Author's Note: This is for Helene.

Disclaimer: The characters herein are the property of Thomas Harris. They are being used without permission, for entertainment purposes, and not for the sake of profit. No copyright infringement is intended.


~~~



Chapter Seven

The next morning arrived too quickly.

While Dr. Lecter was hardly an early riser and similarly did not expect anyone else to be, Starling still received a wake-up call from Mrs. Pearce at ten. Her ability to build a day on three hours of sleep had abandoned her with lack of practice. Though it was not too far in the past, that part of her life seemed vague and distant. Far away. Long gone.

Her time here was not a walk through the park, but she did enjoy the freedom to experience leisurely paced mornings. It was the first time in years that an alarm clock hadn't buzzed at the crack of dawn. For a while she had continued to awake early, always comforted by the fact that getting up was not a requirement.

The longer she stayed, the more Starling observed what she called—with growing familiarity—her 'former-life' as belligerently repulsive. No human should work that hard and rest that little with such unsatisfactory compensation. It occurred to her that her old habits would revive when the six months came to an end, but it was something she didn't want to consider. Not now.

When she was fully alert, her immediate concern fell to her accent and the fear that it was lost to the previous night's fatigue and she would have to work to find it again. Before Mrs. Pearce—who, in light of Dr. Lecter's unusual circumstances, was set on a tighter schedule—could leave, Starling bound to her feet and motioned her to stop.

"Please tell me I'm not speaking with an accent," she pleaded. To her ears, her voice was clear, unchanged from the advancement made last night. However, having taken more than one course in psychology, she was familiar with the manner in which the mind could conjure something out of desire.

Such was not the case here. Mrs. Pearce's eyes bulged and a smile broke across her face. "That's amazing!" she exclaimed. "I take it your session with the doctor last night was a success?"

Starling grinned, stretching sleep from her tired body. "It would seem so. Really, no accent?"

"Darling, you sound like an angel."

"Thank you, Mrs. Pearce."

It was the first morning in many that Starling regarded with a cheery disposition. She chose her outfit for the day and enjoyed experimenting with her hair, not settling for the first style that agreed with her. Dr. Lecter was waiting to begin the next phase in the floors below. A few weeks ago, she would have hurried to beat the clock, always terribly apprehensive of being tardy. Not anymore. Let him wait. Nothing was going to ruin her mood today.

Hell, she was even looking forward it, to seeing her overhauling instructor. Starling felt she could swallow a whole jar of marbles without complaining.

As for the events following the past night's victory, she preferred not to think about it. In morning light it was simple to pass off such delusions to the credit of weariness and the thrill of conquering the handicap that had been holding her back rather than anything truly significant.

That didn't change the knowledge that she could have easily danced all evening if only to lose herself in his arms.

Some things were best left ignored.

When she finally joined the others downstairs, Starling was greeted with his imploring eyes that scrutinized her with more than his vulture leer. It seemed his gaze had intensified in those few short hours apart, perhaps in the same response to the prior evening's finale. Before she could say good morning, the look flickered and died and Dr. Lecter insisted with authority, "Where does it rain, Clarice?"

"In Spain," Starling answered without a second's hesitation.

That said, the demand left his eyes and he smiled one of his neutralizing smiles. "Good morning, my dear," he said as though he had just seen her. Fluently, he stepped aside and motioned her inward. "Would you have a cup of tea?"

Starling nodded, summoning the common though enhanced courtesies that were becoming more and more natural. "Good morning, Dr. Lecter. Yes, a cup of tea would be lovely."

"Say cup of tea."

"Cup of tea."

"Barney," Dr. Lecter said, eyes still fastened on hers. "Pour Clarice a cup of tea, if you will."

"I'd be glad to, Doc."

Her mouth tickled with a grin. She was certain that Barney Jackson was the only person who could get away with addressing the doctor with such non-formality. Though Dr. Lecter was much too gentlemanly to openly correct someone lest it got out of hand, never once did she see him flinch when the word left his friend's lips. All at the hand of the beholder, she supposed.

Barney never spoke a condescending word, and that undoubtedly had a great deal to do with it.

"You did immensely well last night," Dr. Lecter complimented after she had sampled a taste of flavored tea. "I have thought about this, and I believe it is time to put these newfound mannerisms on trial."

