Chapter 7: high sun
She is left alone for long enough that she has time to really consider her decision to dine with Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Perhaps, she thinks wryly, she ought to have clarified whether or not she would be eating dinner, or be dinner.
Of course there was never really a choice but to politely accept the invitation, itself a poor disguise for a tightrope walk on a very slack line. But, she needs to be let out of the room if she is to truly have a chance of escaping. If this means wrestling with the terrible feeling that she is playing straight into Lecter's hands, then so be it.
She gets no further in her fractious musings before there is a knock on the door. That, she thinks, is new; before both Will and Hannibal have entered at will. Now, they must want to emphasise this shift in their relationships. Show her that she has been assigned a new level of agency, however much theatre it is.
"Come in," she calls regardless, and it's Will unlocking the door and stepping through. He's carrying a dress case draped over one arm. When he walks past her on his way to put it down on the chair she can smell snow on him. She can smell cold winds and fir needles and smoke. It clings to him, this smell of winter, clings to his messy hair and plaid shirt.
"You've been outside," she says to him, and it leaves her lips as an accusation, perhaps one far too churlishly delivered. There is, after all, nothing to suggest that her captors should remain indoors out of solidarity to her.
"Hannibal asked me to drop this off," Will answers, ignoring her observation. "He thought you might like something nice to wear for dinner."
"Are you his errand boy?" she asks, both in challenge and in an attempt to gauge the nature of his and Hannibal's...arrangement? Relationship?
Partnership?
The look Will gives her tells her that he knows precisely what it is she is doing. As usual.
"I'm not. But Hannibal is busy getting dinner together."
She looks at him, tries to figure out just how willing he is to indulge Hannibal's...proclivities, without asking outright.
"And how is Hannibal, ah...procuring dinner?"
Will receives her question steadily, solemn, but she sees humour in the corner of his eyes.
"He's hunting it."
As her sharp intake of breath he leisurely carries on:
"Saddle of venison, I believe he said."
She stares at him, disturbed. After a second or two she realises it's not immediately because of the possibility of eating human meat, but rather the perceived insinuation that Hannibal is hunting the creature.
Her companion. Familiar.
It's completely irrational of course, she knows it just as soon as the thought slowly rises up from her subconscious. She knows that the beast isn't even real, she knows that. And yet...
"I…could he actually…?"
As ever, Will reads her effortlessly, as if she's but a crudely drawn picture book meant for a young child.
"You think of the stag? It can't be hurt, Clarice. At least not in that way."
She wants to ask what he means, and why every bit of answer or reassurance he provides only births more questions and fear. But she bites down on it. It doesn't matter anyway. She will eat the dinner served tonight, regardless of whether it is man or beast laid out on Hannibal's no doubt expensive serving platters.
"I miss the outdoors," she says instead, spinning further on the curious habit building between them: that of picking up left-behind strands of conversation and holding them up to the light. Like nothing had come between. She steps a little closer to him, so that she can smell the metallic sharpness of winter again. "I am used to being outside. Used to running. Exercising."
Will nods.
"Perhaps sometime soon we can go out there," he says, and she can almost see all the conditions and chains attached to the offer. Worse, she can see herself agreeing to them, can almost hear herself agreeing to be good just as long as she is allowed fresh air.
"I'd like that," she nods, pleased with his agreement, but wondering why her triumph feels so soiled, and why she can't shake the feeling that Will Graham just played her more than she played him.
He heads for the door.
"Dinner at eight."
"Oh?" she says. "I'm afraid I'm left without a watch. Will you notify me some time before, so that I have time to do my toilette?"
There is a twitch by Will's mouth, like he can actually see the sarcastic quotation marks she puts around the word, and his eyes crinkle up just so in amusement. She looks at him, and once again is struck by the feeling that she could have really liked him had they met under normal circumstances. Perhaps at Quantico, working a case together. Perhaps in a bar somewhere, standing next to each other and just so happening to strike up conversation.
"I'll knock once so you know it's time to get dressed," is all he says, then leaves.
She's left with nothing to do but investigate Hannibal's offering, and so she unzips the dress case and pulls out the garment within.
