Author's Note: Though I have been to Washington, I have unfortunately never toured the White House. The information herein is the product of tedious research. I would also like to say that the very minor political slander is not intended to offend anyone.

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 Ten

The approach to the entrance might have been a bit more magical were it not for Barney's ritualistic chant of, "I'm nauseous, I'm nauseous, I'm nauseous." It wasn't intrusive or even loud enough for anyone beyond his immediate party to hear, but in retrospect, he had nothing to dread.

Starling was surprisingly calm, though she expected a full-blown attack on her nerves upon entering. That seemed to be her habitual. She was always collected until the climactic crucial moment.

Before they reached the door, Dr. Lecter turned to Barney sharply and said, "If you feel you are going to be ill, perhaps it is best that you wait outside."

Indeed, at that moment, the man truly looked sick. If it hadn't been for the knowledge that he hadn't eaten a bite all day for nervousness, Starling would have instinctively paced herself away. "Where?" he asked. "Just sit outside and wait for you to pick me up? I'm sure Secret Service would love that."

"You are welcome to occupy yourself in the car," the doctor reminded him gently. "No need to make Ms. Starling any more tense than she is at present." This was said more or less for affect; a shared glance revealed that he knew she was in perfect control of herself, but similarly concerned that such stamina would dissipate inside.

Barney shook his head in firm disagreement. "Shut up. Let's get this over with."

"I'm sure that's not the first time someone has said that upon entering the White House," Starling murmured audibly. It was the first thing to come out of her mouth since leaving the manor, and Dr. Lecter could not suppress a grin of amusement.

Strange that heightened moods should be in more casual spirits than they were when confronted by Mrs. Rosencranz and her merry band of friends. Perhaps it was the air of familiarity, or taking to heart that facing the President of the United States was reasonably simpler than observation under such strict scrutiny. Nevertheless, Starling refused to let herself to forget where she was, who she was with, and what was ideally the evening's objective.

"Be on your best behavior, Clarice," Dr. Lecter hissed in empty warning. It was more for affect, and she, as per expectation, shivered.

"No offense, Doctor," she retorted boldly. "But you can't honestly expect me to go the entire evening without making a comment or two."

"I can and do. What would become of you if you fail this exam? I doubt you would like to be stuck with me for another six months." He met her gaze challengingly, and it pierced her in retribution.

However, Starling failed to shrink to challenge, regardless of how that remark stung. "You tell me," she replied, quirking her brows.

It was a very unsuccessful start to the evening. Mindless—however playful—bickering of this nature in front of the White House, dressed in such formal attire reminded her of several instances on the school playground. Starling was fairly certain that Dr. Lecter would have retorted wittily had they not crossed the threshold inward. Thus, the escapade began. Even Barney ceased his recitation and fell silent, as though the commotion, as mild as it was, would not guise his complaints about a faulty digestive system.

It wasn't until they were greeted and hurried inside that Starling felt her chest constrict and her bowels wrench in a knot. From nowhere, it came, hitting her with the power of a thousand bee stings, dread so cold that her skin sprouted into goosebumps and she couldn't restrain a shiver. "Oh God," she whispered, perhaps a bit too loudly. "Now I'm nauseous."

A look of panic overcame Barney and he rushed to her side, forcefully taking her elbow. "Oh God. It's my fault. Power of suggestion. Hey Doc, where are the—"

"I'm fine," Starling barked in indecision, reclaiming her arm with a fierce yank. The last thing she needed was Barney making this worse by involuntary incentive. "Let me cope. This isn't all that bad." It was easy to say, of course, but she knew when she looked to Dr. Lecter that she betrayed her rattling nerves.

"Just remember," he said reassuringly, "all will be over after tonight."

If only he knew how much that thought failed to put her at ease.

Upon entry, the guests were ushered to the Red Room, where the President would receive them prior to supper. Starling had toured the White House before, but she saw it now, like many things, as though for the first time. Such awe was enough to put her restless mental strain at momentary ease. Never before had the woodwork fascinated her, the history of various pieces of furniture been considered enthralling. The walls were decorated supremely, and several additional adornments included a piano and a harp. Such alleviation was welcomingly different; sensing and experiencing through higher levels of appreciation, without having to change, really change, at all.

