Author's Note: All right, this chapter covers a portion of the film that flies in about ten minutes. The movie goes through the passing months between songs, and rather than insert a setting break every time a day or week or so on passes, I decided to leave it up to the readers to determine how far into the scheduled six months Dr. Lecter and Starling have progressed. Forgive me for any impending confusion.

Why can't the English teach their children how to speak?

Norwegians learn Norwegian; the Greeks have taught their Greek.

In France every Frenchman knows his language from "A" to "Zed"...

The French never care what they do, actually, as long as they pronounce in properly.

- Professor Henry Higgins


Chapter Six

Vowels were just the beginning.

Any thought or notion of time seemed irrelevant and was hardly kept, though Starling suspected that Dr. Lecter had his own records on how much progression was being made. She only knew what day it was when she asked; all blending into the same blur. Hours and seconds and minutes dissolved bit by bit into a never-ending pool of inconsequentiality.

He was the epitome of both sides to either extreme. On one hand, he was a harsh and controlling instructor who berated her for knowledge she did not possess that was, by his definition, 'commonplace.' However, he could be fair and understanding, and similarly, he rarely let her see those colors, as though he were saving them up for some festive occasion. In the end, Dr. Lecter was not so unlike a drill sergeant. Over and over, coinciding with blatant memorization and a good ear for catching the differences in one's intonation.

Today they were in the study, Barney at his usual perch: listening but trying not to. Dr. Lecter insisted that he stay for these exercises and avidly encouraged input or suggestions, even if he did not take them.

"Now, Clarice, repeat after me," he instructed, standing behind the sofa on which she was seated. "The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain."

Starling nodded, having heard it time and time before, rolling it in her mouth to try to find her ear. However, when her lips parted and words left her, they still sounded of West Virginia, rooted deeply into her system. "The raiene in Spaiene stays mainly in the plaiene."

"The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain."

"Didn't I just say that?"

"No, Clarice, you didn't just sigh that. You didn't even say that. Every night before you get into bed where you would conventionally say your prayers, I want you to say, 'The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain'...fifty times." He moved around where she could see him, his dancing eyes that seemed ever more condescending when he was scolding her or mimicking her accent. There was a part of this that was too much fun for him. "I know it's a habit you haven't exercised in some time, my dear, but do try to revive some of those pious strings, if only for the plain in Spain. Now, for your Latin. Recite present tense singular."

This she didn't have to think of too terribly much. Starling found that remembering her Latin root words was easier when applied to a small tune, and she often hummed it to herself during her downtime.

Either way, it had worked until he presented her with the more complex conjugations. Who knew there were so many ways to say 'I love' in Latin?

"Amo, amas, amat," she said flawlessly.

"Plural?"

"Amamus, amatis, amant."

"Very good." Dr. Lecter nodded his satisfaction. "Now for the imperfect."

This she had to consider. It wasn't as simple as setting it to a tune, though she was still trying to work one out. "Amabam…amabas…amabatis…" Pause. She bit her lip in thought. "Amabamus…amaba…bant?"

"No, no, no." He sighed and shook his head. "Amabam, amabas, amabat, amabamus, amabatis, amabant."

Starling scowled. "How the hell do you expect me to remember all these things?" she cried in minor retaliation. "You said we were going to keep it simple."

"I said that we would work on the various conjugations of 'amo.' I have remained faithful to that," Dr. Lecter argued softly, his own tonality needing no accent to deliver its enormity. "Pity I never mentioned how many there are."

Starling's eyes flared and she shook her head in firm disagreement. "You had me recite the present tense, and that was it. Now all this crap about the imperfect and the pluperfect and the future perfect…how much do you expect me to learn?"

"All of it. Ever last annunciation to match every last translation," he replied simply, which infuriated her all the more. Starling's fists balled and her nails dug into open palms so fiercely she would have pierced herself had he not he continued. "If you want to develop an ear for Spanish, start at the beginning. Clarice, you make this to be much more difficult than it truly is. I assure you, I will not ask you to personally translate Dante's Inferno. I'm very aware of how much time we have and have not set unrealistic objectives. You will know these conjugations backwards and forwards, upwards and downwards by the time I am through with you."