It is a column dress, seemingly simple in its execution but a closer inspection reveals severe lines and exquisite tailoring. Long sleeves, high neckline and a low back The colour is a deep forest green, and while she doesn't have a mirror to confirm, she suspects the hue will complement her skin and offset her hair.
She never would have chosen such a dress for herself, and she is in absolutely no doubt that the fit will be perfect.
Something rattles at the bottom of the dress case, and when she reaches inside she comes out with a jewellery box in blue velvet. With some trepidation she flips it open.
It's a pendant attached to a wide, heavy neck ring. A large, highly polished stone - tiger's eye, she thinks, it's tiger's eye - is set into a disc of brushed, buttery gold. There are some small diamonds too, seemingly scattered at random into the gold around the stone, but she suspects their placement is anything but. This is clearly a very expensive piece, she can tell with the certainty of someone who has always dreamt of fine things.
She weighs it in her hand, slides her finger along the edges of the disc, briefly meditates on its use as a weapon. She disregards the notion as soon as it enters her head; Hannibal Lecter would have already foreseen any such thought on her part.
And anyway, her plan for tonight is to be both a model captive and a charming dinner guest.
She throws dress and neckpiece onto the bed, then frets away perhaps an hour or two, jogging in place, doing push-ups and sit-ups and stretches. Trying to expend some nervous energy, glorying in how her head is clearing as the drugs are leaving her system.
Then she takes a quick bath, interrupted by one sharp knock on the door, just as promised by Will.
She dresses, and thinks to look around for shoes. None have been provided, and she supposes she is not surprised. Hannibal Lecter doesn't strike her as a man prepared to leave anything to chance. That notion is further reinforced when she takes a couple of steps in the dress. The skirt of it is so restrictive over hips and thighs that she can walk only very carefully, steps measured and short.
Well, she thinks and brushes her hands down her front to smooth some wrinkles out of the dress, well. She will not escape into the snowy winter night in this ensemble, that much is certain. She has expected nothing less, of course.
She sits in the green chair in her green dress and watches the door, waiting for the announcement that dinner is served.
It is Hannibal coming to fetch her.
Her lips curl when she hears the doors being unlocked from the outside, followed by a polite knock. When nothing more happens she concludes that she is meant to open it herself. Theatre indeed, she thinks as she crosses the floor. She takes a deep breath, steadies herself best as she can, then she slowly opens the door.
She is not surprised to see Hannibal on the other side of the door. Dinner is, after all, at his instigation, not Will's.
She runs her eyes over him: he's dressed more formally than she's seen him thus far: a plaid three piece suit in what looks like cashmere. Charcoal and red. Blood red. Silk tie, silk pocket square, blinding white shirt and a look in his placid eyes that she is unwilling to identify.
"Good evening, Clarice," he says, inclining his head politely. "The dress suits you. You look wonderful."
His eyes slide down to her throat, and she feels curiously naked as she wonders if he can see how hard her pulse beats.
"As I had hoped," he says. "The tiger's eye pick up the colour of your own eyes, and the highlights of your hair."
With his words her hand goes up to tug at the neck ring, and with the movement she can see how his eyes darken. A collar, she realises, it's like a collar. God fucking…
"It's very beautiful," is all she says. "Thank you, Dr Lecter."
He only nods, then offers his arm. She takes it, and for the second time ever steps outside her room.
She's back in the hallway that she ran down just a couple of days is as barefoot now as then, but that is the only similarity.
It's fully lit up this time, wall sconces between each casement window casting a warm glow over the richly carpeted floor. Hannibal takes her in the opposite direction of that which she ran last time. Then, she sought out the back of the house, now she is being led towards the front.
"I can no longer smell confusion on you," he says, and she jerks underneath his hand.
"Confusion carries a scent?" she asks. "Or, do you mean the dissociative anaesthetic you fed me? Well. Its absence is your doing, is it not, Dr Lecter?"
She bites her lip in regret as soon as she's spoken the sharp little words, and wonders if she is already failing at her resolution to play nice. But Hannibal only chuckles a little next to her.
"Not at all," he says as they reach the mezzanine and then the split staircase, "- you yourself negotiated an end to the drugs. It was a fair deal. A good trade."