To think, this was her last party before the reemergence into the all-dreaded real world. Starling released a quaking breath and her lip quivered a bit in foreboding trepidation.

Dr. Lecter knew nothing of these fears, either by willful ignorance or for the impossible prospect that for once in his life, he was lost as well.

That thought, though beyond unnerving, offered the first bit of comfort she had tasted in weeks.

It wasn't until her face warmed that she realized the doctor was speaking to her, murmuring tidbits that were inconsequential, but she focused on his words anyway. It was easier than trying to remember herself. However, Starling also kept her temperament very much in mind. He wouldn't be able to speak to her all night; he might even—unthinkable as it was—leave her to cope alone.

"The house itself covers approximately eighteen acres," he was saying. "The site was selected by President Washington and Pierre Charles L'Enfant, and I believe the design was influenced by the Leinster House, perhaps even…"

It was at times like this that tuning him out was especially essential, though she was amazed how such tedious bits of trivia could manage to sooth her. However, as he approached the subject of the various times the house had been burnt and reconstructed, Starling could not keep her voice silent. The thrill of their banter suppressed any need for additional comfort. "Is there a point to this incessant rambling?"

"Merely the enlightenment of your horizons, my dear." His tone was light in reassurance that he suffered no bruised inclination. "Though I must admit I am surprised. You seemed so enthralled."

"I was enjoying the quartet," she replied with a smirk.

"My apologies for interrupting such cultural refinement," Dr. Lecter retorted knowingly. "Though I must applaud your sense of taste. I do so admire Mozart."

"I'm dizzy," Barney announced. It seemed he always interrupted at the most inconvenient moments.

By guilty instinct, the doctor took a step back, achieving little as they were still linked at the arm. "Perhaps you drank a bit too much port," he suggested wryly, earning an especially sharp glare.

"And whose fault is that?"

Starling looked in confusion from one to the other. She must have missed something.

The doctor flashed the grin that she was so accustomed to, and she was surprised when it made her shiver still. Such was a natural reaction now and would not have made her question herself had she failed to realize she was not its target. Dr. Lecter seemed to notice this, as well, for his eyes sparkled with barely concealed glee.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," he replied innocently.

At that, she smirked. He could be so boyish at times.

"Fucking port," Barney muttered dejectedly, plucking a glass of champagne off the proffered tray distributed by various passing butlers.

Her leer dissolved into kindness, and by no sense of obligation, she detached herself from Dr. Lecter's arm to approach their agitated companion as he gulped the glass's contents down swiftly, grimacing to himself. "You're worried enough for both us," Starling observed, patting his shoulder reassuringly. "Don't concern yourself on my account. I'm not nervous." A lie. With each passing second, she was sure her nerves would betray her to the point of hysterics. However, with the channel of time, she was becoming exceedingly talented at covering her distress. "Think about it. Who do we have here to fear? Vice President Quayle isn't exactly the brightest crayon in the box. What did he say about the election? That he wanted to be Robin to Bush's Batman?" She hadn't made that up. Demonstratively, Starling rolled her eyes. "We don't have to play up for these people."

Barney sniggered appreciatively. "Don't bother with me, Ms. Starling," he returned. "I know you can't be making so light of this situation, you're just better at covering it than I am. Why don't we just both put on our happy faces and try to get through the night?"

"Deal," she agreed.

When Starling turned to face Dr. Lecter, he was no longer there. Though her expression remained unchanged, a nerve struck. As she much as she hated the thought, she felt alone and vulnerable in a scene such as this whenever he wasn't at her side. However, she schooled herself from looking for him. Barney would suffice, and she knew he wouldn't leave her until she was comfortable. She smiled nicely to the waiter serving champagne as he handed her a fresh glass. Barney's was whisked away and replaced. Despite collectiveness, she had to discipline herself from downing it in one gulp. Mannerisms had definitely improved, but she supposed it would take years to exorcise the essential of liquor in any awkward situation.

Across the room, Dr. Lecter was captured in conversation with someone he had met once or twice conventionally. The man was older than Starling and he was quite sure they had never been introduced, despite the fact they shared a remarkable connection. He was the one before her, in a sense: Jack Crawford's original tyro. Will Graham was known at Quantico as one of the most adept Behavioral Science agents of the decade. The doctor regarded him with inward humor. This one, he suspected, would be fun to toy with, should be so inclined.