Starling blinked and dread began to form, chilling her insides and deactivating her high spirits like a cold shower. Anything involving this man and a test could not be something to look forward to. "What do you mean?"

Of course, he read her discomfort immediately but did not react to it. Whereas this would have aggravated her in the past, Starling found she was accustomed to such deliberate indifference. The lack of response to the emotions of those around him was something she once considered insensitive; but perhaps it was the intelligent approach. There was no use in conforming to put everyone else at ease. "I have an acquaintance who recently asked me to a meeting with her elite circle of friends, what she called a conference in Baltimore. The invitation was extended to one guest and myself. What do you say, Clarice? Do you feel you are prepared for the blatant cruelty and humbug of patrician society?"

That didn't sound so bad. She released a breath as tension heaved off her body. The chance to test everything he had taught her over the course of their time together. Such promised to be rather beneficial. Inside these walls, Starling never adapted an idea how the upper class truly maneuvered. What she knew now was a combination of listening to and studying Dr. Lecter's habits and mannerisms. This could be good for her.

However, at the same time, the notion that she would have to mingle in this so-called landed gentry and their palpable lack of probity was nerve-wracking. Suppose she messed up and betrayed her position? What then?

One thing she did know; if she stayed penned up with little more contact with the outside world bordering on occasional trips to town, she was going to lose her mind. And either way, Starling reflected, if she did trip over herself there was little to be ashamed about. These were people she would likely never see again, and even if that weren't so, their stations would differ to the point of not being able to distinguish where last they saw each other. The only thing that would be scarred permanently was Dr. Lecter's name.

She would have to consider if it was worth that. It didn't take long.

"I think so," Starling decided. "That is, if you're confident that you're up to it."

Amused, Dr. Lecter's brows arched. "I would not have suggested it otherwise. The question is, Clarice, are you up to it?"

"I guess we'll see, won't we?"

"That we will." Then his eyes left hers and swept over her body, stirring something frighteningly familiar in her stomach. Though she discerned his intentions were far away from those of other men she had the misfortune of knowing, the feeling left her shaken and confused. There was something about his eyes moving over her that differed in a horribly similar fashion to initiate another round of self-scrutiny.

"Hmmm," Dr. Lecter hummed in consideration, drawing her attentions back. "We will be needing to take a trip to town. I'd like to see, Clarice, if your taste in clothing has improved since our last outing. Tomorrow, is that agreeable? We have three days to prepare."

"Prepare?"

His smile was almost foreboding. "Dress is only a part of the challenge, my dear. We must work with etiquette."

"There's nothing wrong with my manners!"

"Oh no. Of course not. Not for conventional societal gatherings," he agreed. "For this, I'm afraid, you are unprepared. The esteemed Mrs. Rosencranz will spot a fraud a mile away if your behavior is not exactly as she expects. She will act very nicely, of course, but if she catches on, dear Clarice, you can be assured that her friends will as well."

"Mrs. Rosencranz?" Barney asked, coming forward with more tea. "Wasn't she a former romantic attachment, Doc?"

"Very former," he answered nonchalantly. "When she was Ms. Rachel DuBerry. One of those women I described to you some time ago. She was very pleasant, but the type that invites an army of her friends to jabber and to chatter and to tell her what the matter is with you, amongst other annoyances. Useless hubbub. She found someone that thankfully tolerates such nonsense." He then turned back to Starling, eyes alight with something significant. "I am not sure who else is on the guest list, and I will alert Rachel of the conditions before I introduce you. Remember, you are demonstrating everything I've taught you, and more importantly, everything you have learned. Do you understand?"

"It's pretty much black and white, Dr. Lecter," Starling replied, denying the inward jesting that prompted jealousy to know the woman she was meeting had a history with her impossible instructor, however he defined it.

What was wrong with her?

He nodded, his head tilting curiously. Whatever was on her face, she knew he could see. Over the years, Starling adapted abilities than enabled her to hide any renegade emotions from her peers and instructors. It didn't take much; not many people bothered to look. She let them see what was needed, usually to the effect of a note of distaste to escape uncomfortable situations. However, standing before Dr. Lecter now, she was stripped, bare, left with the helpless feeling that everything she thought and every notion she carried was not and never would be private.