And she believed him. There was something in his eyes aside from the complacency of superiority that let her know his convictions were as solid as her own, and that he would not say something only for affect. His words were always put to actions.

The fine passage of time. Aside from Latin, Dr. Lecter was ardent that she know her French alphabet from A to Zed. While she still had yet to master her own vowels, now there were foreign letters to consider. He liked switching on her at random, sometimes in mid-recitation.

"Yes please. French! No, no. Remember, the French 'e' has an 'eu' sound. Try again. Very good. English! No, no, no. A. E. I. O. U. Again. French!"

When she was tired and couldn't go on, he demanded she give him a weather report for that plain down in Spain. When she felt her throat was raw and could barely speak above a whisper, he tested her Latin and wouldn't relinquish until every word was pronounced correctly. Night and day, day and night.

It was wearing on Barney and Mrs. Pearce as well. Often, they stayed up until Dr. Lecter decided that she had had enough for one day and allowed her rest. As he was traditionally one to prefer night to day, he suffered no exhaust in working her late into the evening.

There was still that accent to perfect.

The odd thing about her lessons remained consistent with the fact that in her youth, when asked, Starling could imitate a nearly perfect northern brogue. Now, though, now when she needed to put it to good use, her previously natural ear had abandoned her. She was left only instinctive roots which would have begun to annoy even her by now if she wasn't so offended at the insinuation that they should. Dr. Lecter's relentless teasing to correspond with the expected scold left her bitter, but eager enough to please that she tried again and again to get it right.

While she was still buried in vowels and Latin conjugations, the doctor thought it best to extend her lessons. He was nearly convinced that her tone and grammar were the only steppingstones besides the irreplaceable upbringing that separated their defined stations in society.

After they mastered the art that was the English language, Dr. Lecter had agreed to review the case that had dragged her into this hole in the first place and attempt to point out all the loops she missed. Starling thought it a bit presumptuous that he believed himself more insightful than those whom had been working on it for the better part of a year. The expertise of a psychiatrist had already been consulted, and he saw nothing more than had Jack Crawford and his merry band at Behavioral Science. However, if the doctor wanted a stab at it, fine by her. That was, after all, part of the arrangement.

Starling was beginning to agree with Barney. What possessed the man to think he could make it that good?

They could fuss over the details later. For now, there was an accent to wheedle out.

Several days later, Dr. Lecter's new tactic was announced—a xylophone, a tool he used in therapy. Though bewildered, Starling was grateful for the change in exercise. Anything was better than reciting those incessant vowels.

"Here, Clarice," he said demonstratively. "Listen closely." Then, methodically, he beat out a pattern of chimes, reminding her of a technique her English teachers used years ago to guide the students in the rhythm of iambic pentameter. "How kind of you to let me come," he declaimed to the tempo. "Repeat."

"How kind of you to let me come," Starling returned when he chimed again.

"No. Kind of you. Kind of you." She could hear what he was doing with his voice but couldn't repeat it for the life her. "How kind of you to let me come. Again."

"How kind of you to let me come."

Dr. Lecter shook his head with minimally exhibited irritation, as if he knew she had done it in the past and was regressing instead of leaping forward. "No, no. Kind of you. Kind of you. Similar to cup of tea. Kind of you. Cup of tea. Say cup of tea."

She flinched inwardly. "Cuppatea."

"No. Cup of tea."

This might have been amusing if it weren't so humiliating. Barney sat at a small table to the far right of the doctor's desk, pretending not to listen. She always knew when he felt sorry for her for he attempted to cut in with something trivial to divert her instructor and allow her a few minutes to collect her breath. "This is really good cake," he said, seemingly to himself but loud enough for everyone to hear. "I wonder where Mrs. Pearce gets it."

"First rate, of course," Dr. Lecter agreed. Though he was never successfully distracted, he used the insinuation to allow Starling a small—very small—break. "And those strawberry tarts are to die for."