Of course, a man would have to be very bored.

Despite appearances, there was almost an unprompted aversion; as though they were born enemies.

How Graham was invited, Dr. Lecter did not know or care. He supposed it was out of courtesy that the man spoke with him now, though it was evident that he took little pleasure in it.

There was an alternate use of him, however. If anyone could identify an FBI trainee—despite attire or circumstance, the doctor knew Graham was the man. Such could be beneficial for the lasting stages of this experiment.

After Dr. Lecter managed to rid himself of the agent's pleasantries, he found Starling and Barney standing protectively next to each other and neared. As much as he disliked the prospect of putting the bird through anxiety that he personally did not endorse, he similarly recognized that the evening could not be called productive if they did not socialize outside the familiar circle.

Not that he was sure her success was something he wanted tonight. It sealed the end of the project, and he would consequently have to part with her in the next few days, and likely—from the lives they led—not to see her again.

That could be for the best, Dr. Lecter reflected unconvincingly as he approached. People of their nature could not draw too close attachments. The order of his life would imminently return, along with the tedious everydayness of all situations.

He considered his nightly visits to pubs in order to find a project worth his time and could not stifle a shudder. The things a man would do to keep from boredom. Of course, had he not engaged in such disenchanting activities and associating at places of regarded poor reputation, Starling would not be here tonight. Here. With him.

Such were not pleasant recollections or dwellings, but they did their job in assuring him that what had to eventually be done was in the best interest of both parties. Life was too formal for such a break. They had bent the rules and were lucky to have been overlooked for the better part of a half-year.

"Dr. Lecter," Starling acknowledged as though seeing him for the first time this evening, nodding her politeness.

"Good evening, Ms. Starling," he returned in kind, unable to resist the opportunity to kiss her hand once more. Dr. Lecter was pleased, though slightly discomfited, to note that she no longer seemed terribly apprehensive. Rather, her eyes reflected something of sadness, masterfully veiled, of course. He was often only allowed a glimpse of her frontage before she buried it far from sight.

They were only permitted a few seconds to themselves before approached again. This time, it was the woman responsible for acquiring the invitations. A former patient of the doctor's; Mrs. Lydia Gardiner. She looked much better than he recalled, which induced a minor string of satisfaction.

"Ah," Dr. Lecter said, as though pleased. "Mrs. Gardiner, allow me to present Ms. Clarice Starling and Mr. Barney Jackson. Mrs. Gardiner is accountable for our attendance tonight."

On cue, Starling smiled her radiance and nodded graciously to the woman. "My thanks. What an experience! How do you do?"

Mrs. Gardiner relayed her acknowledgements. "A pleasure, I'm sure. How do you do, Ms. Starling?"

"I'm very well, thank you."

"Excellent. There's nothing like relaxing after a stressful week at work." She laughed heartily as though she had said something highly amusing. "And what do you do, Ms. Starling?"

It was like watching a shot in slow motion. Dr. Lecter saw the color drain from her face as she stumbled for an answer, unable to find one on the spot, and hurriedly dismissed herself to locate the ladies' room.

Barney was beyond mortified and started to follow her, but thought the better of it. Collected as ever, the doctor could do nothing but watch her as she disappeared, knowing that while he could not pursue her, his concerns—annoying and untimely as they were—left the room at her side. It was odd, feeling a candor as human as sympathy. Long ago he thought himself void of such vulnerabilities. Starling had the aptitude to draw the rawest of humanity from his otherwise impenetrable shell. This was not without its merit, however. When something affected her mood, he was likely the only one that could see it, even if he lacked the maddening ability to root its cause.

"What an enchanting young lady you have with you this evening, Mr. Jackson," Mrs. Gardiner was saying enthusiastically.

Uncomfortable, Barney smiled his gratitude and nodded. "Thank you," he replied with enduring awkwardness, as though he was responsible for her being.

"Who is she?"

Dr. Lecter watched in distant amusement as he fumbled for an answer, blurting visibly the first thing that came to mind. "She's a cousin of mine."

Mrs. Gardiner nodded kindly, then paused in confusion and stared.

Bewildered and embarrassed, he scuffled again and added, "And the doctor's…excuse me." And he was gone like a bat out of hell. It was all Dr. Lecter could do to conceal his laughter.

