Hannibal Lecter would never dream of doing anything so crass or immature as lie to his wife. Lying about his activities might indicate some sense of guilt, if not remorse, could only be born of some sort of shame, and Hannibal felt neither shame, nor guilt, nor remorse for the murder of the Archbishop. In point of fact, he did not even think of it as murder; he had been, in essence, taking out the trash, helping to make sure that all would be neat, and right, when Mischa at long last returned to the world. He did not lie to Clarice, not about this, or anything else; if she had asked him, he would have given her the truth of it, every bit. As it was, however, Clarice did not pay much attention to the headlines - at breakfasttime it was always Hannibal who read the paper, and Clarice who watched him fondly while he did - and so she did not raise the subject of the bishop with him. Given her lack of interest, he did not speak on the matter. There was more work for him to do, and he rather thought it best that Clarice did not learn of his plot until he accomplished his ultimate goals. There was still time for things to go wrong, after all, and so long as he kept his own counsel, Clarice would be protected by her ignorance.

Provided, of course, that she did not ask him. Nearly a week had passed, since the murder of the bishop, and their lives had carried on without any interruption whatsoever. Hannibal had very nearly forgotten the matter of the bishop, so caught up was he in the plans for his next evening out, but fate was against him, and Clarice did not remain in ignorance indefinitely.

It was, of all people, the bloody Countess Dufrense who drew Clarice's attention to the sensational murder gripping the populace of Buenos Aires outside their comfortable manse.

It was a fine warm day, summer, in that part of the world, and La Bella and Dottore had gathered together a small group of friends - the Countess, Richard DeBurges, and a couple who styled themselves Lord and Lady Hartnell, though what they were Lord and Lady of remained unknown and a matter of much speculation - for a luncheon on the terrace. Such luncheons were more common than their celebrated dinner parties, for La Bella and Dottore did so enjoy company; the presence of others served to liven up the serenity of their daily life, and allowed them both an opportunity to play a delightful game of deception and risk, unbeknownst to the other players. If Lilibet or Richard or indeed the Hartnells had any notion of who they were dining with, what they might perhaps be dining on, their faces would have paled and they would have run screaming from the room, all memory of their delightful, hard-won acquaintance suddenly forgotten in favor of selfish, petty fear for their own pitiful lives. As if any of them were of significant consequence to tempt Hannibal into recidivism; the very thought was droll to him. No, their guests could not conceive the true nature of La Bella and Dottore, but the risk of discovery remained, always, a delicious apéritif of adrenaline that always served to whet the Dottore's appetite for the meal, and for his wife, though she was a dessert best enjoyed in private.

On this particular occasion they were sipping cocktails on the terrace, picking at their picada, laid tastefully on a heavy wooden tray with smooth marble handles. If any of the guests noticed that La Bella was drinking fresh squeezed orange juice without a hint of liquor to color it, or that her lightweight dress was rather more loose-fitted than was her usual taste, they were too polite to comment. Lilibet, however, was not too polite to bring up the matter of murder over plates of cheese and olives.

"Isn't it just awful," she said, sighing in a graceless imitation of distress, "about that poor bishop?"

The Hartnells hummed in agreement, and Richard barked out a laugh, while the Dottore himself only went very still, listening closely. The game was, once more, afoot.

"Poor bishop, indeed," Richard scoffed. "The orphans of Buenos Aires are sleeping more easily now than they have ever done before."

"What about the bishop?" La Bella asked, curious and not at all chagrined at finding herself out of the loop, as it were. It was not her custom to concern herself with the goings on of the high and mighty in their fine city, and her guests took great pleasure in sharing the latest gossip with her.

"Oh, haven't you heard?" the Countess crowed. "It's just awful. The Archbishop was murdered after a mass last week."

"Valentine's Day, it was," Lord Hartnell volunteered. He spoke in a pale imitation of a posh British accent that was not sufficient to cover the Irish brogue which slipped and slid past his teeth on each of his vowels.

"How terrible," La Bella said, and though her tone and expression were sufficiently shocked, given the indecent nature of the information just revealed to her, her eyes were sparkling with a mirth her husband recognized well. Even she had heard the rumors about the Archbishop. "Was it a mugging?"

