Author's Note: We're finally to intermission! Hurrah!

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. The lyrics recited herein by Clarice Starling are the property of Frank Loesser. No copyright infringement is intended.

Chapter Nine

For two days, Starling was left to nurse her thoughts and confusions, free of engagements as a reward for modestly conducting herself during unpleasant situations; she was still assured that preparations would soon begin for the main event. Dr. Lecter had not specified his intentions, though she knew simply from living together for the past few months not to expect anything less than grandiose and extravagant. There was talk of an expedition over seas, and while that seemed doubtful, she was coming to the realization never to put it passed him to surprise the household with such an announcement. At this point, she felt ready for anything.

However, she was so deeply enveloped in sorting out her feelings from the Baltimore outing that her nerves forbade any forethought on the decisive test she would endure in coming days. Since their return and the proclamation that she was alleviated of any duties for the next forty-eight hours, Starling had spent the majority of her time in her room, closed off. She emerged only to obtain nourishment and make use of the lavatories. Anything that required more than a sentence or two from her hosts was avoided. There was too much to debate and question.

Baltimore had left her completely and utterly confused and Dr. Lecter's behavior toward her was the greatest surprise. Not only was he warm and understanding, his reaction to Pilcher, even with the much-debated Mrs. Rosencranz drooling at the sight of him, suggested something as entirely impossible as jealousy. The doctor did not seem susceptible to such human candor. It gave her the sense that the tables were turned at last, and that the feelings she had tortured herself over for the past few weeks were finally being gratified in a perversely cruel manner.

Not that Starling wanted to admit that merely knowing the former social companion increased her predisposed negative opinion of the woman, and that she hadn't escaped the day without dark feelings of the same nature. That was irrelevant. Baltimore surprised her, for it was the first concrete indication that she wasn't the only one unsettled or affected. In many ways, it served as a relief.

It also scared her out of her wits. If he started reciprocating her undistinguished feelings, what was to become of them? Certainly, there could be no happily ever after at the end of this charade. Such did not happen to people of their nature. Such did not happen to Starlings. She was lucky to have made it this far.

After everything…

She could feel his breath fanning her face, the way she had lost herself again to the mystique of his words and the whirlpool of his eyes. However, though his intentions seemed perfectly evident, she wondered still if he actually would have kissed her, if he would allow himself to admit or uncover that portion of his inexplicable humanity.

Her skin tingled still from the imprint of his lips those four nights ago. The air hung with their words, both spoken and unspoken.

All very vexing.

He made her fluster, pushed her into self-awareness, irritated her to no end, and still managed to…

It was absurd, but also undeniable. From both ends that day, they had ignored those much closer to their age and station, despite apprehensions. Of course, that could only be an assumption. Starling thought it was perfectly obvious how she attempted to ignore Pilcher, notwithstanding however closer to her own stature he was. Dr. Lecter seemed detached, but similarly uninterested in his former lady's pretentious jabbering and affections.

That wasn't fair. Starling honestly couldn't vouch if she would think any better of Mrs. Rosencranz if it wasn't for her past with the doctor, but she had the uncomfortable notion that their relationship had much to do with the manifest dislike.

Dear Pilcher. Even still, she had to regard him with a fond smile. The kid was nice, certainly, but too much like an overbearing child in desperate need of attention. Though she appreciated the openness of admiration without the relation of Paul Krendler, his compliments were modest but annoyingly expansive. Either way, the most she took from that introduction was Dr. Lecter's response. She had a sinking feeling that Pilcher's praises would not be so animated if he knew her outside that social circle.

That, and she had no desire to associate with a man slightly older who managed to make her feel twice her age.

The walls of her room were becoming confined. Starling yearned to break free and indulge in a jog, but the thought of seeing him—especially after that near-display—did not weigh well with her. Enduring the uncomfortable atmosphere in the car on the way home, with Barney chatting obliviously in the back while they tried hard not to look each other had been difficult enough.

But then, silence could drive a person insane.

In desperation for human contact, Starling fished her almost-forgotten cell out of her purse, hesitated in thought before recalling the number to Ardelia Mapp's extension. She was discouraged that her memory had dulled over time and disuse from something that had once been second nature. After a few rings, she remembered it was a Tuesday, nearly noon, and her friend would not be home. Another wrestle with her memory produced the cell number, and she hurriedly dialed that instead.

When the line finally picked up, her salutation was drown by loud commotion in the form of clinking plates, glasses, ringing pagers, and heavy discussion. A blare of static and Starling faintly heard her voice. "Hello? Hello! Mapp here!"

