance oozing from between her lips, thinking only about what she would have to do to trick her daughter into believing she was fine and not falling into her own head as she so often did.

There was a dark, raised eyebrow in need of her attention.

'You know the missing man-Christopher Gell; I used to work with him before he got dirty. It's kept me a little preoccupied."
Starling could tell she knew she was lying, but she also knew Maelie would leave it at that.

Glancing at the clock, she realized they were running late.

"Grab your stuff, put the plates in the sink, get in the car-go, quickly!"

Starling ran with a fervent haste; Maelie strode with a smooth confidence, and she made it to the car first. Starling dashed outside, realized she forgot her keys, and ran back in.

The phone began to ring.

Starling ignored it and grabbed the key-ring from the living room table, barely registering the blaring noise as it moved from the second ring, to the third and the fourth and the fifth.

She had her hand on the doorknob and it had just begun to turn when the caller left their message.

"Hello, Clarice."

The buzz of the disconnecting tone seemed to last forever.

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