Ummmm. Fun, isn't it? At least I think so. I do hope you continue to enjoy the tale, dear ones.
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The house is dark and empty when she returns to it. Mischa is asleep in her arms and she pauses to drop the diaper bag next to the hall closet. Her husband is meeting with the directors board for the opera tonight, he had left a message on her cell's voice mail saying not to expect him home til late. She carries the sleeping baby upstairs and goes through the motions of preparing her for bed. Mischa stirs slightly, causing Emily to freeze and watch as her daughter settles back into sleep. The door is left cracked and the baby monitor turned on and set on the dresser. A soft light is emitted from the far corner where a butterfly nightlight burns. Slowly, Emily makes her way back downstairs. She dropped the profile off to Lissie just before five, and asked not to be contacted about the case again. She didn't tell them that she had been slated already as the next victim. She moves in the darkness, for the first time it seems she is fearing the light. The soft clink of crystal is sharp and clear in the silence as she takes a wine glass from the glass faced cabinet. Pausing briefly, she removes another, Hannibal might like some when he returned home. The bottle of Gewurztraminer is uncorked and she pours the pale liquid into her glass. She looks into the glass and sees her father, large hands carefully lifting a bottle from the racks in his small cellar. She takes the wine to the living room, settling into the couch and grabbing the remote for the fireplace. The glow of the fire is the only light in the room as she closes her eyes.
*****
He returns late, as he expected, and enters the house to find it unbearably warm. Silence, except for the quiet hiss of the flames in the gas fireplace. The fireplace had become Emily's solace when she was troubled, letting herself be overwhelmed by its warmth until her troubles and cares melted away like the last winter snows. He found her there, curled on the couch, eyes half closed as she held a glass in right hand. Her left is laid across her belly, fingers slightly curled. He walks to her and takes the glass from her hand, eyes meeting her and watching them. It has been a long time since he has stopped to admire his reflection in them. He does so now, lifting the wine to his lips, sipping the now warm golden liquid. Spice and roses, like his wife. She lifts the remote from the coffee table and shuts the fireplace off, plunging the room into darkness. She sits up and slides a little down the couch.
"Sit with me." and he does, easing his back into the warm corner previously occupied by her body. He carefully brings his legs up onto the couch, stretching them beside her. She leans back against him, head cradled against his shoulder. It has been much too long since they have relaxed in this manner. She takes the wine glass from him and sips from it, sighing as she does so. His left hand comes across her belly as he reaches to take her hand in his. She feels his surprise as he feels the knife. The closed blade is warm from being held against her, and he takes it from her, flicking it open with practiced ease. A Harpy.
"Emily…" he begins, but is caught without words. His wife never mentioned that she kept a knife in their home, and he knows that it is not his. He closes it and returns it to her lap, feeling the slim fingers take it back. "Why?"
Her head shifts against him. "Dr. Alexandra Fell. She's the one committing the murders." a sigh, heavy as she looks for the words she wants. "I've told the police. Gave them what they wanted."
Something else. He remembers the look on her face the morning after the first murder. He remembers her screaming last night, the details in her dream. There is something else she wants to say, but feels she cannot. Best to ask for it directly. Her reply is just as evasive, though. She considers the subject closed as she denies that there is something more bothering her. They lay like this for hours, unmoving as the heat slowly fades from the room. It is still warm as they head to the bedroom, Dr. Lecter pausing to look in on little Mischa as Emily continues on. She is curled under the sheets as he enters the room, her breathing that of a sleeping child. He changes quietly and joins her in the bed. She does not stir as he lays beside her. He is beginning to fear for his wife, wondering what she feels she has to hide form him.
*****
The cold damp of the basement clings to her skin, like an unwelcome fog. Shadows are chased from the corners by bright overhead lights. There is a sink in the near right corner, by the door and from this perspective one can see the room is set up resembling an operating theater, but with a few unusual additions. Sitting in the middle of the room is a stainless steel table, one similar to those found in morgues. A rolling tray stands next to it, surgical instruments glittering and clinking faintly as it is rolled to the wall. Along side the bed are the necessary life support machines and respirators. A heart monitor sits darkened on the table supporting the varying apparatuses. As for the unusual, a small square table is pushed into the far right corner, along with a single chair. The table is appointed with a fine china dinner service, complemented by crystal glasses and a single silver candlestick. Opposite the table, in the far left corner, is a hand truck, similar to that used to move large and heavy furniture and appliances. Next to that is a coat tree, with a stark white straightjacket hanging from the pegs. That is not the most disturbing feature, as the eyes are led to the item above the straightjacket. Slim metal bars reflect the bright light from the hole they cover. An opening for a mouth, protected so that the teeth behind the bars cannot bite the unwary. The half mask is tan in color, and she had paid a high price to purchase it from the estate of the late Mason Verger.
She takes a seat at the table, adjusting the steak knife so that it is perpendicular to the edge of the table. Her hand then smoothes a wrinkle from the linen tablecloth. Her eyes tear slightly as she looks up and across to the wall the opposite side of the table is pushed against. A photo stares back at her, face grim but eyes that once held a bit of laughter. No more. Her husband had been taken form her, and now she would exact her revenge on her husband's killer. A smile twists her lips as she looks away from the photograph and to the surgical table. Yes, her revenge will be extracted, by taking away the one he loves before his eyes. Bon apptito, Dottore.
*****