Starling had yet to realize that she hid better than she knew, and what she saw on his face—rather than scrutiny and arrogance—was frustration that he could not peel answers to unasked questions from the layers of her eyes.

"Yes, I would imagine so," he said at last. Neither heard the edge to his voice, but it reverberated around the room and seemed to give it life. "Do you care for some breakfast, Clarice? Mrs. Pearce was kind enough to provide us with a few flavored bagels this morning."

"She didn't happen to get flavored coffee, did she?"

At that, he smiled, eying the steaming drink in her hand. "Are you not satisfied with the tea? I believe we can manage to locate a cup of coffee."

"Right away, Dr. Lecter," Mrs. Pearce answered without waiting to be asked, hurrying out of the room as though shouted at.

The doctor did not watch her exit but his smile broadened in gentle humor. Eyes locked still with Starling, he extended his arm and said sociably, "Shall we? I believe this will prove to be a long exercise."

"And you know what they say about the early bird," Barney noted. His comments were always a pleasant addition, usually very numbered but always thoughtful. A satisfying break from her instructor's hard analysis.

For some reason, this seemed to heighten Dr. Lecter's amusement, and he chuckled lightly. "Indeed, my friend," he agreed. "Indeed."

Starling scowled, suddenly feeling like the pun of a joke. Several bad experiences of her past left her bitter about being left out of the circle, and reprimands, useless as they were, tickled her tongue. However, she swallowed her words, collected herself and accepted his arm. She ignored the shiver that raced up her spine, but knew by the strange shift in his eyes that he felt it just the same. "Seriously, Dr. Lecter," she snickered in attempt to withdraw his attentions from alarmingly inexorable physical reactions. "It's just one dinner. I'm really not a Clampet."

"Yes, yes." Tease hissed in his tone and his gaze had forfeited the look of far and away. He was himself again. "Lest I remind you, my dear, that you just last night perfected an accent we had been working with since your arrival."

"An accent is one thing," she argued stubbornly.

"And this next menial activity, Clarice, may or may not prove to be even more troublesome. Who can say?" Again he grinned, one of those deactivating smiles that she resented for its infuriating influence. "Barney, please direct Mrs. Pearce to the dining room when she returns."

Any remaining protests abandoned her. Long ago, Starling had concluded that arguing with Dr. Lecter, though sometimes amusing, was a fruitless activity. She soothed her mildly flared temper with the reassurance that someday the tables would be turned, and conceded to follow him without further complaint.

The dining room was masterfully set. Mrs. Pearce brought in the promised bagels and coffee. She also placed a few moderately thin books on the buffet beside the table, and quickly made herself scarce.

This seemed odd, but Starling was too enamored with awaiting the doctor's instructions. She took a few bites of an asiago cheese delight before her attentions were drawn to more mundane concerns.

"Did you ever participate in any school plays, Clarice?" Dr. Lecter asked as she set the bagel down and sampled a taste of French Vanilla coffee.

"No. I wasn't—I'm not—a people person, Doctor."

At that, he chuckled. "That makes two of us. Well, for shame. Your first impression will make you, you see. When you walk to that table, you must radiate an air that you own it, but similarly that it means nothing to you."

Starling cringed. "Isn't that a little..."

"Yes," he agreed. "But it is what will be expected. Now, we're going to begin with posture."

"Posture? There's nothing wrong with my posture!"

There was a heavy sigh. "My dear…if you assume such a defensive position to every area I suggest could use a little improvement, we will get nowhere. You must differentiate mannerisms from character flaws. Everything you know right now, every lesson you have been taught by any teacher excluding myself is hereby null and void."

She shook her head defiantly. "Are they seriously going to look that close? To how I walk up to a fucking table?"

"Well, let's see." Smoothly, Dr. Lecter turned to the buffet and selected one of the novels placed by Mrs. Pearce. "Walk back to the doorway, Clarice." She did as asked, disgruntled variance slowly leaving her face. "That's a good girl," he jested mockingly. "Now…I want you to approach the table as you would regularly, with this on your head." Then he placed the book atop her crown and delivered another infuriating smile. It stank of arrogance and the foreknowledge of where this was going, as though his point were already proven. "If the book falls, it proves your posture needs improvement. If it remains perfectly balanced and stationary, then you have my full apologies, and we move to the next task."