She flinched at the inevitable pang of familiarity. "Hello."

"Speak up! Can't hear you! Anyone there? Hello!"

The thought of raising her voice triggered something relative to unexpected but instant mortification. By this time, Starling was much accustomed to behaving—at least in tone quality—in the most ladylike of manners. Anything else felt vulgar and wrong, despite the many years of alternative practice. Something else she would undoubtedly lose upon her leave.

More so, she didn't want Dr. Lecter to hear her speaking. Perhaps her friend would exhibit the courtesy to move to a place less crowded.

Thus, reluctantly, she raised her voice and announced loudly, "Ardelia! It's Clarice!" Funny. She hadn't referred to herself as Clarice for years, but this emerged naturally, without forethought. Another habit. Dr. Lecter never said her last name without 'Officer' or 'Miss' preceding it.

A brief second of bewildered suspension. "Starling!" she exclaimed the next instant. "Good God, it seems like it's been forever since you last called!"

"We've been busy," she acknowledged with a weak grin. "I—"

"Hold on, babe. Lemme get out of this circus."

The sound drifted away and was sealed off completely with a door slamming.

"You caught me at lunch, girl," her friend said good-naturedly. "How the hell are yah?"

"Pretty good," she lied, smiling though. It was good to hear her friend's voice again. "Getting along. How was graduation, Special Agent Mapp?" Starling did an admirable job of concealing her bitterness, unfounded as it was, something else that had improved since coming here.

"Good, good. Sucked that you weren't there. I could tell Crawford was pretty bummed."

Her brows perked and her eyes sparkled as though remembering something amusing. "Hmmm…yes. I would imagine so."

"Got a funny story about him."

"Yeah, already heard. Straight from the horse's mouth."

"He came over there, then. Figures. I thought he would. How'ere lessons going?"

Odd how improper grammar should annoy her so…

"I had my first test two days ago," Starling replied, shaking the thought away. Will not become pretentious snob. Will not become pretentious snob. Will not become—

"Oh! Lemme guess…" Mapp trailed off and grunted a series of strange sounds she apparently associated with deep thought. "You had to dance around a pole while provocatively sucking on a pop-sickle."

Starling nearly snorted at the image that suggestion provided and emphatically shook her head, as though her friend was standing in front of her. "Hardly," she retorted with a defensive air. "No, lessons have mainly consisted of language, posture, and table manners, actually."

"That's it?" Mapp barked in something resembling stunned disbelief. "You've been there for how long, and you're just working on fucking posture? Hon, I thought—"

"He's also helping me—really helping me—with the Buffalo Bill file."

"Taking his ever-loving time, in that case," she snickered. "Speaking of which, did you hear? Last was—"

"Scalped, yes. Lecter told me he would start that soon."

There was a huff of unimpressed air. "Well, spank my ass and call me Charlie. That man's a regular Einstein, ain't he? Come on, Starling. Even Crawford says he saw that one coming."

That seemed rather unlikely. "Before or after she floated?" Starling asked coldly.

A reluctant pause.

"Yes. That's what I thought."

Mapp coughed and fluidly switched topics. "So…ummm, has the doc made any moves on you? Answer me honestly, girl. You've been living over there for months."

"Well…" Ah hell, might as well. "I think he was going to kiss me the other day, but he didn't."

The silence from the other line was smug though somewhat disappointed, to the affect of 'oh, is that all'? She didn't know what Mapp expected. In her world, she supposed a tiny kiss was hardly the heat of good gossip. To Starling, it meant the beginning of her conventional undoing.

"Why didn't he?" she finally asked.

"Either because he didn't want to, or because Barney walked up."

"Oh well," Mapp replied with a sigh, as though losing interest in the subject. "You know what they say: 'You must remember this…a kiss is just a kiss.'"

"Actually, the line is, 'a kiss is still a kiss.' I don't know why everyone gets that wrong."

"Are we Miss Cultured now? I sure hope you don't come home with an 'I'm more superior than thee' attitude. I'd have to whup your ass." The tone sounded innocent, but Starling's heightened insight allowed her to detect the rawness of accusation, suggesting she had done something morally wrong in correcting the misinterpreted song lyric.

Without warning, the conversation treaded into dangerous territory. It was abrupt: along with the sharp realization of the rift dividing their friendship, caused by time and the long-invisible strains of difference. And the beginning of impending prejudice, both for her position and her unconventional break from what was expected. Having been apart so long was finally taking its toll. This new person she found herself molded into, by herself and not Dr. Lecter, was annoyed and flustered. Oddly, this didn't seem to bother her as much as it should.

