He informed her via note that tonight would be a special occasion. She was intrigued—she hadn't seen much of him today and wondered what plans were afoot. At half past five she entered her room to pick out what she thought might be fitting. No need, it turned out, for on the bed lay an exquisite cream silk gown and a jewelry box containing a cabochon-emerald pendant and matching earrings. The dress was nothing short of stunning—his taste unmatched. She smiled, knowing she would wear it well. While she had not slept in this room in many nights—she kept her belongings here, preferring to have a separate space to herself. She wouldn't need long to get ready, and opted for a long bath.
At seven-thirty, she descended the stairs to the sound of chamber music. She found her companion popping open a bottle of champagne, filling two glasses. His breath caught in his throat at the sight of her. The cut of the gown accentuated her décolleté marvelously; the silk hugged her curves as if it were a second skin. He'd had her just this morning and yet the hunger stirred within him. Holding his eyes, she spoke first.
"Good evening, Hannibal."
He smiled, reveling in the sound of his given name. "Clarice, you are a sight to behold." He handed her a glass of champagne.
"If I may ask—what is the occasion?"
He took a sip, crisp and refreshing. "A rite of passage."
She raised her eyebrows.
"Clarice, in coming to this house you cast aside your old life. You embarked on a journey of self-discovery and charted a new course." He brushed her cheek with this hand. "Soon we will leave this place and begin life anew, but first we must choose carefully what we take with us and what remains behind."
She was not sure she followed. If it was closure he meant, the theatrics weren't necessary. She did not dwell much on her past life. She would, however, be sad to leave this place, for she felt safe here—safe with him. To run meant freedom, but also uncertainty. Their life together would not be easy, she knew, but it would be a life worth living.
"May I propose a toast—" he said, raising his glass. "May we close our eyes to old ends, an open ourselves to new beginnings."
She raised her glass. "To new beginnings."
"I have a gift for you." He smiled, leading her into the living room.
Turning the corner, she found a large rectangular box concealed beneath a black cloth. She could've sworn she saw the box move and shot him a questioning look. Grinning from ear to ear, he stood in front and raised the cloth, revealing a metal grate. Dr. Lecter bent down and unlatched the door, opening it wide.
"Come on out, now, it's alright." He whistled, "Come on now," and patted his leg.
Starling stared—motionless—as none other than Paul Krendler crawled out of the cage on all fours and sat on the floor opposite Dr. Lecter. His feet flopped as he moved, in a way that was not natural. He was Paul, but he wasn't Paul—not exactly. His eyes were glazed and distant, and she noticed a thin scar encircling his forehead. And his hands… The fingers and thumb of each had been cut at the knuckle to make what could only be described as a grisly set of paws. But what she noticed first—staring at him seated, knees in the air—was that he had no genitals whatsoever. In their place, a raised pink scar, and around his neck—a bright yellow ribbon, tied neatly in a bow.
Her glass of champagne fell to the floor, shattering.
"You may be tempted to feel pity, Clarice, but understand that pity has no place here. I assure you he expended none on your behalf when he delivered you to Mason."
He turned to the dog. "Okiedokie, just like we practiced, hmm?"
"Up!"
The dog sat up on his knees, "paws" bent in the air.
"Good boy," Dr. Lecter said, mussing his hair in a perverse display of affection.
"Now sit."
Distracted, the dog looked at the woman with a sense of vague recognition and felt a twitch—a tingling sensation in the sore spot beneath his belly. A puzzled sadness overtook him, and he wished the feeling would go away.
"Paul," Dr. Lecter snapped his fingers, "sit."
Clarice watched, frozen, as the dog obeyed.
"Good boy." From his coat pocket, Dr. Lecter retrieved a small zip-loc baggy containing what appeared to be bits of dried jerky. The dog perked up in excitement, salivating and shaking.
"Would you like to feed him, Clarice?"
"Is that…" she swallowed, "what I think it is?"
He flashed her a terrifying grin. Opening the bag, he retrieved a few strips of 'jerky' and hand-fed them to the beast; she watching as he ate indiscriminately what fell to the floor. Dr. Lecter never took his eyes off Starling. One of the many qualities he admired was her ability to both respect a badge and shoot a hole right through one. She was a creature of action, and even he could not predict entirely what she might do.
She stood stationary for what felt like an eternity, eyeing the pathetic creature before her. Clearly Dr. Lecter was proud of his work—she could see it all over his face. She knew better than anyone what he was capable of, but knowing and seeing are two different things. In getting to know her companion over the last several weeks, she realized she had willfully closed her eyes to his darkness. No matter their shared domesticity—Hannibal Lecter would never stop being Hannibal Lecter, just as she could never stop being Clarice Starling. Without darkness there is no light, and in life there are no absolutes—only choices. Clarice swallowed hard, evaluating her next words carefully. Turning to her companion, she asked…
"Does he fetch?"