For a minute, there was nothing. Starling glared at him for long seconds before turning her attention to her destination. Already, the book wobbled a bit in reaction to movement. God, how she hated him sometimes. Changing seasons again. He was a snake: charming and deadly, perilous and unpredictable. Always slithering to find a new way to aggravate you.

Then it was over, and she knew she had to proceed. Drawing in a breath, Starling took one step and frowned as the addition on her cranium wavered. However, stopping was not an option, nor was alternating speed. She continued.

Two paces later, the book toppled to the floor and she growled a tangle of incoherent curses.

Dr. Lecter did not move or speak, but his satisfied smirk was worth a thousand words.

Starling huffed out a breath and narrowed her eyes. "There. You happy?"

"Pick up the book, Clarice. We'll start at the beginning."

And so they did. In an hour, she had made the journey from the doorway to the table more times than she wanted to consider. Each at a reduced speed, each with the book adorning her head, each exceeding the last stopping point and concluding with a return to the start.

It was a simple enough task, though the table with every failure seemed to gain another foot in distance. Starling swallowed her growls of frustration, unaccustomed to not mastering an ostensibly effortless task within the first attempt or two. These areas were the only she did not excel in, feats and proficiency she thought she would never be asked to exhibit.

If someone handed her a gun and asked her to shoot one of the candles off the table with her eyes closed, she had every faith that she could do it. Aim was one of her fortes.

Starling was, undeniably, a tomboy.

You can take the girl out of the country…

Amazingly, Dr. Lecter never lost patience with her. Every time she returned to the doorway, he would make a suggestion but nothing more, as though willing her to keep her temper. It was a welcome variation from old routine. After observing attempt after another, he finally pulled her aside and allowed her a break. She munched miserably on her bagel and drank the remaining coffee, now chilled with age.

"Do you want Mrs. Pearce to warm that up for you?"

"No." When he arched his brows, she demonstratively downed the rest, hiding her inward grimace at the cold bitterness that tasted something like the remnants of vanilla. "See? I've had more than one morning with cold coffee."

"You don't have to while you are here."

She snickered. "What does that matter? I have enough to worry about without adding coffee to the list. I can't even walk to a goddamn table right."

Dr. Lecter tsked and shook his head. "Be mindful of language, my dear. Your posture is improving," he said quietly, voice absent of all its former tease. Again, he took powerful command over her better senses, deactivating self-aimed frustration. "And it will continue to do so. Notice, Clarice, that when you approach the table, your arms are outstretched at an angle, perpendicular to your hands. Why?"

Starling frowned. "For balance. What else?"

"Will you walk to the table like that in three days?"

"Not unless there's a book on my head."

Dr. Lecter smiled softly. "Try without, this time. Learn to trust yourself, and not to expect failure. Do not think of the book on your head. Pretend it does not exist. Pretend I do not exist. Pretend you are in the room by yourself." Gently, he reached for the discarded title and placed it again on her crown. "Now turn around and try again."

So she did, inwardly marveling at the way he could maneuver her with so few word and changing seasons again so fluently. How he could confuse her thoughts, muddling them into a swarm of indistinguishable notions and whims. Reluctantly, her mind wandered to the previous night once more, how it felt to be lost in his arms as he swept her around his office. It seemed distant and transparent, though she felt it vividly.

And she would have made it to the table had her thoughts remained with the doctor and his unpredictable flashes of mood and not wandered to the novel on her head. It crashed with a devastating plop and she nearly fell with it in strangled defeat. Immediately, Dr. Lecter advanced, grasped her arm and pulled her upright.

"You almost had it," he said. "Here. Come back." This time, he took place at the doorway, putting the book on her skull once more before wrapping his right arm across her abdomen. "We're going to take this slowly. Advance one, step back two. Advance two, step back one. Keep your arms at your sides. At no time fight for balance. Understood?"

"Yes." It was barely a whisper. Against her back was the heat of his chest. She was confronted suddenly with the desire to simply recline her head against his shoulder, and might have if not for the inconvenience of the book that stood in her way.