"Mmm," Barney said, mouth full as he nodded. "Did you try the plaiene cake?"

All movement in the room froze. Barney paused awkwardly in mid-chew and glanced up apologetically.

Starling was having a hard time swallowing her chuckles. She knew what Dr. Lecter would see when he looked at her again, and furthermore noted that she could care less.

Finally, when the silence threatened to become awkward, he turned back to her, evidently deciding against comment. "Try it again."

A booming baritone from the other side of the room answered. "Did you try the—"

"Again, please, Clarice."

It was a futile request that she couldn't have performed in any circumstance. Still choking on muffled sniggers, all she could manage was, "Cuppatea."

Agitation flashed behind Dr. Lecter's eyes and her amusement dissolved. These brief instances of revealed temperament were not as amusing as they had once been. It was perhaps the first time that she wholly failed to take pleasure in the knowledge that his infallible patience was thinning. Despite Barney's humorous blunder, Starling was growing irritated herself. She felt she was reaching for something that she could see, arms outstretched and waiting, close but yet so very far away.

"I know you can hear the difference," he said a minute later, obviously registering her shared frustration. "Try this. Put your tongue forward until it squeezes on the top of your lower teeth. Good. Now, say cup."

"Cup."

"Say of."

"Of."

"Now say cup, cup, cup, cup, of, of, of, of."

"Cup, cup, cup, cup, of, of, of, of. Cup, cup, cup, cup, of, of, of, of. Cup, cup, cu—Of, of, of, of."

As this incantation continued, Barney looked up again, evidently having clinched control on his overactive accent. He frowned a bit but shrugged it off. Though these methods didn't seem orthodox, Starling knew that he trusted Dr. Lecter's guidance. "Do you want this strawberry tart, Dr. Lecter? Last one."

At the mention of an unclaimed snack, her stomach emitted a highly audible growl to which neither reacted. She didn't realize how hungry she had become, and though it was far from healthy, the mention of a sugary delight nearly made her mouth water.

"I don't believe so, thank you."

"Shame to waste it."

"Oh, it won't be wasted." Dr. Lecter paused thoughtfully. "I know someone who is immensely fond of strawberry tarts." Then, ever the hawk, he turned to her, eyes narrow with scrutiny. "Cup of tea, Clarice."

"Cup of tea."

"Amo, of the perfect sense."

"Amavi, amavisti, amavit, amavimus, amavitis, amaverunt."

He grinned wickedly and winked. "I notice your accent improves when you want something. Take a break, Clarice, and tend to that wailing stomach."

There were times when he surprised her with consideration and generosity, and other times when she wanted to claw his eyes out. His methods were thought provoking, if not a little strange. If she did something correctly, he encouraged her progression before noting that they still had a long way to go. Under normal circumstances, he was patient but strict with the numerous areas that needed improvement.

The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain.

The Beatles CDs that she snuck in the first day had long ago been confiscated, replaced with Bach, Beethoven, Mussorgsky, Mozart, all of which she had to learn to identify based on piece, style, and time period before he returned her preferred taste. On various outings to town, Starling was horribly tempted to purchase a Charlie Daniels record and play it full blast sometime late in evening to catch his reaction at authentic country. Unfortunately, she was under constant supervision when they left the manor—the alleged complex study of her behavioral changes since coming under his care. She very much doubted he would tolerate a glance through such a disagreeable section.

To Starling's surprise, she found some habits were reforming, reshaping. She had known uneducated southerners all her life, and for the first time, she found her mouth tugging to a frown when she heard someone speak a sentence that was nor grammatically correct. Such was both heartening and dispiriting. She had no desire to change, and she suspected it was not Dr. Lecter's motive to do so. Thus far, her lessons had suggested nothing but a better ear and sharpening tastes. After a few weeks sipping fine wine, she found she could no longer tolerate the taste of beer, nor the hard liquor Mapp kept in the house. This he let her sample for his own studies, and she was guaranteed a smile when her face contorted in disgust.