And, all things considered, she wasn't in the mood to put up with it. There was plenty to worry about as it was.

"Ardelia, I don't want to fight over a song."

"Chrissake, Starling, don't get so touchy. I—"

"And I've had enough of taunting and lectures over this situation. No more allegations. This is stupid." Starling sighed. "I'll call you sometime."

"Ease up, there, girl! Whoa, you must really have—"

"Goodbye." She clicked the phone off and deactivated its power to prevent Mapp from calling her back, sighed again and tossed it over the bed.

With all there was to regard, Starling refused to allow her friend the leeway that was so desperately craved only to suffer ridicule and accusation. Never had she thought her decision for self-improvement would affect her this way, but she couldn't say she regretted it. Indisputably, now more than ever, things would change. She had never suspected her friendship with Mapp to be one of the alterations, but in all logicality, it seemed most probable. It hadn't occurred to her before, but she realized that the number of qualities she used to possess—now on a level considered rudimentary and crude—were the very same distributed by her associates. Starling loved Mapp dearly, but the accurate picture of life her new world was creating forbade her to overlook the obvious.

Maybe she wouldn't fall back into habit when she returned. The proposition was ridiculous, as it is human tendency to conform to surroundings, but maybe she wouldn't. Maybe this was her for the rest of her life.

If that was the case, there were serious matters to be measured. Her original objective here revolved around bettering herself for the presence of work colleagues. However, for the first time, Starling envisioned the initial arrival back to school with a spiral of apprehension. Not that she didn't believe she could do it. Now, more than ever, she saw herself wholly capable of beating the odds and putting all others to shame. It was more the definitive question if she wanted to at all. If this was as she saw herself spending her life; constantly surrounded by people she hated, who likewise hated her.

What was left for her then? If not what she had prepared for all her life, what?

All was hazy and she preferred not to think about it, despite the necessity of consideration. Right now, there were plenty of other things to worry with. An upcoming test that would define everything she learned.

It was difficult to fret over a final exam when the rest of her life loomed in the afterward.

Three knocks at her door startled her out of her reverie. Without thinking, Starling shook her head and offered a vocal, "Come in!" before freezing in realization of whom likely stood outside. The last thing she wanted him to see was this state of uncertainty. She was beyond convinced that he had a suggestion or two to help dig her out of whatever trench she had worked herself in, but Starling felt it was inappropriate, given their situation, to accept any advice. The path she dreaded to approach might illuminate, and she had little doubt that he would take great pleasure in pushing her across that concluding barrier.

When the door opened, however, it was only Mrs. Pearce, carrying a tray with what looked like a freshly cooked lunch and a glass of wine. "If you'll pardon me, Ms. Starling," she said politely, setting it on a decorative though small worktable in the corner of the room. "Dr. Lecter thought you might get hungry and asked me to bring this up as to save you the hassle of venturing downstairs."

She smiled graciously, noticing a pang of hunger that reflected immediately off suggestion. "Yes! Thank you, Mrs. Pearce. It smells delicious."

"That will please the doctor very much," the housekeeper replied warmly. "Just between us, I think he's eager that you approve of his cooking."

Starling blinked. "He cooked?"

"Yes. He cooks often, when he has time." Mrs. Pearce seemed surprised at the insinuation that anything else was remotely possible. "He's been busy with this final project, but he wanted you to have a good lunch."

She felt a rush of something she couldn't identify and shivered lightly to brush it off. The affect was unsuccessful. "Send Dr. Lecter my thanks and compliments."

"Will you be joining the doctor and Mr. Jackson this evening? —Or will I need to bring something up?"

"I wouldn't want to inconvenience you," Starling replied with appreciative dismissal. "Tell Dr. Lecter not to trouble himself on my behalf. I'll make my own supper."

That didn't seem to be a satisfactory answer. With untrusting narrowed eyes, Mrs. Pearce cocked her head to one side. "Will you permit me to make an observation?"

"Certainly." As soon as the word left her lips, Starling tensed with tickling anticipation and regret. The last thing she needed was a therapy session with a house cleaner. Twice in one day, not to mention no more than ten minutes apart, was enough to fill her plate. Still, she was curious. If this woman could make such inspections, she must be wearing her emotions on her sleeves. It seemed with the improvement of certain areas meant the disintegration of others. Starling before prided herself at being remarkably difficult to read, except when in the presence of the doctor, of course. Despite everything, she always felt he knew exactly what was going through her mind.