"Good. And begin. One." He stepped with her, muttering lowly into her ear. First step successful. "Back two." As if in a dance, she followed him, her mind entirely enveloped in his surrounding warmth. The weight on her head evaporated. It was only her and Dr. Lecter, advancing slowly, as slowly as she might have liked, to the table. Forward two. Back one. Forward one. Back two. Not once did the book waver. And before she knew it, her fingers brushed the surface of fine wood refurnishing. Momentary glee flushed through her and left just as quickly as his touch disappeared, blasting her with an unexpected cold front. Starling fought a shiver and clamped her teeth down hard on her lip and quickly recollected herself.

When she felt it was safe to look at him, he was smiling. "Very good," he said shortly. "Again." However, she knew in advance he would not guide her. Unsurprisingly, he took his observatory position and left her to return to the doorway, replace the book on her head, and do it over again.

Second time remained victorious. The third time she was instructed to walk simply for the table as slowly as she liked—no mind of how many paces backward and forward. By the fifth instance, she had paced herself healthily, her regular speed. Each attempt afterward succeeded without a hitch. When Dr. Lecter was satisfied, Starling was walking as quickly as she did in the preparatory lap before a hefty jog.

"Excellent," he complimented. "Now, when we arrive, I will escort you to your seat and push in your chair as you sit." Then he was beside her again, offering his arm, which she accepted only after a second's hesitation, collecting herself. Once seated, he turned to indicate the placing before her.

"When you are seated at the luncheon, there are a few things you must remember." Starling nodded, still in a half daze, and leaned back. Aside her plate were more forks than a normal person should use in one afternoon. A cloth napkin was decoratively displayed in the middle of the dish, and her water glass was filled, the last flakes of ice melting.

So this was the table etiquette that he teased her about. She suddenly felt like Julia Roberts.

When Dr. Lecter began speaking again, her attention was absorbed. She wondered absently if he ever considered teaching as a career; having no doubt that he could sustain the interest of all students in any given classroom. "Your water glass is to your right," he said. "It is always to your right. Nonliquids, such as your bread plate, will be at your left." He reached forward then and took the napkin from her plate, moving directly behind her chair, where she couldn't see. Then his arms came into view, and his mouth was beside her ear, murmuring softly. "There are three places for your napkin, and three places only. One: In your lap, when you are seated at the table. Two: On the seat of your chair, if you are leaving the table but intend to return. Three: To the right of your plate when the meal ends and we are ready to leave. Not, in any circumstance, are you to place it elsewhere. Do you understand?" As he spoke, he situated the napkin primly in her lap, lingering as long as he liked and only retracting his hands slowly to the arm of the chair when the task was thoroughly executed.

"Yes," she answered too quickly. It was barely a whisper.

If he noticed her shortened breath and elevated pulse, he didn't flicker a beat of recognition. Instead, Dr. Lecter maintained the professional façade, mouth still provocatively close to her ear, speaking lowly. His tone was intoxicating. "Your napkin only has one purpose. Never use it to wave the attention of the staff, or any other seemingly innocent uses. Now…" His voice wavered a minute, left hand motioning to the display of silverware beside her plate. "I know you are unaccustomed to so many dinner utensils," he observed. "Not to worry. The method of remembrance is simple and fluid. Tell me, Clarice, which course of the meal is your favorite?"

She blinked and struggled a minute to find her voice. "Doctor, I've never attended any…suppers where there has been more than one course."

"So I suspected. Do you like dessert, Clarice?"

Did that question have a deeper implication? Starling forced her thoughts away, berating herself uselessly. "Yes."

"Would you say it is your favorite part of mealtime, when you partake?"

"I guess."

"Then simply consider the precession of the forks as stepping stones to dessert," he suggested. "Work your way inward. The outermost fork is for your salad, because you will use it first. The middle is for the main course, and the last for dessert." He paused, his hand finding her chin and turning her eyes to meet his. The air was so thick she thought she might choke. For brief seconds, his eyes implored hers, searching, finding everything to her knowledge, masking his own frustration when he failed to see more than she revealed. "Do you understand, my dear?" He said at last. "Do you think you can remember?"