No matter how her manner improved, how ever much her posture perfected or vocabulary enhanced, enunciation and intonation were still holding her back. While Dr. Lecter never ceased his techniques, but it did not hamper him from throwing her new curves.

Today's was the most bizarre exercise she had yet endured.

"…Three, four, five, six marbles." Dr. Lecter sat back, glanced at her briefly, not reacting to the very obvious way her jaw could not close, instead holding up a small poetry book. "Now, I want you to read this, and I want you to pronounce every word just as if the marbles were not in your mouth." Fluently, he offered a demonstration, turning it to his own eyes though she knew he had it committed to memory. "How doth the little crocodile improve his shining tail. And pour the waters of the Nile, on every golden scale. How cheerfully he seems to grin, how neatly spreads his claws. And welcomes little fishes in, with gently smiling jaws." Finished, he looked up again and handed the book to her. "Every word, clear as a bell."

Starling's eyes bulged. "'ut—"

"Ah-ah," he scolded lightly, motioning to the work resting limply in her hands. "Read to me, Clarice."

Pitifully, she frowned and glanced to her lap, bringing the work to eye-level. "'his is i'oss'i'le, 'ust so you 'o."

"It is not impossible. Read to me."

"How doh' 'he lil roco'ile i'rove his shi'ing 'ail. An' 'our 'he wa'ers 'rom—" Miserably, her eyes wandered upward again. "I con! I con!"

"Dr. Lecter, are those pebbles really necessary?" Ever-loyal Barney, standing uncomfortably at the window, pretending to read a book, asked softly.

Sympathy was not a color the doctor wore, and should he, he concealed it very well. "If they were necessary for Demosthenes, they are necessary for Clarice Starling. Go on, Clarice."

"How doh' 'he lil roco'ile i'rove his shi'ing 'ail. An'—"

"Articulately, my dear. I can't understand a word you are saying." He spoke casually, leaning backward. "Again. 'How doth the little crocodile improve his shining tail. And pour the waters of the Nile, on every golden scale. How cheerfully he seems to grin, how neatly spreads his claws.' Just that much."

"Hey Doc, maybe that poem's too hard for her. Try something simpler."

Starling flushed angrily. "I' 'ot a 'ild, you—" But before she could complete the notion, she felt one of the stones squeeze passed the others and into her throat. Though it was small enough to refrain from choking, she lurched forward and spat the remaining five into her hands, coughing harshly.

"Is something the matter?"

She would have been angry if she had the strength. The size of the marbles had obviously been determined before placing them in her mouth, the patronizing amusement tainting his tone made her glow with fury. Starling knew he often found humor at the expense of others, but for whatever reason, it hurt still. "I swallowed one!" Unable to hold the marbles in her quivering her hands, she let them drop to the floor and did not look at them as they rolled under the table.

Not reacting, though his eyes were dancing, he reached for the jar on his desk and replied simply, "Oh, no matter. I have plenty more. Say 'aww.'" Furious but unable to do anything other than what he requested, Starling glared at him ineffectually for a few wasted seconds before obligatorily opening her mouth.

"One," he counted mercilessly, placing the first at her tongue, winking at her. "Two, three, four…"

What was it about him that made her believe this was worth it? The madness of it all? The humility, the degradation, the implication that everything she had based herself on these many years was flawed in some fashion or another. Was it for herself, for the promise of what he could teach her, or for the thrill of not knowing what he was going to do next? How his mood would be, if he would smile his kindness and offer her strawberry tarts or flash in mild irritation as she failed to pronounce the subjunctive form of the pluperfect translation for amo properly.

Still, after so much time working with her stubborn accent, Starling could tell her nerves were beginning to wear.

Morning noon and night, on and on. Recite your vowels! A. E. I. O. U.

Just you wait, Hannibal Lecter, just you wait.

Of course, there was the knowledge that progress, in some way or another, was being achieved. One day, she caught herself humming Night on Bald Mountain instead of Love, Love Me Do. She found herself reaching for the first time in many mornings for her slippers rather than her jogging shoes. (On occasion, she had snuck out early enough to indulge in a brief run. Though she doubted Dr. Lecter would object, there was no point chancing it). She no longer needed Mrs. Pearce's direction on selecting or applying her wardrobe. Her hair, which had always come naturally for her, usually rested at her shoulders. Now she experimented with various styles, all of which were relatively simple once she became accustomed to it.

