Apologies for the enormous break between updates, I am very busy at school, and I have incredibly demanding teachers.


"Clarice, girl, we're gonna be late!" Ardelia's voice called from the hall, the open door offering a peek into the girls' shared dormitory. Skin creams and term papers alike were scattered across the tabletops and coverlets, and knitted blankets courtesy of Mapp's grandmother lay across the two beds.

"Coming, Dee!" Clarice answered, voice raised just enough to be audible to her friend, but not loud enough to disturb others. She knew how annoying loud people could be when attempting to study. She lifted the perfume bottle to the base of her throat, before catching sight of the label. L'air du Temps. The perfume Dr Lecter had said was 'bewitching'. Did he find her bewitching, she wondered. Before the thought could develop any further, Starling pushed it deep down, smothering it before it could even begin to breathe.

Quickly, she sprayed a small amount across her collarbones and at her wrists, rubbing them together. The scent lifted the warm air, permeating the room. The lightness of the perfume comforted her, it was like summer barbeques in the backyard at home, her Daddy on the porch, cooking up some burgers.

Shaking her head, Clarice placed the bottle back on her dresser, and grabbed her jacket. She was going out tonight with Ardelia to enjoy herself, to have one night of relief after so much stress. Neither her father nor Dr Lecter would ruin her night for her.


Dr Lecter receeded into his memory palace, enjoying the memory of music. Lying on his back, he summoned Dante's La Vita Nuova set to haunting and romantic music, the stunning piece in perfect pitch in his mind. Eyes closed, his fingers traced the notes in the air, flicking his six-fingered hand in perfect time to the music in his mind.

Unbidden, an image of Clarice Starling, in green silk, sat beside him as they both enjoyed Beatrice's solo came to the front of his mind, startling him enough to open his eyes. Irked, Lecter shut his eyes forcefully and attempted to push it away, file it somewhere else so he could enjoy his private performance. Still the image persisted, details being filled in like a lovesick teenager's wet dreams.

He watched as Clarice's eyes shone, and the silk of her gown gleamed in the candlelight. He saw his own suit darken to pitch-black, felt the tie around his neck. Suddenly, Clarice looked at him as the crescendo soared onstage, and the way she looked at him... it took his breath away.

It was a look of love and admiration, of understanding and support. And he felt his own mouth smile back at her, and lean towards her ear. His breath disturbed the errant hairs of her sophisticated chignon as he whispered:

"Are you enjoying yourself, my dear?" Clarice's mouth quirked, not quite a smile, more a smirk. She turned her head the smallest degree, so that his mouth barely brushed her cheek.

"Yes, Hannibal," she answered coyly (when had he granted her permission to call him by his first name?), "very much so." Lecter caught her scent, her essence and heat leaking into the air around them.

"I'm glad," he felt himself smile back, "Beatrice reminds me of you." Clarice turned to him, eyebrows raised, surprised but flattered. Without a word, her slim hand moved across the armrest, and she curled her manicured fingers around his hand. He looked down at their joined hands, and noticed a silver band glittering on her ring finger.

Bursting from the dream, Lecter felt his heart beating slightly above his signature 85 beats per minute, and quickly regained control. It was nothing, simply a little childish daydream.

Finally his heart began to beat a little slower, as he composed himself. Carefully, he thought of the dream again, and began to analyse its rather troubling content.

So he was free, at the Opera, enjoying one of his favourite pieces of music, with a beautiful woman. An unattainable woman, in fact. Not to even mention that he had placed her in the role of wife in his little daydream. What exactly did this say of his feelings towards Agent Starling? Was he that enamoured of her, to cast her as his partner?

Did he have a crush on her?

What a laughable thought. He was a grown man, old enough to be Agent Starling's father, really. But Clarice did seem to prefer older men, didn't she? Chasing after her dead father, he presumed. He did not have crushes, nor did he let them dominate his memory palace. It was his inner sanctum, for escaping the mundanity of maximum-security captivity.

He would not allow Clarice Starling to worm her way into his mind.


Many of you will complain about the length, I'm sure, but I am the author. This is necessary for continuation, so review with your thoughts on what will happen next, if you so desire.