If Mrs. Pearce was at all aware of her fear, she made either no reference to it or simply didn't care. "Neither you nor Dr. Lecter have seemed yourselves since your outing. Did he say something to offend? Is that why you—"

"No," Starling said sharply. "No. I'm just tired, is all. It's been a trying few days."

Unconvinced, the housekeeper hesitated briefly but nodded. "All right. I am to inform you that lessons and arrangements are to resume tomorrow. I think you're allowed to sleep until 8:30."

"That's more than enough time, thank you. I will be sure to get plenty of rest tonight." She turned away, hoping the woman would recognize the request for privacy. "But do tell Dr. Lecter if he is so concerned with something he might have said on the trip to Baltimore and wonders of my disposition, he should inquire himself."

To this there was stunned silence but no want of denial. Instead, the woman scurried to make her leave. Starling smiled wryly to herself and turned her attention to the steaming dish awaiting her.

It was sometime later before she felt like emerging from her bedchamber. The afternoon was spent reviewing her conversation with Mapp and the web of realization it strung as a result. Questions hounded at her, all screaming for satisfaction at once, but she had none to offer.

The issue that tormented her was the suggestion that she might never return to Quantico, never again seek a life in the FBI, and give up now. Give up. Those words haunted her with deathly perseverance. Though, if she decided a separate career pathway, would it be giving up? There were other prospects, of course, other options open and waiting for her. Was the life she had led, the only existence she had known before coming here made for her or someone else? Did she want it because of personal motivation, or because Daddy knows best? There was no question in her mind that she was good at it, nor was there any doubt that she was just as if not more talented at any number of things.

Was it possible, though, to be good at something that you never had anything to show for? Not because of personal carelessness, rather the persuasion and efforts of others. A few nights ago, Dr. Lecter asked her if she thought any of this would change the attitudes and respect of those she knew at school. Then, the implication was intrusive. However, not even a week had passed and under brightened light, it seemed probable, even likely.

Paul Krendler would not accept the concept that she could disappear for six months and return more educated, experienced, relaxed, calm, everything she was before and more. Mannerisms had improved, even since the Baltimore trip. It was almost like a foreign language; the classes helped but were incomparable to the experience of living it. Starling recalled the year that Mapp's family took a vacation to South America over holiday. Her friend had returned only to impress classmates in speaking fluent Spanish. This faded over time; of course, as new attractions came and went, but it was enjoyable while it lasted.

The lunch Dr. Lecter provided was exquisite and kept her full for a long time. It wasn't until around nine that evening that she felt the need to investigate dinner options. Inward battles took their toll, and at the end of the day, she found herself as fatigued and famished as she would to return from a long run. Dressing in her robe, she crept downstairs to snoop through the pantry.

Every room of Dr. Lecter's residence was a museum within its own rights, and the kitchen was no exception. However, with growing familiarity, she no longer concerned herself when minor spills were made or if a crumb or two fell to the floor. Intending to retire for the evening after her craving was satisfied, Starling settled with one of the asiago cheese bagels that Mrs. Pearce kept stored in the breadbox. It wasn't until she went to pour herself a glass of water that she saw the note waiting for her beside the cupboards.

Her breath caught in her throat, recognizing the copperplate hand even from a distance. He's angry, she thought, suddenly cold with dread. He had a right to be. In two days she had barely spoken three words to him. Unquestionably, her discussion with the housekeeper and her forward address to all inquiries had been reported. A note could mean several things, but for whatever reason, Starling found reading his words much more difficult than having him stand before her and voice them himself. With hesitance, she placed the glass aside and reached for the parchment, knowing it could not go ignored.

The words were not cruel or welcoming, but the lack of warning only increased her anxiety. Dr. Lecter had a certain gift about him that allowed him to convey a message without using any words of trepidation.

Clarice,

Forgive the earlier intrusion. I did not anticipate an inconvenience, or an interruption to your privacy. There are a few bagels left in the breadbox, if you like. Otherwise, feel free to experiment. Mrs. Pearce will be awakening you at 8:30 tomorrow morning, and I expect you in the parlor no later than 9 am. Pleasant dreams.

Hannibal

Starling pursed her lips and set the paper aside. She hesitated, grasped her water again and turned to march up those stairs and regard the evening as though no breech was crossed, as though this visit never occurred. However, she was unable to ignore the rush of guilt at her blatant avoidance of his company. It was unspeakably rude, especially after such an excursion.

It was several things. On second reading, the note was neither bitter nor friendly, rather, apologetic and informatory. All that and more, it made her question the informality in which he signed his name.