Nights that her vowels weren't being drilled were spent reviewing her Latin like a restless teenager preparing for a final exam.

And there were further obstacles to come. Dr. Lecter promised to give her cooking lessons, though he didn't believe she and the kitchen got along very well. It was, he said, to assist her on those late nights, to coax her to the refrigerator rather than the phone book.

When she wasn't studying Latin, Starling heaved out the case file that had given her so much grief and carefully evaluated each worn page again and again.

Much to her astonished dismay, the doctor lived up to his word, one step at a time. It took less than a casual flipping through to arrive at a first conclusion. "He covets," Dr. Lecter said before returning the file to her. He would not elaborate or speak any more on the subject. "Say A."

That night, the speech lessons came finally to an end. Mrs. Pearce had left for the evening and the manor was quiet, dark. Barney was dozing in a proverbial dream-state in a chair beside the corner, muttering incoherencies. Starling took seat sleepily in front of the desk.

"The rain in Spain stays mainly on the plain," Dr. Lecter said slowly. Unlike his guests, he was alert and sharp, as though it were the middle of the afternoon. His brisk tone that suggested no hint of fatigue surged Starling with the temptation to leap at him, yet she couldn't scrape up the strength.

"I can't!" she snapped instead. "I can't! I'm so tired!"

Barney mumbled in his sleep. "Doc…it must be three in the morning. Can't you please be reasonable?"

"I am always reasonable," he argued, standing emphatically to prove his point. "Clarice, if I can carry on at this hour, so can you. You have spent enough evenings frequenting bars, haven't you?"

"Not in the recent!" Her voice would have sounded more forceful, but she yawned and settled back sleepily. "I'm so tired, Dr. Lecter. You're not going to get much from me when I can barely keep my eyes open."

He sighed and glanced downward, moving around the desk. "I know you are tired," he said, his voice low and sociable, as she best liked him. Slowly, he took the seat behind her, manipulating his most valuable weapon to all its deadly, deactivating venom. Toning himself just right, his voice was soothing, reasonable, and compassionate, ignoring all communal barriers. Dr. Lecter always knew when to use it, too, right when her irritation was unsurpassable only by the promise that things could always get worse. "I know your head aches. I know that your nerves are raw, and that many a day passes when you wish I would go mute if only to abstain from this repetition of those godawful vowels. But Clarice, picture what you are dealing with. Think of what you are attempting to overcome. The majesty and grandeur of the English language; it's the utmost tenure we possess. Not only to divide the classes, but also to defeat those stereotypes that have so long defined you, hurt you, made you to do this gracious, selfless thing. Not for your good, but for everyone whom has faced such prejudices. That is what you've set yourself out to conquer, Clarice. And conquer it you will." For an instant, the air between them crackled. Starling found herself lost in the incessant pinwheels of his ever mischievous eyes, those which had many different seasons, many different climates and temperatures. How was it that he was able to do that, say that, by using only simple manmade words? How was it that he could mold her in such a way that she would go from hating him with a passion to wanting to throw her arms around his neck in some fashion she had only seen but never experienced? It was a wicked, devilish technique.

Nevertheless, it worked. As much as she hated to admit it, it worked.

Regaining her breath, Starling nodded as best she could.

"Good," Dr. Lecter murmured, his own voice perhaps not as stable as it had been a minute before. She would have reveled in such knowledge if she had been more alert and not recovering, herself. "Now, try again."

Then his shielding warmth was gone, forced away as he stood and drew himself out of her eyesight. Starling concentrated, her breath catching. She knew he had moved behind her, most likely positioned at that window Barney found so interesting throughout the day. If the past couple months had taught her anything about the doctor's habits, it was that he preferred using sensory other than sight to intake and estimate the progress. Never before had she wanted to please him as she did now. To do well not for the sake of her fatigue, but for his approval. Her mind focused; exacting, retracting, going backward and forward to find her voice. That voice she had used time and time again in her youth.