Lost still, Starling felt her head nod once again, her skin against his, senses slowly betraying her. It was a chain reaction, one after another, though they did not leave her completely. Rather, sensory in itself absorbed into one mass, escalating to unexplored territory. Again she marveled at his numerous sides; the pieces and colors of himself that he initially kept hidden were emerging slowly, as they became more familiar with each other. Gradually, Dr. Lecter was allowing her to know him.

It was only the other night that—in frustration of her then-difficult Latin exercises—that she threw her course manual to the ground, gnashed her teeth and scurried to think up a real killer-insult, resulting in a meager, however amusing, "Amas haedos!"

His smile then was not as charming and disengaging as it was now. Rather, it reeked of superiority and amusement. Condescending like before, wickedly cruel. Before he spoke a word, she was aware of the mistranslation and had to fight the temptation to drop her head to her arms and muffle a scream. "I assure you, Clarice," he had said. "I do not love young goats." And he left it at that, smile remaining annoyingly in tact as he drew himself to the upper chambers and retired for the evening.

It seemed impossible that the incident was only a few days behind them. Starling felt the spark of fury arise within her again, but its anger now melted to something unthinkable.

How did he do that?

"Yes," she answered at last. "Yes, I'll remember."

"Name them for me, if you will. In order."

She did so flawlessly. It honestly wasn't as difficult to remember as she thought it would be. After a few recitations, Dr. Lecter was satisfied and drew away from her at last, coming into sight.

"Any questions?"

"No."

"I'm going to test these mannerisms tonight," he stated. "Barney will have the night off, as I am sure he well appreciates. You and I will dine alone—here." Then he trailed off, eyes growing distant, seeming to focus somewhere behind her. Starling waited, denying herself the annoying rush at this announcement. These reactions were getting out of hand. A few minutes before, she had been barely able to catch her breath.

What was that aggravatingly wonderful thing about him? The knowledge that she may well very soon want to blow his head off again only seemed to accentuate the stirring within her stomach.

Mapp's forewarning suddenly sounded loud in her ears, abrupt and unprovoked.

"Are you sure he's not just trying to get into your pants?"

If he was, he was taking his ever-loving time.

Dr. Lecter was back a beat later, capturing her eyes with a flick of his head. "Is all agreeable, Clarice?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now, I would suggest you take the rest of the afternoon to review today's lesson. You might consider going over your Latin conjugations once or twice." That earned a particularly sharp look, to which he chuckled and brushed off. "Oh, I know they become tedious, my dear, but we wouldn't want to squander last night's triumph and have to start at the beginning. Dinner will be ready at seven."

And then he left, simple and unannounced. The conversation hadn't seemed over, but she supposed that didn't matter. Starling spent a few quiet minutes to herself, unsuccessfully attempting to banish the afternoon's provocations. If she couldn't survive a casual lesson simply as the aftershock of one dance, how did she hope to get through the night?

It would be interesting. Humiliating perhaps, but most definitely interesting.


* * *



When evening approached, Starling became aware that her instructor would evaluate her performance tonight on a scale of different levels, and that failure in one area could potentially affect another. Dress was inevitably one particular trial of concern. While she didn't think he expected her in her Sunday best, he would undoubtedly frown on a casual selection. She considered inquiring Mrs. Pearce's opinion, but the woman was preoccupied with work and would likely exhibit poor judgment.

Her wardrobe was vast and her decision, as it was, didn't take long.

As recommended, she reviewed her Latin and occasionally recited the weather of Spain's plains to be doubly sure her accent was in tact.

At 6:45, she headed downstairs; weary to be sure she was not accompanied by singing teakettles. Starling drew in a breath and looked to her dress. It was one that Dr. Lecter chose on their last trip to town. She recalled being surprised at his taste—it was long and elegant, black and tight fitting, something to suggest and not show what was underneath. The only thing she could do without was the thin excuse for straps that held it over her body, but she decided that, all things considered, it was a cheap trade for such sophistication.

Still, she would be sure that he was wearing something similarly stylish before entering the dining room. She was uncomfortable enough when she arrived at classy events in casual wear—as numbered as such occasions were—but she positively hated being overdressed.

A cautious peak inward. The doctor was there, as she suspected, and clad splendidly. Starling exerted a breath as quietly as she could and began to pull back, paused, and leaned forward again.

"Damn," she muttered appreciatively to herself.