She thinks on his words and is compelled to agree. She doesn't like how much of herself she had to give up in order to reach an agreement, but the results are worth it. She will be so much more effective with a clear mind.
As she begins descending the stairs on Hannibal Lecter's arm she realises with some surprise that the butterflies in her stomach are not only there to fly in the name of her terror. They are also due to her excitement at finally seeing Will and Hannibal interact. What has passed between them, what is the nature of their relationship?
She knows only what they have separately told her; now she's got the chance to get a sense of the whole . Her precarious situation notwithstanding, this is...this is exciting.
Oh, they are not the only ones curious; she is too.
They are now down in the hall, quite enormous, flagstone floor chilling her naked feet. There are stained windows, and the ceiling is high, open all the way up to the sturdy old beams far above her. She marvels over how Hannibal has once again managed to land so well on his feet that his new bolthole can be so...grand. Although, she has to concede, it is not as palatial as his Florence residence.
As he leads her across she tries to take measure of the exit. Two large double doors, solid and, well, loud looking. But a house this size must have several other exits, she thinks; more inconspicuous ones.
Then she's distracted by having to enter the dining room again. She takes a deep breath as she steps over the threshold, the memories of what happened when she was last in this room so very vivid and brash. Despite herself she glances out of the large window
It's empty out there. Just moonlight on snow. No stag.
Will is waiting for them over by a large fireplace that she hadn't even noticed when she was in here last. It's lit, a fire dancing merrily within. He is leaning against the mantle, a glass of red held loosely in his hand. He is not dressed as formally as Hannibal, but still appears to have made some effort. Dark pants, crisp white shirt open at the neck, hair swept back.
He greets them with a quick nod and no words, and his eyes, notes Clarice, are fastened on Hannibal's hand, which now is resting quite casually on her lower back. She can make no sense of Will's expression, the thoughts behind his clear forehead. Is that how this will be? she wonders. Is she to be used as a chess piece in an indecipherable game between the two men? No rules, no quarter?
But then, Will's eyes when he lifts them to meet Hannibal's are darkly amused, like he's seeing something that tickles him. Perhaps she is the object of this amusement, she thinks sourly. Perhaps Will finds the fact that she has so obviously already grown used to a serial killing cannibal's touch...funny? She herself would certainly think so, had the situation been reversed.
But it is not.
Will steps away from the fireplace and pulls out a chair for her once Hannibal has delivered her to the table. She inclines her head in thanks, and when she is seated she notices for the first time the tableau before her.
It is...preposterous. Vulgar.
Beautiful.
Gluts of gleaming fruits and vivid flowers are creating an ostentatious objet d'art of a centre piece. Hannibal - for it can only be Hannibal - has used a palette of dark reds and blues and purples. Pomegranates, orchids, grapes, calla lilies, plump figs, aubergines and monkshood, all arranged together in a way that aims for casually offhand, but that she can tell is anything but.
There are many candles, of course, and a tablecloth of liquid black silk. The air in here is heavy with dark blossoms and smoke and wine, perfumed and lethal.
She tries to relax.
"I must finish things up in the kitchen," says Hannibal with a hand on her shoulder. "Will, will you ensure our guest is refreshed?"
"Of course," replies Will as Hannibal leaves the room through a door at the back. "Wine?"
She hesitates, choosing between the benefits of a clear mind and some liquid courage. Decides.
"White, please."
Will fetches a bottle from a sleek cooler stand in silver at the head of the table. He carries it with a loose grip around the neck, and handles it rather indifferently as he pours her a glass. She gets a look at the label as he places the bottle down in front of her, not bothering to bring it back to the cooler. A Bâtard Montrachet. She smiles a little when she thinks that Hannibal would have treated the bottle much differently and with great respect of its vintage.
Will notices, looks at her as he sits down on the opposite side of the table from her.
"You know the wine?"
"Of course," she says clearly. "It was one of the items on my alert list when I was trying to track you two down." She takes a careful sip. The wine is, of course, exquisite. She can tell even with her untrained palate. "I was proud of that idea. I'm quite sad someone else had already thought of it."
Will smiles a little then.
"Ah, yes. Dr Bloom is quite brilliant, and very clever."