"I can't believe you haven't heard about this, the whole city's buzzing," Richard told her. As he spoke he lit a cigarette, and his hostess wrinkled her nose in disgust. She had never much cared for the smell of cigarette smoke, but of late it had begun to turn her stomach.

"Richard, if you please," Dottore said to him quietly, and Richard stubbed out the cigarette at once, respectful of his host.

"Killed in the cathedral," Richard explained. "His driver called the police when he didn't turn up after mass, and they tore the cathedral apart before they found him. Naked, lashed to a crucifix they use for the Passion at Easter in some dingy back cupboard. Upside down, I heard."

"That sends a message, doesn't it?" Lord Hartnell said.

"It does indeed," La Bella agreed, but she was not looking at Lord Hartnell; she was looking at Hannibal, and in her eyes he saw that she had, already, begun to suspect him. That wounded him somewhat. Of course, he was responsible for the death of the Archbishop, and would not deny it if she asked him for the truth, but that she had, with so little information, immediately come to the conclusion that he might be responsible, despite the fact that he had assured her he intended to keep his nose clean, as it were, spoke of a certain degree of mistrust he had not previously thought she possessed with regard to him. Then again, she was a clever sort, and no doubt recalled that it was Valentine's night when he had been so conspicuously absent from their bed, and that, combined with the theatricality of the murder, ought to have been more than enough to rouse the clever, investigative mind of any former FBI agent.

"I heard he was flayed," Lilibet said, with some relish. Dottore laughed, just a little; ostensibly at her apparent glee, but in actuality because he knew nothing of the sort had been done to the Archbishop. It was a fine idea, but there simply had not been enough time.

"I heard he had his - forgive me, La Bella - his manhood cut off, and stuffed down his throat," Richard said.

"I heard his heart was ripped out. And his lung," this from Lady Hartnell.

"Goodness," La Bella said evenly. "Someone must have been very angry with the bishop, to do something like that."

"Perhaps it was not anger," Dottore suggested. All eyes turned his way, and he smiled at them indulgently as he sipped at his drink. Every now and then, it was quite nice to be the center of attention, and tension crackled deliciously down his spine. This game was even more fun than their usual back and forth, he thought, for this time he was playing against Clarice, as well, rather than with her. She had her suspicions, and would be looking to him to confirm them. How much dare he say? Should he find the words to reveal the truth to Clarice, without divulging the intimate details that might give rise to suspicion in their guests? Should he instead continue to hedge, offering her sufficient reason to doubt her own doubts, to question the conclusions her own mind had drawn? How far might he be permitted to go, just now?

In the end he chose marital harmony over the momentary fun of toying with Clarice further. He respected her too much to torment her, particularly now, when she carried such a delicate burden, and could so easily walk away from him, taking that which had become most precious to him with her.

"Perhaps the murderer was not an angry, violent killer but more a judge and jury. The crimes of the Archbishop are well known, but he had not previously been called to answer for them. Perhaps this is no more than a just punishment. Lashed to the cross upside down, as punishment for his betrayal of his faith. His member removed, for it was the piece of him that had done the most damage. Forced down his throat, so that he might understand the plight of his victims."

"Why the flaying, then?" Richard asked, eagerly, while La Bella watched her husband, hardly moving. To their guests she did not appear in any way disturbed or distressed by her husband's supposition, but Hannibal knew her well, and in her eyes he saw the truth. She had heard him; she understood.

"And the removal of the organs?" Richard pressed, while still Hannibal's eyes lingered on his wife.

"Even the most resolute of judges may fall victim to his own flights of fancy," Hannibal said. "Perhaps he simply wanted to take them."

The luncheon lasted well into the afternoon; La Bella and Dottore were gracious, as ever, their conversation much enjoyed by the guests, and the host and hostess saw their friends to the door, waved them off with handshakes and cheek kisses and promises to meet up again soon. The moment the door closed behind them, however, all trace of genial hospitality left La Bella's face. She was La Bella no more; Hannibal saw it happen, watched the change in her posture and expression as Clarice, trembling with barely suppressed rage, came swimming back to the surface. He thought, for a moment, that she meant to have it out with him right then and there, but the servants will still underfoot, clearing away the last of their meal, and she did nothing of the sort. Instead she turned on her heel and marched toward the stairs.