"You may come in, Clarice," Dr. Lecter said softly, but very obviously to her. She jumped a bit in surprise and initial embarrassment.

However, when she walked in, she saw that he hadn't heard her. The conclusion came instinctual, not requiring concrete evidence. When he looked up to scrutinize her entrance, she saw it was her scent he had recognized. His nostrils flared approvingly.

"Love the dress," he complimented shortly. It was authentic but not overdrawn.

"You should. You picked it out."

"Touché," Dr. Lecter replied with a grin. "Please, have a seat."

When he approached to pull her chair out for her, her pulse began to race again. Starling had decided that afternoon to give up denying the reaction he provoked within her, but had no idea how she was to ignore it.

He didn't comment on her entrance. That either meant he was simply observing without correcting or she had pulled it off appropriately.

"Would you care for some wine, my dear?"

"That would be lovely, thank you."

Dr. Lecter grinned favorably at her mannerisms but didn't comment. "Mrs. Pearce will serve the salad shortly. You are pleasantly ahead of schedule, Clarice. I was hoping you would be." He drew back when her glass was filled with a sufficient amount. "I thought we might discuss the case file you gave to me a few weeks ago."

Mild disappointment tickled her senses, replaced immediately by horror that she could regard the heavy burden so casually. It was as though the lives of future victims didn't matter when compared to the taste of a nice Amarone. However, despite her attempts, there was no denying it; shop was the last thing she wanted on her plate.

What was it about being here?

If she continued to ask herself these questions, she would go mad.

When Starling returned to herself, Dr. Lecter was seated at the other end of the table. She took her napkin off her dish and settled it nicely into her lap. It didn't deliver the thrilling shudder as it had when he demonstrated the proper form earlier that afternoon.

"Have you come to any conclusions?" she asked casually.

"Oh yes. Several. I wonder…have you read it, Clarice? The file?" His eyes widened dangerously. "Everything you need to find him with is right there in those pages."

That was it. That was all it took to sway her loyalties back to the homeland. Interest was perked. A grippingly familiar feeling took command of her. She was suddenly months younger, sitting in the presence of Jack Crawford, leaning forward to the point of tipping out of her chair. Pleasure was traded for professionalism. Former distaste was discarded without further provocation. It was a reliable ice cream flavor that would never discontinue. She had almost forgotten the thrill of the hunt. "Then tell me how," she whispered, eyes clear of former, now forgotten, repressed yearning.

"Refer to the principle ideologies, Clarice. Hmmm? Simplicity. Of each particular thing, ask what is it in itself. What does he do this…man you seek?"

Starling blinked. "He kills—"

"No!" The doctor disagreed with her with such fierceness that she jumped in her seat. There was fire in his voice. "That is subsidiary. Ask yourself what need he serves by killing. Firstly. What self-constructed essential does he satisfy?"

Silence answered. Minutes ticked by uncomfortably.

He sighed heavily, as though her ineptitude reflected scantily on him. "I told you this already," he said softly. "When last we—"

The light sparked to life. Starling's eyes widened and she nearly jumped in her seat with acknowledgment. "He covets!" she hissed victoriously.

A smile rewarded her. "Yes. And how do we first begin to covet?" More silence as her high subsided to a stupefied nonbeing. As she battled with the forage of answers that attacked simultaneously, nibbling on her lip in thought, his eyes remained level with hers, evoking her attention without struggle. "I told you this as well, though I don't think you were awake enough to remember. We begin by coveting what we see every day."

Her face brightened with an attack of déjà vu, and her chin found home on folded hands, focus completely enveloped.

"I know you have experienced this," Dr. Lecter continued. "You feel eyes moving over your body constantly. The unwanted leer of overly appreciative young men. It is human nature. An unavoidable slab of sensory. And likewise, your eyes seek out the things you want."

At that, she shot him a particularly sharp look as her face flushed. It was an awkward place to wheedle in an innuendo, but she didn't put it past him. "What do you mean?"

He issued her one of his stimulating smiles. "Advancement, of course. Why else would you be here?"

"Oh." She settled, though whether with disappointment or relief, she didn't know. "Right."

Salad came shortly and Starling selected her fork without a hint of difficulty.