Clarice takes another, very small, sip as she contemplates the confirmation of her suspicion that Alana Bloom had been the one behind Mason Verger's successful strategy. There are questions about Verger's involvement, and Krendler's, that she would like answered, but she resolves to focus on Alana Bloom for now.
"Yes. I quite liked her when I spoke to her, although our conversation was brief. It would be a shame if something was to happen to her, wouldn't it?" she replies, not even trying to hide her insinuation, or her intent. Will had himself said that he was trying to get Hannibal to spare Alana. It can only benefit her to align herself with Will, work against Hannibal.
And protect the innocent in the process.
Will realises. Of course he does.
"Don't play, Clarice," he says slowly, looking right at her, so very calm and with eye contact so absolute that it is she who has to avert her gaze. "It could end badly." He smiles, and it's like a knife. "Besides which, it is you who currently possess the means to shield Alana, isn't it? Not me."
She frowns, spins the slender stem of the wine glass between her fingertips.
"What do you…"
"I'm not much for wine myself," Will interrupts quite purposefully. "I prefer beer, and whiskey. But Hannibal takes such pleasure in his collection of fine wines that I am loath to insist on alternatives." Will raises his glass at her. "Besides, he would never interfere with a great vintage. Beer, even whiskey…" He takes a sip. "- could be people."
Hannibal reappears before Clarice can find an answer to that. He is expertly balancing several plates, moving as smoothly as ever. A crisp linen towel is thrown over his shoulder, matching the white apron he must have put on out in the kitchen.
"Saddle of venison stuffed with prunes and brioche," he says formally and places a plate in front of her first, then Will. "With haricot verts amandine and soufflés en patates douce."
She looks down at the meal placed before her. As expected, it looks fantastic. Several-Michelin-stars fantastic. Meat pink and plump, still on the bone. Soufflé perfectly raised, the beans verdantly green. The dark jus artfully framing the various items. Scrumptious. Delicious. Mouth watering.
She really fucking hopes the meat is venison.
Hannibal raises one brow at the Bâtard Montrachet insolently warming on the table, picks it up and moves it back to the ice bucket. Then he removes the apron and the kitchen towel, fussily opens the crisp napkin by his place setting, and sits down.
He's at the head of the table, her and Will on either side of him.
Ah.
"Please," says Hannibal and picks up his silverware. "Tuck in. Bon appetit."
Will nods and starts eating, silent, his manner easy and relaxed. She wonders if it is often like this, that the two men eat and coexist in comfortable quietude.
Hannibal interrupts her reverie.
"We ought to discuss the parameters of your stay here," he says as he cuts into his meat.
"Of course" she says politely, and runs a finger around the rim of her wine glass. The fine crystal emits a soft humming noise, and she leans against the smoothness of the sound. It's nothing tangible, but she needs whatever equilibrium she can get.
What depressing ways of self-soothing she is developing, she thinks bleakly.
"You may leave your room during the day," says Hannibal as he carefully gathers a piece of meat, some soufflé and a lick of jus on his fork. "But you are allowed to move freely only on the second and the third floor."
She hadn't even realised there was a third floor.
"Down here," Hannibal continues, "- you may only come for meals and for conversations with me. Or if accompanied by either one of us."
Makes sense, she thinks. All the exits are down here. And the kitchen knives. The meat hooks.
"I understand," is all she says.
"And I must warn you, Clarice, that the consequences if you break these simple rules will be...unpalatable."
He looks quite friendly when he says it, but his eyes are blank and infernal, the shadows the candles cast seem to paint demonic shadows across his cheekbones. She believes him. Oh, does she believe him.
"Yes, Dr Lecter."
"Wonderful!" he says with quite some cheer, and brings the delicately assembled parcel of food to his mouth.
She begins eating too. The food is sensational, of course it's fucking sensational. It's all she can do not to groan as she chews, half starved as she is from her brief little hunger strike.
In order not to eat too fast she endeavours to make conversation.
"So tell me," she says demurely, "what became of the owner of this lovely house?" She leans forward and lowers her voice in a faux-confidential manner. "Did you stash them in the basement?"
