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Non est ad astra mollis e terris via-- There is no easy way from the earth to the stars
Hannibal entered the library to find a fire crackling in the hearth, and Clarice sitting on the floor before it with a book. Several of his books had been drawn from the shelves and stacked on the small table between the chairs. A furtive glance revealed her selection to be books of poetry interspersed with some medical texts, some inscribed "Peretta Peronne," and one entirely handwritten, more like a manuscript than a book, entitled Passionibus Mulierum Curandorum, filled with meticulous drawings of female genitalia. This last volume she now perused.
"Is this Latin?" she asked.
"It is," he replied, as he balanced the tray against the table while moving some books aside.
"I wish I knew Latin. Is this Italian?" she asked, holding up another book. The Giamboni translation of the Brunetto Latini work contained some rather indecent doodles in the margins, and Lecter considered removing it from her grasp.
"Your breakfast grows cold."
"I wish I knew Italian."
"It was written in the thirteenth century. The language has changed somewhat since then," he said with a small smile.
"But you can read it?" she urged.
A pause. "Yes, Clarice, I can read it."
A silence. "Will you teach me?"
More silence. "What is it, precisely, you wish to learn, Clarice?"
She found an honest answer: "The things you know."
He regarded her a moment, the firelight touching her hair in golden shimmers, the shadows deepening the hollows that cradled the curves of her.
She was real. Here. Not a dream, not a fantasy, and not a watered-down version of Clarice Starling. Here, before him, was the woman who had been in his thoughts for a decade, and she proposed to be with him long enough to learn Latin—and an archaic Italian vernacular.
He looked carefully for the lie hidden in her demeanor, but could discern none. He sensed hesitancy, but not dishonesty. Here she offered something for which he had never allowed himself to hope—but why?
It was disbelief that tainted his faith in his own perceptions, and Clarice saw it. Instinctively, she knew this was the balance she must strike between them, not just for a time, but for always.
He must trust her, but never completely. There must always be that morsel of doubt, for if he knew her heart was wholly his, tedium would set in—and he would require entertainment anew. But there must never be tangible evidence that he should mistrust her. Nothing should ever be done to make him feel threatened.
"Clarice—"
"—I think this guy is confused. He labeled her neck 'cervix'!" Make him smile, make him laugh. Make him need to laugh.
He approached to peruse the indicated drawing, and then settled back into a chair with a smile, saying: "Indeed. However, the author was a woman. Do you recall ever learning of Trotula of Salerno? She was quite a famous physician in her time, considerably accomplished."
"Tell me," Clarice implored, moving to sit by his chair. As he extolled the virtues of the long dead woman, Clarice made note of the qualities he admired—her excellence, intelligence, and the controversy surrounding her work—even while she strove to make him aware of her presence, draped against his leg, as if in supplication, clasped hands resting on his knee, chin on hands, eyes raised to his.
He ended his brief, yet concise lecture, and they were silent, food forgotten.
"So," Clarice murmured suggestively, "when is a cervix like a cervix?" Her hands moved sensuously up and down the length of his thighs, deeply massaging the flesh beneath her fingers and palms.
His lips parted, and Clarice felt a hunger to feel him in a way she had never felt a man. Except for their first moment beside another fire, their explorations up until this night had never included activity born of her initiative. Hours ago, she had sat astride him and felt a wonderful power, a newfound sensation to heighten her pleasure. Now, she wanted to watch him break.
"Well?" she entreated. "Do make an attempt at an answer."
He simply stared at her, and Clarice moved her hands higher, and slowly released the closure of his pants. She pulled the zipper down, an exotic and sensuous sound, and pulled the two ends of fabric apart, reaching in to release his growing erection from the silk confines. Taking him in one hand, she stroked his length languorously, fingers lightly brushing along the top of his steadily throbbing flesh, thumb stroking the underside of the tip with gentle pressure, softly demanding:
"When was the first time you imagined me doing this to you?"