"I was wondering, Clarice," Dr. Lecter began minutes later. "I am to understand that your career thus far in the Bureau has been unsatisfactory, correct?"

She scowled, thoughts immediately drifting to Paul Krendler. "Yes."

"And you still want it? More than anything?"

The question was genuine. It sounded odd to hear an inquiry escape his lips that she knew he did not hold an answer for.

However, she didn't hold the answer, either. Weeks, even days ago it would have come to her naturally, quickly, without hesitation. Now, though, now that she was beginning to appreciate the finer side of life, to reflect on everything she was missing simply by not living…was it worth it?

Yes. Of course it was.

Ummm…

There were things she would experience through the FBI that would otherwise be impossible. Lives to change, people to save, risks to take. This and that. Starling did want it, very much. More than anything. To succeed. To live doing what she was good at, what she was made to do.

What she told herself she was made to do.

"Yes, Dr. Lecter. I would say so."

"Why?"

She blinked, though the dreaded phrase was inevitable. "Pardon?"

"The world you described to me. The bigotry, the offhanded comments, these men to the likes of that Krendler fellow you mentioned. Do you honestly believe returning with a few refined mannerisms will change that?"

Starling was absolutely speechless. It had never occurred to her that anything else could be the result. After all, if this was the case, then why was she here at all? Wasting her time and his?

Or was there more to it?

"Of course things will change," she barked a defensive moment later. "When I know how to read into cases…when I—"

"Do you sincerely trust that success is your ticket to happiness?" The doctor asked skeptically. "That once you prove to these fortune seekers that you are quicker and cleverer than they that your stature will rise among them, and the taunting will cease?" He leaned forward, sprinkling her heart with doubt. "Or, Clarice, do you think it is more likely that these powerful enemies of yours will do everything in their authority to cut you down, make sure you do not get the recognition you deserve, and scare you away before you make that one colossal mistake that ruins every good agent?"

"What colossal mistake?"

"I suppose it depends on the agent. Your Achilles heel, Clarice, whatever it might be. What makes and breaks you." Dr. Lecter leaned back. "Now tell me truthfully, do you believe a few lessons in protocol will help?"

"Why are you asking me this?"

"Isn't it obvious? I want to know."

"If the answer is no, will you ask me to leave?"

"No." His tone took a strangely serious turn, as if to accentuate his good word. "No, and I believe you know that. I told you before we started that I never begin a project without having the full intention of seeing it through. You will not leave this house without myself or Barney at your side before the six months is over, unless the assignment is terminated at your disposal. But we have already discussed that." With a sigh, he seemed to gaze off thoughtfully, but she knew he was still with her, knowing exactly what he wanted to say, pausing only for emphasis. "I want to know you, Clarice. The more time you spend here, the more harm I see in your future. I have known several in the profession you seek, and none of them are happy. If anything, you are a person who deserves happiness."

Heavy silence. Heavy, thick silence. For a minute, Starling forgot to blink or breathe, lost in his eyes, astounded by his sincerity. In all her years, she had never had such a vote of good will. Not from one of her mentors, relatives, or friends. Even her deceased father had left the earthly world without giving her such reassurance.

He continuously surprised her. However, for some reason, she wasn't surprised that he would be the one to tell her this. It seemed, like so many other things, inexorable.

She wasn't just a person who wanted happiness; she deserved it.

But before she could open her mouth to thank him, to reciprocate, say anything however worthy or unworthy as such a compliment is owed, Mrs. Pearce reentered the dining room and smiled heftily.

"Dinner is served."

Thus the salad plates were taken away, replaced with the main course. By the time conversation resumed again, the moment had passed, and did not represent itself through the remainder of the evening.

After dinner, Dr. Lecter walked Starling to her room. He announced that she was free to sleep in the next morning as long as she wished, though there was a planned trip to town to select her attire for the luncheon.

Then, smiling kindly, he drew her hair over her shoulder and leaned inward. "Good night, Clarice." His lips found her forehead, lingered, and were gone before she could acknowledge her quaky reaction.

Starling stood motionless for long minutes. It wasn't until after he had retired to his bedchamber that she turned and opened her door, edged inward, and leaned against it with lasting thought.

"Good night, Dr. Lecter."


* * *