Mustn't read too much into things. You've been living in his house for a damn near half year. You'd think he could sign his fucking name without provoking conspiracy.

These musings led her not to her bedchamber, but to the parlor. A sudden attack of cabin fever engulfed her, perhaps prompted by the letter, and perhaps repressed, having found reason to emerge. The room was dark and vacant, the other nightly occupants resolved to their rooms. Her gatherings from the kitchen were placed on the coffee table, having lost her appetite. It seemed entirely early for anyone in this household to retire, but she failed to question her good fortune. Still she preferred the solitude of her own company, certain that any heavy peripheral infringement would lead only to further confusion.

For the millionth time that day, she replayed the conversation held with Mapp, the conclusions to be drawn from such an encounter. Forlornly, Starling ran her hand at arm's length across the piano before finding seat on the bench. An inward gnawing stirred at the prompt that the life she knew here, shackled within these walls, was all that was left of her. When the project was finished, then what? Was she to turn around and march into the existence she abandoned, pick up directly where she left off only now educated to hold her tongue and prove her worthiness in the form of completed cases and insight second only to Marcus Aurelius? What sort of reality was that?

Or was this all there was of her? Suppose Dr. Lecter asked her to stay when their time was over. What then? Could she feasibly accept? What was there for her here?

What wasn't for her here? What would she be giving up, not leaving behind?

People would say we're in love, she thought grimly as her fingers tickled the piano keys. As a child, she had never obtained regular lessons, just enough here and there to play bits of partially familiar songs. That was one of her greater regrets: never mastering an instrument. Out of idleness and disarray, she began the accompaniment to Heart and Soul, the only piece she knew all the way through for the way it was overemphasized across the country, even and especially by those who didn't know how to play the piano.

"Heart and soul," she sang dimly, her mind far away. "I fell in love with you, heart and soul. The way a fool would do, madly. Because you held me tight, and stole a kiss in the night. Heart and soul, I begged to be adored. Lost control, and tumbled overboard, gladly…"

Absently, mind detached and far away, her eyes wandered upward. The darkness did not hamper her from seeing him immediately, and a gasp caught in her throat as her heart stopped. Standing in the doorway was the object of her suffering confusion, regarding with her with almost affectionate amusement. His lips were taut in a thin but earnest smile, and his eyes glistening in that familiar, maddening fashion. Immediately, as though scorned, Starling jumped from the bench and brought her arms behind her. The sharpness of her leave left the notes to die into silence and she had little time to compose herself. "My apologies, Dr. Lecter," she pardoned immediately, struggling to find her voice. "I did not mean to wake you."

"That is not necessary, Clarice," he excused, stepping forward. The stride shuddered through her. "You did not wake me." For a minute, it appeared he might continue, but his voice died and they were still, captured in a gaze. To her growing irritability, he offered no explanation; rather crossed his arms behind his back and looked at her coyly, reveling in newfound silence. A second shudder reluctantly coursed through her, and did nothing more than heighten her agitation. It was difficult to keep her wits about herself when her reaction to him merited endless shudders and an inability to keep from flustering in his presence.

As the moments stretched and taunted, Starling clamped her teeth on her lower lip to keep herself quiet. Her agonized nerves craved elaboration, but she was sensible enough to realize it was presumptuous to demand someone's motives for walking around their own home, despite the circumstances. Holding back a sigh, she eyed the stairway still visible behind him. With little forthcoming, it was best to place curiosity aside. If she could just get to her room and have that be the end of it…but she knew he wouldn't allow such an abrupt abscond after avoiding him for two days, especially now that he had her cornered.

"I trust all is well," Dr. Lecter said courteously the next instant. "Did you find everything you need?"

She assumed he was referring to the kitchen. "Yes…thank you." They fell into silence again, not altogether uncomfortable this time, but she feared its enormity with age. With each passing second, her desire to be bolted behind her bedroom door increased, almost beyond the strains of control. However, she realized if facing him now was this difficult, even with so little said, that tomorrow's prearranged meeting would be just as singular. "Would you excuse me, Doctor? I didn't mean to trouble you." The advancement she made for the stairs was futile, but worth a shot.

"Of course," he replied, stepping aside to allow her passage, much to her surprise. That was so like him. Right when she had an action pinpointed, he would do the opposite as an innocent reminder that she would never have him figured out. "May I ask, Clarice, if you are feeling well? Barney has been most concerned. We would not want you to fall ill."

