Hello once again, dear ones. I think I am enjoying theses author's notes a little too much once again. First, for LadyOfTruths, this is not going to be a Petra/Lecter story. No romance involved between them, just a casual teacher/students friendship. Petra's mother's name has popped up in the previous tales, do we remember who she is dear ones? It will be important. Although, I do regret I won't be able to kill her like Francis Dolarhyde did Freddy Lounds. Pity. Anyhoo, we will continue…
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Come, dear one, lay your head against the door and listen. The tune is sad and heavy, seeming to speak of loss and mourning. It is played with a deep emotion, as if it really were the weight of mourning on the hands that touch the keys. Step into the room, quiet, for we wish to observe and not disturb. We watch the young woman bent over the keys, dark raven hair caught in the candlelight, showing hints of red. She plays without any music on the lyre shaped music rest. Her eyes are closed, her soul is free. A figure watches silently from the corner of the room, half in the shadows. His hand moves gently in the air, in time to the music. The notes she plays are familiar to him but he has never played them with so much of himself being poured into them. The final note hangs in the air for eternity as she lets her hands rest on the keyboard. Dr. Fell steps from the shadows, smiling at Petra. For now, we will take our leave. Come, dear one, before the good doctor sees us, for he finds unannounced visitors to be quite rude.
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Petra opens her eyes to the candlelight, still feeling the notes hanging in the air around her. The man she was playing for steps forward into the light, smiling at her. He lifts his hands to applaud quietly and she notes the fresh scar on his left hand. She files it away, and bows her head, graciously accepting his ovation. He stops next to the grand piano, his reflection in the polished black.
"The Goldberg Variations, am I correct?"
A pleased smile from Petra as she nods again. "Yes. Variation number twenty-five. My favorite outside the aria." She looks from him to the grandfather clock that stands in the corner. A shake of her head and she rises from the padded bench, looking about the room for her jacket and bag. "Way past my bedtime."
"Forgive me for keeping you out so late, Miss Morricone." he replies, holding a leather jacket out to her as she scoops the black bag from the floor. She smiles as he helps her into the jacket.
"Not at all, Dr. Fell. I had quite an extraordinary evening. Besides, the hotel doesn't care what time I turn in." she pauses while buttoning the jacket, looking up at him. "I'm not trying to seem rude or anything, but…" a deep breath as she quickly completes the sentence. "Is there any possible way I can see you again?"
Dr. Fell smiles, maroon eyes softening for a moment. "Of course. Tomorrow at the Uffizi museum? Say, after lunch?"
A quick grin as she heaves the bag's shoulder strap up. "That would be wonderful." she turns and heads for the door, with the doctor following a few steps behind. Always the gentleman, he sees her to the front door. She waves as she steps out into the Florence night. "Goodnight, Dr. Fell." she calls over his shoulder, seeing his right hand raised and waving as she trots down the street.
"Goodnight, Miss Morricone."
*****
The lamp sits on the floor next to the couch. The lamp's base is exactly eight inches from the foot of the couch. No more, no less. The desk is at a right angel to the couch and lamp, with its back being five inches from the wall. It is clean and neat, not a speck of dust mars the shining wood or the leather blotter. In fact, upon closer inspection, no dust mars any surface in the living room. Curled on the couch is a Sphinx cat, ears laid back and eyes closed, purring in its sleep. A tall man steps from the kitchen, hands large around the coffee mug he holds. He sits next to the cat, five inches from her tail to be precise. The coffee mug is relinquished to the table ten inches from his knees, placed on a coaster that rests three inches from the edge of the coffee table. He sits upright in his chair, looking across the room. Framed, above the desk, was a large print of a now destroyed watercolor painting. Take a closer look at it dear one, he won't mind. Do you recognize it?
He comes to stand beside us, fingers reaching up to trace the faces in the print. Ah, yes, you do recognize it, don't you? William Blake's The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed with the Sun. The original was eaten by the Tooth Fairy, Francis Dolarhyde himself. The tall man looks at the poster, past his reflection in the glass, studying it. We can see the strange yellow eyes reflected back to him. He has tried to see what Francis Dolarhyde saw in it, tried to become possessed by it like Francis had, but he cannot. He knows that if he could, it would bring him the order he needs in the chaos. He thinks back to the women. How neat they all were.
Yes, the women. His first step in Becoming. He will Become in order to get the order he knows he deserves. Order. Securing order from the deaths of those women, taking it from them and keeping it for himself. Anger is beginning to build in him, knowing that he is not yet close to the order he so dearly needs. Another one. Another sacrifice to the order that would come from the Red Dragon. Soon. He seizes the notebook that lies on the desk, centered on the leather blotter. He scrolls his finger down the list. Number five, there she is. He returns the notebook to the blotter, placing it once again in the exact center. He Collects his keys as he passes to the front door. The Sphinx eyes him form her corner of the couch.
"Don't wait up for me, darling." he calls as the door is tugged shut behind him. The Sphinx stretches lazily and closes her eyes. No doubt, she won't.
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