Oh, she thinks. Perhaps she is still somewhat lightheaded, perhaps her tongue isn't yet quite her own.
Or perhaps it is too much her own.
Will's mouth twitches, like he might even laugh, but Hannibal is quite unmoved. He gives her the kind of look a teacher might give an unruly charge as he answers.
"I own this house. I have for many years, albeit under an assumed name. Early on I foresaw the need for an easily accessed, highly secluded..alternative address."
She is displeased with the "secluded" part, but she had of course suspected as much. She doesn't think Hannibal had lied to her when he told her they are in the middle of nowhere and that she wouldn't get very far if she attempted to run.
"You seem to have a few of them," she replies, remembering his house on the bluff. "Are we still in the States?"
"I believe you will have to earn the answer to that, Clarice."
"Of course, Dr. Lecter," she says and pops a bean into her mouth.
They finish the main meal, and Hannibal serves up dessert
("Canelés de Bordeaux with crème Chantilly. A favourite of mine")
with coffee. She might be clearer of head, but she is also completely exhausted, and she tunes out Will and Hannibal's conversation, too sleepy to analyse it. She suspects she will get more chances.
She hopes she will.
"A night cap in the drawing room?" suggests Hannibal as they have finished their dessert.
"I'd love to," she answers, eyes creasing too hard; too obvious. But Hannibal smiles a little, and Will gives a solemn nod.
On their way they pass a door, plain and inconspicuous. But she can hear insistent scratching and whimpering behind it, and she spins, looks at Will and Hannibal with a hand on her throat.
Will looks openly amused at her terror, her blatant supposition, and it is Hannibal moving to calm her.
"Will's dogs," he explains, voice sounding a tad dry. "They are kept in the mud room during meals. They are...somewhat uncouth."
"You managed to bring your dogs here?" she asks Will, rather dumbfounded at this feat.
"No. That would have been impossible," he says, and she sees genuine regret in the lines of his face. "These are some strays I found in… Well. Nearby."
The scratching continues behind the door, and now she can clearly hear that it is dogs whining and yipping. A mud room, Hannibal had said.
"Can I see them?" she asks, and the question is only partly a cover for something else.
She thinks that maybe they know what.
"Sure," says Will, and opens the door. The dogs come running out.
There are three of them, and their only common denominator is that they are, to a one, incredibly ugly. Shaggy and uneven, short-legged here, long-legged there, lolling tongues and droopy eyes, scraggly tails. Big and small, and Clarice can't even begin to guess what different breeds live in these creatures.
But they all tie themselves in knots to greet her, their entire bodies wagging along with their tails, all cheerful faces and genuine delight.
Without hesitation Clarice sits down on the floor, right among them, and despite the hint of a tick on Hannibal's face she allows them to climb on her and slobber all over her dress. She scratches ears and backs and buries her face in fur, treasures the warm bodies pressing against her. Until now she hadn't realised how much she had missed close contact, warmth. She's been feeling cold and isolated and terrified for so long that being surrounded by the unconditional warmth of these, ah, homely-looking mutts feels like something incredible, life affirming…
...necessary.
She happens to glance up at Will, and is struck by the look on his face. It is... calculating.
It bothers her, but she buries her face in the fur of the closest dog and resolves not to second guess,
She is so wrapped up in this fleeting moment of normalcy that she's almost forgotten the biggest reason she asked to meet the dogs. While cooing over the dogs she swiftly takes stock.
The mud room is bigger than her entire bedroom back home. It is tiled, and there are comfortable-looking dog baskets along one wall. There are food and water bowls, and, most importantly, a door. Next to the door hangs waxed coats, parkas, waders. On the floor rubber boots and hiking shoes and sneakers.
She feels sure Will comes in and out of here all the time. Maybe Hannibal too, but not as much. This is Will's thoroughfare.
She makes very sure they can't see her looking. Instead she concentrates on the dogs. Rubs their sides, their ears, allows them to lick her face. Giggle at their delight, and hers.
"Can I see them again?" she asks Will.
"Of course," he replies.
"It's late, Clarice, and I can see that you are tired," says Hannibal, and helps her to her feet. "Come. Let's skip the night cap and get you to bed instead."