Starling paused, gathering her water and bagel off the coffee table. With more shortness in her tone than she intended to reveal, she spat, "Yes, Dr. Lecter, I am quite well. I assure you, my mood will not hamper your plans for this all-important final project." From where her tetchiness originated, she knew not. Perhaps the insinuation, the reminder, the slightest hint that her temperament could potentially ruin looming plans that would ultimately lead to her dismissal. His gaze reflected no surprise at her words, and before she could allow herself to retract and apologize, she hurriedly moved for the door and bolted for her room.

She made it as far as the third stair before he spoke again. Though he had not moved an inch, his voice had not increased in volume, nor did it need to. It was as if his tonality possessed control of her motor functions, and she found herself unable to continue and simply ignore him. Before the first breath was taken, Starling froze promptly in place.

"You play very well, Clarice."

At that, she snickered lightly, some of her tension falling, turning back to face him. The rapidity of the statement should have surprised her, but it didn't. If it was his objective to melt her uneasiness, she feared he was on the pathway to success, though she refused to let her guard down. Starling took one step downward and quirked an eyebrow. "I don't play at all," she retorted. "Had a few lessons when I was a kid, but I can't play to save my life."

"I heard nothing lacking in your talents."

If it had been anyone else, she would have suspected this line of dubious compliments to the objective of some devious intention. However, Dr. Lecter had long ago earned her respect and trust in that field. He knew her well enough not to play that sort of game with her. "Everyone knows how to play Heart and Soul," she argued, descending another step.

"The main theme, perhaps, but the accompaniment is not so easily achieved." Dr. Lecter backed a pace toward the piano. Clever maneuver. She felt she had to recover it. "Mrs. Pearce was offended by your acrimony this afternoon."

Starling, fully off the stairs now, followed him back into the parlor, again setting her things aside, determined to keep up, no matter how often he changed the subject. "Mrs. Pearce gravely exaggerated my disposition. I was tired, is all."

"You have shut yourself off for two days now," he observed, assuming her former position at the piano, eyes not breaking from hers as he began to play, something much more dignified and practiced than a piece by Hoagy Carmichael. "You were not offended, I hope, or too terribly embarrassed about—"

"No, Dr. Lecter," she said firmly, shaking her head. "I am nothing more than what I said. Simply tired. There are things I'm having to consider." Briefly, she cursed herself for admitting that, but it was difficult to ignore the new feeling of comfort soaring through her. The nightly discussions she held with the doctor, not ritualistically but often, soothed her in many ways. It was a particular feat; she noticed the lambs never screamed after she talked with him.

She had not told him about the lambs yet.

"Oh?" They spoke as though the music were nonexistent, eyes locked.

"It's not important."

Where she expected him to wheedle, Dr. Lecter seemed to accept this and finally looked away, fixing on the invisible music in front of him. "Noble Pilcher has called on you twice," he mentioned casually. "He left two letters, if you are interested. I will give them to you tomorrow."

"Why not now?" Not that she was too attracted by the concept, but the need to dissect his reaction was unavoidable. Should he reveal the smallest inkling jealousy, she would have all the answer she ever needed.

Whatever she wanted to see, she did not. Instead, the doctor arched his brows and stood. "If you want," he muttered.

"No, don't trouble yourself." Something fell within her, but she failed to acknowledge it. "I don't want to keep you up, Dr. Lecter. If we have such a horrendous day ahead of us, is it not wise to retire for the evening?"

"Of course," he agreed, meeting her gaze again. They stood like that for a minute, transfixed and still. Then it was over, and he brushed passed her, moving up the stairway. "In the morning it is then, Clarice."

For long moments, she stood motionless, back to where he had disappeared. It was a while before her breathing could regulate, having not even noticed the indiscretion in pattern. Now, it seemed, her reaction to his words, gaze, even presence was second nature, unremarkable, but no less confusing than it ever was. And, she suspected, nothing he elicited out of her could ever be described as unexceptional. Rather, she supposed, it was now a regular occurrence that she no longer questioned.

"Oh, Clarice," he said suddenly, his voice no more removed than it was minutes earlier. Startled, she gasped and jumped to face him. Dr. Lecter stood as he had, perhaps having forgot something, but she had the sinking sensation that he had been watching her all along. When he smiled at this realization, she shrank effortlessly into shivers. "One more thing. Your playing is exceptional. You have applied yourself in areas better worth your while. No one granted the privilege of hearing could think anything wanting. Pleasant dreams." Then, with her gaze burning in his back with the fullness of perplexity, he disappeared into the darkness.

Starling stood, gloriously lost, questions pounding her mind from a million directions. It wasn't until she heard his door close, until she was sure that he would not emerge again that she could work her nerves enough to follow his example and retreat to her room.