However, not even the oddest of circumstances could throw Mrs. Gardiner off course. This was good, he reflected. It showed sufficient growth from when last they met. "Dr. Lecter," she said, indicating to Starling as she returned from what he presumed was the lavatory. "She has such a far away look, as though she's always lived in a garden."

Starling's appearance was hardly far and away, though she no longer seemed concerned with particulars. Instead, she was looking worriedly at someone. As Mrs. Gardiner chatted incessantly, Dr. Lecter followed the bird's eyes to sudden awareness. Standing on the other side of the room was Will Graham, having just broken from discussion with Barney. Beside him was Mrs. Rachel Rosencranz.

A string of irritation surged, though he knew not at whom it was directed.

"So she has," Dr. Lecter replied soundly, stepping away. "A sort of garden."

Barney was chatting animatedly with his former social companion, a look of pure chagrin spread nether his features. "The doc needs to take Starling home immediately," he was saying. "There's an FBI agent here who could spot her a mile away, and—"

"Nonsense, Barney," Dr. Lecter said stoutly, stopping before them with a polite nod to Mrs. Rosencranz. He looked briefly at her, only long enough to bid her good evening, and turned back to his friend, uncaring to inquire how she might have had the good fortune of being invited. Fleetingly, his mind went to Starling, who would assuredly not approve of her presence. "No harm can come from Mr. Graham's impending acquaintance with Clarice," he decided. "You act as though she is a felon, or masquerading under a false identity."

"No good, no good," Barney replied stubbornly, shaking his head with emphasis. "Absolutely no good can come from this."

Across the room, Starling was occupying herself with a group of ladies nearer her age, sipping champagne (impressively still her first glass) and not partaking in discussion. For the past few minutes, her eyes had been focused darkly on her party and Mrs. Rosencranz. What in the hell could she be doing here from Baltimore? A nagging feeling stirred in the pit of her stomach, and she felt herself again overcome with jealousy atop her preempted dislike. Likely, her attendance was nothing more than a coincidence. The notion that her instructor had invited her to partake in the festivities was unlikely, but she knew well not to put it passed him.

The evening was beginning to take a strange turn. Starling was itchy and uncomfortable and wished herself miles away. Fleetingly, she wondered if Barney's nausea was indeed influential by the power of suggestion.

When she looked back to her companions, Dr. Lecter had located her. As soon as their eyes met, he proceeded to dismiss himself from Mrs. Rosencranz's divine company and started in her direction. With as anxious as she was to escape the ladies' conversation, Starling was irritated enough to simply walk away and ignore him. A group seemed to be gathering in the Rose Garden, and at the moment, it held more appeal.

But for all her dignity, she knew she could not simply walk away, especially since he knew that she had seen him. It would be unspeakably rude.

Or so she told herself.

Whatever her eyes revealed, Dr. Lecter saw without object. He was not pleased. "Are you not enjoying yourself, Clarice?" he asked, taking a sip of wine that seemed to materialize in his hand. "You look a little pale."

And she couldn't help it. That prompt was more than enough to force her façade aside, as though a tidal wave were waiting behind flooding gates. "What is Mrs. Rosencranz doing here?" she demanded sharply.

"I haven't the faintest idea," he replied with a casual, innocent air, turning briefly to glance in the indicated direction. "She has her connections as well. I don't believe she expected us to be here. Last we spoke, I told her I was planning on taking you to an actual Embassy ball. This simply proved to be more convenient."

"So you didn't invite her?"

At that, Dr. Lecter's eyes darkened considerably, as though morally offended. "Shame on you, Clarice," he hissed in a manner that made her shiver in a way that was most unfamiliar. Rather than exciting, it shook her to her very core, and she trembled in something relative to fear. "You should know better than that."

Immediately, she sunk into a pit of remorse, acknowledging the foolishness in assuming the doctor would do something with such obtuse malice. There were plenty of ways to make her uncomfortable without bringing an outside party into the matter. She opened her mouth to apologize. "I—"

"Do you really believe I would intentionally make this evening any more awkward for you than it already is?"

As if in answer, a person she vaguely recognized approached with a look of scandalous curiosity. "Doctor," he greeted as though they were old friends. "Would you mind introducing me to this dazzling young lady?"