Hannibal rubbed at his temple for a moment, thinking. The matter must be addressed; he could not leave her to simmer in her rage, could not risk her deciding that a life without him was preferable to the risk he presented to her freedom. Perhaps he had been foolish, to keep this thing from her. Foolishness was not in his nature, but he could allow that at times he could be blinded by his own ambitions. It seemed this was one of those times.

So he took off after her, and found her in their bedroom. Already she had slipped out of her dress, tossed it negligently aside. Her hands were busy with her earrings, removing them and flinging them down upon her dressing table while she paced, agitatedly, in just her underthings. As important as it was that they speak to one another Hannibal could not help but spare a moment for the beauty of her, the swells of her breasts straining against the black lace of her bra, the slight curve of her belly above the matching black lace of her knickers, the paleness of her skin, the artful tumble of her dark curls, the fire of her eyes. What a magnificent creature she was, especially now, when her ire was up and she was spoiling for a fight.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" she demanded as he slipped into the room and closed the door behind him. For all the hard work the Lutherans had done in civilizing her the West Virginia came out of her when she was cross, and now was no exception.

"You promised me-"

"I made no such promise," Hannibal said mildly.

Clarice whirled round to face him, the color high in her cheeks.

"You told me our life here was too important for you to risk it on...distractions," she said, pronouncing that last word distastefully. It made for an apt euphemism, Hannibal thought. The Archbishop had been no more than a distraction, and now that he had been dealt with Hannibal could focus on the matter at hand.

"And you go and do this now?" she added viciously, as if he needed reminding of her delicate condition, and the delicate predicament they found themselves in.

"It had to be now," Hannibal countered, and as he spoke he crossed the room, caught her elbow in his arm, trying to draw her close. Clarice was having none of it, and wrenched herself from his grip. Somehow, impossibly, she was even more beautiful up close, her chest heaving, and he found himself wondering whether, beneath her anger, a part of her recognized her vulnerability. A small, pregnant woman, all but naked, alone with a known killer, a killer whose work she had surveyed with her own two eyes. With teeth and hands he could have rent her to pieces, then, and consumed her, for he had desired, always, to carry a piece of Clarice within his flesh. Could have, but never would have done; they had come too far together, and he treasured her life too greatly to risk it even for that most exquisite sacrilege.

"What sort of world will our child know?" he asked her, with some heat, leaning in close enough for her to feel the wash of his breath against her cheek. "What life will we bequeath to her? One of wretchedness, and horror? You want her safe, and so do I."

"The Archbishop -"

"Was of no consequence so long as we both live," Hannibal allowed. "But life is chaos. I intend to be prepared for all eventualities. And now, no matter what becomes of us, he will pose no threat to her."

For a moment Clarice studied him, her eyes wide and seeking, searching his face for some sign of deception. She would find none, he knew, for he had told her the truth. But would the truth reassure her, or cause her to flee? How much damage had he caused, in revealing his motives to her?

"You can't kill every pedophile priest in the world, Hannibal," she said to him, softly, and he knew then that he had won. She understood him, and she would not make him suffer for this crime.

"I've made a start," he told her, eyes gleaming.

And then, before she could protest, before she could question him further, before she could attempt to draw from his lips a promise that he was not willing to make, Hannibal reached for her. His hands found her hips, tugged her hard against him; she stumbled, lost her balance, and fell into his chest, and as she did his lips descended upon hers in a frenzied, needful kiss. The moment's hesitation before she opened her mouth to him tasted of fear and doubt, and he drank it in like wine, drunk on his power and her capitulation. Only for a moment, though, for in the next breath she had recovered herself, and returned his kiss with a vengeance, her teeth catching against his lips as her fingernails raked sharply down the tender skin at the nape of his neck. In a whirl of flesh and heated groans they fell together, clawing at one another until they were bare, and joined, and gasping, rocking together, two hearts winding in and around one another until there was no telling one from the other.