There she did not find rest. Starling spent many hours staring at the ceiling, her mind jumbled in a massive vortex, an onslaught of confused notions and feelings. Options eddied and collided before finally caving in to a troublesome, agitated sleep.


* * *



And so, the crucial evening arrived.

For the past two weeks, Dr. Lecter had drilled Starling mercilessly without mention of their fleeting conversation. His attitude seemed no more heightened, and things, generally, returned to the way they were prior to the excursion to town.

The next morning, she had awakened as promised at 8:30 by Mrs. Pearce and was allowed a half-hour to prepare. When she finally trailed downstairs, nerves rattling at her bones uncontrollably, she found Dr. Lecter and Barney in the parlor, engaged in heated discussion. Evidently, it was Barney's desire to call the entire project off. He stated it was unfair to continue now that everyone was high-strung and unlike themselves. Dr. Lecter, unaffected by his threats, went on to describe what exactly the final project consisted of rather than recognize the insinuation that it might not take place.

Evidently, the doctor had a former patient whose served as a Presidential advisor. Acting on that fortunate contact, he had secured three invitations to the upcoming dinner that was to honor the arrival of the French Ambassador.

In reaction, Starling admitted she had not expected something so extravagant, but similarly that it failed to frighten her. "Anything," she had observed, "is possible after facing your friends."

Good-naturedly, Dr. Lecter had acknowledged that was most likely the truth.

Thus, all resumed to a stage of normality with no mention of the prior evening's finale. However, it loomed over them, unwavering, along with the moment they had nearly shared at Plimco. Neither spoken of, but similarly, neither over and done.

That wasn't to say nightly conversations did not resume. No, Starling found great comfort in chatting with the doctor after Barney had retired to his room. The list of things to discuss was endless, but in the mindset of keeping both parties comfortable without sinking to that level of irritability once more, the topic most reviewed was the Buffalo Bill case file. Often, she sat cross-legged by the fireplace, nodding as he spoke and jotting notes alongside the given facts. The pages were smeared with black and blue ink.

He surprised her one evening as she assumed her position and asked her, quite calmly, "Do you sew at all?" When he offered no explanation to support the question, she merely wrote the word SEW in large letters on one of the relatively clean pages with several question marks trailing after it.

There were other things she had pieced together. On the back flap, she was constructing a line of connections, all leading to the mysterious conclusion. COVET-EVERY-DAY-BELEVEDERE???-COVETAGAIN?-SEW-?????

Despite her efforts, this strain of clues made absolutely no sense to her. She was tired from trying to break the code, and there were other things to prepare for.

And now, before anyone could blink in realization, the night was here. The night that would decide the prudence of the rest of her life. As prior to their meeting with Mrs. Rosencranz, her hair and cosmetics were done professionally. All she was left to worry with was her wardrobe.

A black dress, long, elegant, and classy was delivered to her room two hours before leave along with Gucci shoes and assorted pieces of fine jewelry. Perhaps hired, but she didn't think so. The dress was accompanied with gloves that stretched to her elbows, and when she modeled for Mrs. Pearce, she felt entirely reborn. It seemed impossible that they were here already, but here she stood.

And after tonight…?

Starling vowed not to worry about the afterward. There was tonight and tonight alone. That did not satisfy the nagging at the far ends of her mind, but she did her best to ignore it.

Downstairs, the mannerisms were quite different. Dr. Lecter lounged comfortably in the parlor, regarding Barney with some amusement as he paced backward and forward, wracked with nervousness. Of everyone in the house, his friend seemed the most distressed. Never before had he seen him so tense. It was hard to tell if his grief was aimed at Starling's imminent performance or the thought that he had to be there in witness of it all.

The house quaked with every step he took.

"If there's any mishap tonight, if Clarice suffers any embarrassment whatever, it'll be on your head alone," Barney stated accusatively, as though such an unfortunate event had already occurred. "You've hounded that girl night and day and if she's exhausted, you'll have no one to blame but yourself."

Dr. Lecter was not as concerned which seemed to agitate the general company. "Calm yourself," he said dismissively. He was unaccustomed to people not reacting to his voice, but Barney seemed hounded enough with his own bellyaching to pay any mind to outside interference.

"Suppose she's discovered? Suppose she makes another mistake?"

"There will be no horses in the White House, I assure you."

Ignoring the doctor promptly, Barney shook his massive head and ground his teeth together. "Think how agonizing it would be. Oh, if anything happens tonight, I don't know what I'll do."

