Clarice woke with a start. The dream wore heavily on her and she slowly readjusted to the present. Here on the sofa in the drawing room, she had laid down for a moment after a long day of cleaning. She quickly noticed her left hand was missing the ring, but then remembered removing it before she started the day's chores. The dream left a bittersweet taste. The ceremony had been so beautiful, if not wholly legal. The marriage license could never be filed in any municipality due to the inherent danger in having those two names linked. But it was kept in the safe, real to the two parties involved.

The lengthening shadows revealed she had slept much longer than she had intended. It was late and she had to prepare his evening meal. In the kitchen she heated up some soup to be served with homemade bread and wild rice. He would hate it, but he was having so much trouble keeping anything down these days. As the soup simmered she went down to the wine cellar and retrieved a fine merlot. She uncorked it and left it to breathe. No reason he shouldn't have a little luxury. She gathered the good linen napkins, china, fine silverware, and a crystal goblet onto a sterling silver serving tray. She ladled the soup into a bowl and put the rice on a plate with the bread, fresh baked that morning. Finally she poured the goblet half full and added a small vase with a bud from the rose garden. Everything perfect, she walked out of the kitchen through the fine dining room and up the large staircase.

The double doors to the master bedroom were not latched so all she had to do was nudge one with her foot to enter. With the drapes drawn the room was gray with shadows. The large bed in the far corner seemed very still in spite of the form that lay on it, propped up on pillows as if he fell asleep while reading. The silence was deafening to Clarice and she rushed to the bedside, laying the tray down on a table. She sat on the bed and placed her hand on the figure's face. Cool and moist, but most certainly still alive, as evidenced by the slow rise and fall of the chest. But the breathing was shallow and labored.

After taking a deep breath she turned on the bedside light and shook the sleeping figure, saying, "Darling, wake up. It's time for your supper."

Hannibal Lecter opened his eyes and at first seemed incoherent, glancing around desperately before his eyes fell on her face. Then he closed his eyes slowly and deliberately, opening them again with a smile on his face and looked once again as he had for the last eight years. "Good evening, Clarice. What scrumptious wonders have you brought to torture me with tonight, I wonder?"

"Soup. Rice. And bread. And you will attempt to eat it all." She finished as he grimaced. She laid the napkin on his chest and brought the bowl over, beginning to spoon it for him, when he held her hand.

"I am not a child, nor am I an invalid. Yet." He took the spoon from her hand, but allowed her to hold the bowl for him. While watching him eat she was struck at just how old he had gotten in such a short time. At no time during their marriage had the significant difference in their ages been a burden, or even an issue. But now he looked every day of his 73 years and it almost broke her heart. When he had finished most of the soup she handed him the goblet and enjoyed watching him savor the aroma and drink it as if it were of the gods. "Excellent choice, My Dear. Now I suppose I'll have to try that soggy rice of yours." He had a few bites, but it was difficult for him to swallow. She was cleaning up the dishes when he said, "Come over here and lay with me for a while, please."

She smiled and went to the other side of the large bed and crawled over on top of the coverings toward him. She settled in the crook of his arm while he stroked her hair absently. "You are still very angry with me, Clarice." It was a statement, not a question.

"Not anymore. I don't think I feel anything anymore."

He chuckled. "Come now, that was a false statement wasn't it?"

"I guess."

"No, don't guess. What are you feeling right this moment?"

"I'm scared as hell."

"So am I. So am I. Do you know why?"

"You're afraid to die?"

"Hardly. I'm afraid to leave you." She rose up to look at his face and he looked back at her. "I'd be a fool to worry about your safety. You are perhaps the second most deadly person I know. But I worry about how you will take my going. Will you feel cheated? Will you feel abandoned? Will it be like your father's death all over again?" She closed her eyes and buried her face in his chest. She didn't like crying in his presence, especially over this. It was weak. "Clarice? Look at me." She obeyed, the tears shiny on her cheeks but her face otherwise composed. "You will be fine. You are stronger than anyone else gives you credit for. Don't let your pain rule you."

"But what will I be without you?" she asked in a whisper that she didn't recognize as her own voice. For the last eight years she had been at his side, student, lover, wife, mother, and now nurse. With the FBI and her past life totally and irrevocably discarded, she had no idea what to do.

"You will simply be the person I know you are. What you do is irrelevant. I am not the yardstick of your life, I simply changed your path." She nodded her understanding. "There is one more thing I want you to know. Now listen carefully because this is terribly important. Never doubt my feelings for you. When I die, and we both know that is inevitable, you may be tempted to re-enter life as yourself. That is fine. The authorities will surely not give any serious thought to apprehending you now. But they may question you about me, and they may question my motives, say that I was toying with you and that you amused me. Perhaps to force you to confess certain secrets or whatnot. But the point, My Dear, is that I love you and you must always remember that."

"I thought you didn't believe in love, that it was an insincere sentiment."

He laughed outright. "Perhaps, but it's the closest I can come to explaining to you that you should never doubt my intentions."

She smiled and said, "I never would." Then she kissed his check and lay back down.

"Where is your ring?" he asked after a while.

"I took it off this morning before cleaning the oven," she replied.

"It's been rather hard on you since we dismissed the help hasn't it?"

"I don't mind. It keeps me busy."

"Do you have any regrets, Clarice?"

"Regrets…?"

"You know, don't you ever wish you had chosen the lady instead of the tiger?"

"You've gotten it backwards. Besides, where else would I have learned how to distinguish between a fine Botticelli and a cheap imitation? Every girl needs to know that."