It was then that she placed him. Will Graham of Behavioral Science. At first shocked, she found herself more taken with the briefest instance of distaste that flashed behind Dr. Lecter's eyes. Never had she seen anything more genuine or fluid, but it was gone so quickly that she might have mistaken it for something else entire. Instead of answering, however, he glanced to Barney, who looked faint.

Something clicked. Everyone, for whatever reason, was avoiding this introduction.

A timely save. At that minute, the President and the First Lady entered: their presence commanding silence. Dr. Lecter gentlemanly maneuvered to Starling's side, steering her with force away from Will Graham.

She had to wonder if the force was a reaction of provoked resent or in accent not to turn around.

Even with her back to him, she could feel his bedazzled eyes on her in the ever-familiar scrutiny. It was true that they had never met formerly, but she had seen him occasionally at Quantico, going to and from various places. Back in the day.

He's trying to place me, she thought. If anyone could, given limited resources, it was him. Ever since she came to Quantico, all she heard from Crawford, off other mundane topics, was the praise of Graham's efforts. She believed the legendary agent had even sat in on a class or two.

If he places me… she thought, but found herself unable to complete the notion. Was it more appropriate to be frightened of such recognition or to be dismayed should it not occur?

What was suddenly so bad about being an FBI trainee? It was a respectable job.

Perhaps Dr. Lecter's efforts were more for the mind sake of Barney's relentless paranoia. Enduring anxiety had the power to overwhelm one's senses. A hazarded glance at him assured her that his patience had not yet alleviated from her prior insinuation. With a sigh, Starling felt herself sink.

As the President introduced the French Ambassador and directed his guests to the State Dining Room, she could not continue without a weak attempt at making amends. She drew in a breath and strained her neck at him, whispering genteelly, "What do you get when you cross a pilgrim with a democrat?"

Cold silence was her answer, leering and brutal, and she shivered her contempt. Perhaps it was best not to speak unless first addressed.

It wasn't until people began to flock in the indicated direction that he turned to her and replied lowly, "What, pray tell, would require such a combination?" Much to her comforted surprise, his tone was light and forbearing, eyes ablaze with sacrament.

Warm relief flooded through her, and Starling emitted an audible huff of air, smiling as he smiled. "A god-fearing tax collector who gives thanks for what other people have."

He chuckled mildly, hand caressing the small of her back in a gentle push toward the crowd. Granted from anyone else, it was almost a display of doting affection, and she found herself overwhelmed once more. This trend from one mindset to the other was getting ridiculous, but Starling was to the point of indifference. "Trite, Clarice," he hummed into her ear.

"I thought it was best to stick to democratic jokes, all things considered."

"Touché."

The State Dining Room was perhaps the most remarkable atmospheric room she had seen yet, though maybe for the searing emotions and positive ambiance. However, her high was short-lived, a fleeting thought diminishing it swiftly. While the first, this was likely also the last time she would be granted such splendor on a silver platter. When, in her line of work, would she have the opportunity to visit places like this? Not simply the White House, but also the diners she had enjoyed over the past six months, even Boccaccio, where she was most uncomfortable. The opinion of her general acquaintance was to avoid places that exceeded ten dollars per plate, as well as liquor that not guarantee two shots followed by a face full of floor.

Where was this leading her?

Best to keep her mind on her surroundings. There was plenty of time to worry about the particulars later…

A mahogany table was evidently their destination, surrounded by Queen Anne-style chairs. There was a plateau centerpiece bordered with standing bacchantes holding wreaths that supported candles. It included seven mirrored sections to act as the median. Three fruit baskets, propped by female figures, were displaying the loveliest flowers Starling had ever seen. Dr. Lecter whispered to her that the two rococo-revival candelabra dated to the Hayes Administration, and that the soft green and brown carpet was a reproduction of a Persian design from the 17th century. All that and more, there were three console tables against the walls, and silver-plated chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Above the mantel was a portrait of President Lincoln, and below it an inscription from a letter written by John Adams:

I pray Heaven to Bestow the Best of Blessings on THIS HOUSE and on All that shall hereafter Inhabit it. May none but honest and Wise Men ever rule this roof.

When granted the opportunity to read it up close, Starling snickered mildly but declined comment.