"There's always that job opening. We haven't discussed it for some time, but I am to understand that it is yours for the taking whenever you wish to claim it."

The man stopped short and glared at him. "This is no time for jokes, Doc. The way you've driven the bird the last two weeks passes all bounds of common decency. For God's sake, Doc, stop pacing up and down. Can't you settle somewhere?" He promptly ignored the fact that his friend wasn't standing and continued with his tread from one corner of the room to the next.

"Have some port. It will quieten your nerves."

"I'm not nervous!" Barney shouted. "…where is it?"

Amused, Dr. Lecter waved generally. "On the piano."

As the man hurried to pour himself a glass, which was downed and refilled within ten seconds, Mrs. Pearce entered to announce the car had arrived.

"Oh good. Tell Ms. Starling, will you?" The doctor nodded, turning his gaze expectantly to Barney, who was pouring his third. "Are you ready?"

Without replying, he consumed the contents before finally placing the glass aside. "Tell Ms. Starling indeed. Something's going to go wrong, I'm telling you. I'll bet that damn gown doesn't fit. Will you have a glass of port?"

The flippancy in his topic only increased Dr. Lecter's humor. He chuckled shortly and shook his head. "No, thank you."

"Are you sure the bird will keep everything you've hammered into her?"

To that, the doctor knew the answer perfectly well. However, he merely shrugged uncharacteristically and turned away. "I suppose we shall see."

"What if she doesn't?"

He quirked a brow. "I should think that is rather obvious. I lose my bet."

Barney sighed as though offended, shaking his head as he seized his glass again. "Doc, there's one thing I can't stand about you. It's your annoying self-satisfaction. At a moment like this when so much is at stake, it is absolutely beneath you that you don't need a glass of port." He jerked his head back and drained another glass. "And what about the bird? You act as though she doesn't matter at all."

Dr. Lecter frowned. Either his friend was trying to get around something or he was not observant was once credited. However, he could not conceal a small portion of pleasure to have someone so deceived. "Oh rubbish, Barney. Of course she matters. You know better than that." He broke and looked away, clearing his throat unnecessarily to wan clear any ulterior suspicions. "She matters immensely."

However, Barney was no longer listening, which was most likely for the better. His gaze was transfixed on the entryway, his face brightening into a smile that seemed to banish all worries. "Ms. Starling!" he said loudly. "You look beautiful."

At mention of her name, Dr. Lecter turned to see her and his breath caught in his throat. The woman he viewed coming toward them was not overly confident, nervous but covering it well enough that not many would notice. Mere English sentences could not justly describe her animation and vulnerability. More so than ever before, she was breathtaking. It was the perfect combination of style and emotion. Not only for the dress. If at all, nothing for the dress. He had seen many women in the same attire, but combined with her ferocity and determination, the vision was beyond comparison. Her gaze was not commanded by Barney's, rather his. For all his sense and education, he could not summon the words, even inwardly, to describe her, or even summon the proper reaction. Beautiful seemed too weak a remark for application, and was already in use. He felt no need to insult her by understating how radiant she was. Thus, Dr. Lecter resorted to stunned silence, for one of the few, if not the first time, he found himself utterly speechless.

"Thank you, Mr. Jackson," Starling replied warmly, her eyes, however, captured in his.

"Don't you think so, Doc?" Barney asked, nudging him slightly.

But Dr. Lecter wasn't paying attention. After a minute, he cleared his throat, adopted his scrupulous gaze and looked her over severely. "Hmm," he decided. "Not bad. Not bad at all."

Barney irately dismissed this elusiveness and stepped forward. On the wiser, Starling's eyes lingered with his a beat longer before she turned to smile at Mrs. Pearce, who reassured her of her stunning appearance. No one saw Dr. Lecter retreat casually to the piano where he, too, downed a glass of port.

He reentered seconds later in perfect command of himself and kissed her hand, gloved as it was. Then he trailed upward, unable to resist, and whispered lowly into her ear, "Vae, puto deus fio."

Dr. Lecter took some satisfaction when she shivered, but couldn't restrain one himself. "What does that mean?" she asked, tickling his face with her breath.

"Remind me to tell you when we return." Then he offered his arm and smiled at her as she accepted. "Are you ready, Clarice?" he questioned audibly.

"As ready as I'll ever be."

"Excellent. Then let's be off."

And so they walked out, facing this night that would decide the future for both, arms linked with Barney trailing behind them. Tension crackled and soared, revelations and confusions, both repressed and openly founded seemed to pollute their air. None of this was vocalized, of course. For everything, no one in the car could utter a single word.


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