He didn't answer. In moments his even breathing told her he had gone back to sleep. She closed her eyes enjoying having him close and thought back. This last month had been difficult, but the worst moment had come five months prior.

They were getting ready for a reception at a nearby museum, hosting a touring collection of paintings. Hannibal had been very interested in getting a close look at a rare Degas. She was still in the master bedroom putting the finishing touches on her hair when she heard the thud. She immediately went to investigate and found him in a heap at the bottom of the stairs.

"Oh my God, Hannibal, are you alright?" She helped him to his feet.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine. Nothing broken."

"What the hell happened?" she demanded.

"Is the vulgarity necessary Clarice?" he asked testily. "I was coming down the stairs when I became lightheaded and lost my footing. Nothing to worry about."

"That's what you've been saying about those horrible headaches you've been getting the last few weeks. Well I AM worried, and you are going to the doctor's first thing tomorrow."

He smiled at her and said, "Of course, if that's what you want. But tonight, we still have plans, and a rather long drive ahead. Shall we?" He offered her his arm and she reluctantly accepted as he led her out to the car.

The following day, sitting in the doctor's office, their future was told in the shadows and light of the MRI film on the light box behind the desk.

"Quite frankly, Dr. Herchshire, with the mass of this tumor I would find it hard to believe you have been having symptoms for only…"

"Eighteen months," Lecter responded. Clarice was speechless.

"Well," the doctor cleared his throat and tried to continue, "If you had come in even nine months ago we could have discussed treatments and surgery, but now it's completely embedded in your parietal lobe and removal is impossible. Plus I believe it has started metastasizing, but we'll need more tests. Honestly, I would be generous to give you even six months to live. I'm sorry."

"No need to be. We just came to put my wife's fears at ease. Thank you for you for your help. Darling let's go." He stood and waited for her, but all she could do was stare mutely forward. He placed is hand on her shoulder and squeezed, saying, "We need to leave now." She blinked and started to rise. She followed him out of the office, mumbling farewell to the doctor.

"But Dr. Herchshire, we need to discuss you plan of treatment, pain management and all that."

"No need. Thanks again." He waved as he escorted his wife out.

The ride home was thick with silence. Lecter drove while Clarice stared blankly out the window. He did not try to engage her in conversation.

They entered the home through the garage and she went straight to the bar in the drawing room to pour herself a drink. One very large Scotch straight.

"Don't you think it's a little early for that, My Dear?" he inquired dryly as he entered the room.

"Oh, no," she replied with an airy wave of her hand. "I think it's actually about nine fucking months too LATE!" she finished while shouting at the top of her voice.

"There is no need to let this degenerate into a brawl. We can discuss this civilly."

"Civilly? You self-important bastard! When WERE you going to tell me? You knew for over a YEAR that you had this, this disease in you and you kept it from me? Why? Why wouldn't you seek help? You could have gotten it taken out for God's sake! And now you are going to DIE!" She slammed her tumbler on the bar so hard it shattered in her hand. She looked down and saw blood from the shards of glass imbedded into her flesh but was too numb to feel it. The blood just dripped onto the mahogany surface.

He came around to join her and took her hand in his own. Gently he removed the glass then rinsed the wounds. He took a towel and wrapped it around as a makeshift bandage. "These will require stitches."

"Well," she said quietly, not meeting his eyes. "I don't think I'll do anything about that. I'll just let myself bleed to death."

"When did you become a self-pitying bitch?" he asked in a deceptively calm voice.

That caused her to look at him. "Self-pity? Is that what you think this is? You're the fool who's just thrown his life away. I'm just your goddamn wife who'll have to pick up the pieces afterwards."

"Clarice, listen to me. Do you really think I would check myself into a hospital and allow some second-rate hack muck around in my brain? How safe do you think I'd be? What would you do, stand guard outside the OR with weapons drawn? And if someone did recognize me and call in the authorities, then what? Or maybe they wouldn't even do that. Just a snip here and there, and I'd be gone on the table. I haven't lived this long by putting myself at risks like that."

"But you had your finger removed and the plastic surgery…?"

"All with local anesthetic. I was completely in control of those situations."

She turned away from him, the anger dissipated, but the hurt remained. "Please just leave me alone for awhile." She walked to the large window facing the maple trees in the back lawn and sat down in the large chair facing it. He liked to sit there and read for hours on end and it held his scent. She curled her legs under her and cradled her injured hand as it began to throb.

"Fine. When you find yourself ready to carry on please join me in the study. We have matters to discuss. But I warn you, Clarice. I will not indulge this for very long." He turned and strode out of the room.

Six months, she thought to herself. He'll be gone before Christmas.

Two hours later…..

Clarice wandered into the study and found him at his desk sorting through papers. He smiled up at her as she entered. "Well, My Dear, are we feeling better."

She simply glared at him and sat in the chair in front of the desk. "What matters do we have to discuss?"

"For quite sometime now I've been transferring all my holdings and assets into your name."

"Why?"

"Well simply, I don't think you could claim them in probate court could you?"

She closed her eyes. "You're planning for your," she stopped to swallow, "death?"

"Of course. One should always be prepared. All the papers are here, the passwords, which you should change immediately, the account codes. You will be well off."

"Fine. Anything else?"

"Well, there is the matter of dealing with the disposal of the body."

"Christ! I'm not going to do this now." She started to stand up.

"Sit down! You can and will do this now. I know you and your great need for honesty. You'll want to do the right thing. Tell them if you must, but don't put yourself in a position of danger. And I wish to be cremated. Take my ashes back to Lithuania. Remember that spot I showed you? Place them there."