And then she had it. A divine spark of recollection, tonality she knew she possessed. Starling lunged for it, grasped it and held it tightly, unwilling to let go. If she spoke it, she would have it forever.

"The..." she said slowly. "The rain...in Spain...stays mainly...in the plain."

If she hadn't been so sure she could make it, she would have guessed her ears had deceived her. Behind, she felt Dr. Lecter pause. A beat passed. "Again..."

Equally slow, Starling twisted in her seat to meet his eyes, holding firmly onto her voice. It was hers now and feared it would leave her against her better judgment. It did not. "The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain."

More movement. Barney stirred from his seat, wide awake now.

"She has it," the doctor muttered, voice scarcely containing his excitement. "She has it. Once more, Clarice. Where does it rain?"

Similar enthusiasm was building within her, a smile spread from ear to ear. The intonation sounded flawless to her, and natural, as though she had spoken nothing else all her life. She had to clamp down on the desire to leap up and dance. All previous exhaust dissolved, succumbing to success. "On the plain," she answered without one imperfection.

"And where is that soggy plain?"

"In Spain! The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain!" Starling could no longer contain herself. She sprang to her feet and began jumping up and down like a giddy schoolgirl. Perhaps it was the fatigue, but she suspected not.

"Not too fast, Clarice," Dr. Lecter warned, though his eyes were dancing with her. "We don't want to break into celebration prematurely. Amo, present tense."

"Amo, amas, amat, amamus, amatis, amant."

"Perfect tense."

"Amavi, amavisti, amavit, amavimus, amavitis, amaverunt."

"Imperfect."

"Amabam, amabas, amabat, amabamus, amabatis, amabant."

There was no immediate praise. She did not want or expect it, though his expression betrayed his pleasure. Barney stood stupefied in the corner, regarding her as though he had never seen her before.

Without speaking, Dr. Lecter moved to his xylophone and beat out a familiar tune. He glanced up to her expectantly.

"How kind of you to let me come."

A smile finally spread nether his lips, and he advanced on her. The sight made her flush. "Once more, Clarice, where does it rain?"

"On the plain. The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain."

"Enough of that, Doc," Barney interjected, glowing more profusely than either of his friends, as though the largest burden had housed on his shoulders. For an inkling, Starling felt a rush of sympathy for the man. She knew these lessons made him uncomfortable, and that he must be overjoyed to have a portion of it conquered by the sheer pitch of intonation. "This calls for a celebration. Music, anyone?"

The jubilee was succinct but fun. Dr. Lecter indulged Starling in a brief dance around the study to one of his favored Bach arrangements. Around the desk, chairs, even Barney a few times, they circled. This joyous occasion. This overpowerment of her most difficult impediment.

But as soon as they began moving together, she was no longer thinking of plains or Latin conjugations. Her mind, the treacherous tool it was, betrayed her and wandered into darker, unexplored territory. With his arms around her, she fluttered atypically, overwhelmed by the nearly intolerable whim that her feelings toward him were entering a perilous terrain. The notion flavored her distastefully, and her good spirits began to dwindle to confusion. Perhaps it was the hour, or the thrill to know one of her primary obstacles was defeated, but she didn't think so. Not with this reoccurring stir in the pit of her stomach. Not with the way their touches seem to ignite.

He was still an insufferable egotist, but she was beginning to like it.

She hated the thought that she liked it.

Still, though no one should argue logic this early in the morning, Starling knew that she could have danced all night and still have begged for more.

When the festivities ended, she had all but lost her strength. Dr. Lecter resigned himself to carry her to her room and tenderly placed her under the covers. He mentioned something about going to town the next day, or whenever he could make arrangements, but she wasn't listening. Seconds away from dreamland, the last thing she felt was his lips above her forehead, and his voice at the doorway.

"And how do we first begin to covet? We covet what we see every day."

The door closed and she tumbled off to sleep.