Dr. Lecter was notably enjoying her reaction, though his eyes sparkled with intent as he neared her ear and whispered, briefly catching her off guard with more talk of politics. "Though neither party is without flaw. According to Quayle, Republicans understand the importance of bondage between a mother and child."

Starling's teeth clamped hard on the inside of her cheek to keep laughter from escaping. "Don't forget, they also vow to defend and support their Republicans, regardless of personal beliefs," she added.

"Hush," he whispered fleetingly, but his eyes were still dancing.

Dinner was lovely, leisure and unrushed. Much to Starling's delight, they were seated nowhere near Mrs. Rosencranz or Will Graham. The last thing she needed was to be in the presence of those that caused her additional anxiety. Rather, she began to genuinely enjoy herself. While Dr. Lecter was involved in the conversation, occasionally averting to French when addressing the ambassador, she was completely content in acting as a silent observer.

Still, despite this, Starling was disappointed to learn there was yet another part of the evening. After supper concluded, the President encouraged all of his guests to migrate to the East Room, which was, as she understood from Dr. Lecter's brief history lesson as they followed the others, the room used traditionally for the heart of entertainment. He promised they would not stay longer than necessary, but that it would be rude to be the first to leave.

And the last person in the world to be rude to, other than the doctor himself, was assuredly the President of the United States.

The quartet soon began again, playing selections from Handel's Water Music, as well as other notable pieces by Mozart, Haydn, Cambini, Boccherini, and Mendelssohn. Starling pleased herself when she could not only identify the composer, but the piece and time period as well. It served as a suitable mode of distraction. She was not typically an enthusiastic dancer, though the memory of her last experience was pleasant in that disconcerting fashion. Instead, she remained content, standing in the group of the same ladies that seemed to congregate together wherever they went. She was happy to locate Mrs. Rosencranz without a certain doctor for a partner. Their eyes met briefly, both wavering in general distaste.

No sooner had she glanced away was Starling distracted by a man approaching. Will Graham, upon finding her alone, was finally free to speak with her. It didn't surprise her, but she was astringent with the dread of what he might have to say, what he might and might not see. With a polite smile as he stopped before her, Graham opened his mouth to introduce himself and was cut off abruptly by Dr. Lecter, who appeared from nowhere. He regarded the disgruntled agent as though he were nonexistent, flashing her a smile and reached for her hand.

"Shall we, Clarice?" he asked smoothly, indicating the others dancing across the regal room. Her eyes flashed in fleeting anger, but she was unable to do anything but comply. With an apologetic smile to Graham, her eyes darkened and she was dragged away.

It was only a few seconds before the raw irritation set in. If there was anything she hated, it was being left in the dark when something was obviously in the works. Especially, and most principally, when it included her.

Consequently, Starling was able to ignore the fleeting sensation being whisked in his embrace, much to her satisfied revelation. The sooner she became accustomed to not swooning, the better. "I'm a little offended, Dr. Lecter," she said intrepidly, earning an arched glance.

"Oh? Why is that?"

"You seem to think I am ignorant of who exactly is here this evening. Do you really think I could be a student at Quantico under Jack Crawford and not know who Will Graham is?" she asked narrowly. "You must really believe me a simpleton. Why do you keep us from speaking?"

Despite these accusations, he seemed amused, and had no want of refutation. This failed to surprise her. If the doctor had a motive, he similarly had no difficulty in sharing it within anyone that inquired, lest they were keenly involved. "To develop his curiosity, of course."

"What?"

Dr. Lecter grinned mischievously. "It works out rather well, I would say. Our good fortune to have a fellow agent in attendance tonight. I am sure you have deducted that he will know you instantly, regardless of former acquaintance, as a trainee, should you speak with him."

She nodded. "It's a sort of radar we have."

"Precisely. Thus, when he does speak with you—and he will before the dance is through—he will be particularly observant."

At first it made no sense, but over the next few seconds, under his piercing stare, realization crept forward. With a defeated sigh, Starling looked down. "You want to see if he can tell what I am at all, to see how much progress we have attained."

"Very good."

She sighed. That was what she afraid of. Should Graham not recognize her, it meant the months were a success and the objective was obtained. But where did it leave her? Who was she if the notorious Will Graham could not identify her as a student? More over, did she even want it? The resuscitation of reality was imminent now, plain and in sight.

Reality.

A fleeting thought came back to haunt her, one she had upon leaving Ardelia Mapp, the last thing that crossed her mind as she headed for her car to go off and do this crazy thing. Six months isn't forever.

How true. How insufficiently true.

There was more comfort going into this deal than there was now that she was at the end. Life, the comfortable existence she had created for herself, was still there, waiting for her. This being was temporary, and for her experience in both worlds, she feared which she preferred.

Though, Starling couldn't honestly say she preferred it because it was in her nature, or because she would soon lack access to its gates.

She was speaking before she realized it. For whatever reason, tonight, the vital night, in the light of the last mile before freedom, she could not retain her voice. Starling cursed herself mildly, but in truthfulness, she didn't say much. Not much, but it was still enough. "Dr. Lecter, what happens after this?"

There was no need in asking her to repeat the question. Gravity was detected instantly; she saw his eyes flicker with significance. However, he edged from the subject, manipulating her toward Graham without flinching in alteration. "We will discuss it when we return," he said simply, twirling her out of his arms and flashing an encouraging smile to the man, who eagerly took his place.

Then he was gone—off to the corner to speak with Mrs. Gardiner and Barney, who looked faint to see her abandoned in the presence of one of her own.

With all the apprehension she harbored for the afterward of the outing, the fear she possessed earlier when presented with the idea of having this man dissect and identify her was gone. Every time she received the opportunity, Starling's eyes focused on Dr. Lecter, who remained unmoved in watching her. It was weave, glance, weave, glance, as though watching a flicker show. Through a series of turns, she watched a waiter approach and hand him a glass of champagne, a passing conversation with the French Ambassador, and a hearty handshake from the President. Discussion with Graham was pleasant, even with her mind detached. At that moment, she didn't care what his conclusions were of her character, didn't pay mind to manners—relying on those that were now embedded into her system.

And then the dance was over, as was this final test, this means to an end. Graham thanked and commended her, but she had no interest in attempting to decipher his now derived opinion. She wanted to find Dr. Lecter and ask to leave so they could continue their conversation. At the moment, nothing was more important.

However, when she saw him again, Graham was at his side again, and they were chatting animatedly, looking at her. Aggravated but knowing there was nothing she could do, Starling busied herself by seizing a glass of wine off a passing tray. She felt fidgety but didn't care if it showed. After what seemed like an eternity, the discussion wrapped and Graham turned away, gave her a meaningful glance, then toddled off. And that was the end of it.

Starling's heart skipped a beat and her eyes followed him for long seconds before glancing to his departed conversationalist. It didn't surprise her to find him already fixed on her eyes, nor to see amusement cackling behind his gaze. Inhaling deeply, she worked up her courage and approached, coaching herself under her breath. She was ready for this.

Suddenly, she was back in high school, walking toward some nasty English teacher's desk as term papers were handed back. All the strain and sweat that went into a project riding on one single grade, the grade that would make or break her. The grade that determined if the panicking and the studying and the research and the practice valued the merit of an all-important judgment day.

As she recounted the mildly traumatizing experience of twelfth year midterms, she stopped short in front of Dr. Lecter, eyes wide with expectancy. "Well?"

Dr. Lecter grinned.

"Well?"

Dr. Lecter grinned.

"Well?"

"He did try very hard," he said at last, ambiguously. The maroon in his gaze was dancing. "And he was very confident. I suppose that credits a little recognition. However, when it came to pinpointing your profession, there was definitely something lacking." In deliberate torment, Dr. Lecter paused. Whatever it was had to be something greatly humorous. Agitation tore at her nerves, and just when she was convinced the only way to obtain the answer was to pounce and beat it out of him (with as much good as it would do), he exhaled slowly and continued. "Agent Graham commented particularly on your good fortune. It was his resolution that you were born into a prosperous family. Very prosperous. There was a hint of you that screamed boarding school, he said. He was most impressed with your courtesy, and commented that such mannerisms were rare to be seen in society today." He stopped again and smiled with seemingly malicious intent. "My dear, he said you were not made to work a day in your life, and likely would not. From your parent's house, to the sorority house, to your husband's house, there is a want for nothing more than to sit back and savor life without trying to keep up with it."

And then time stood still. Confound in the utmost shock, she could not breathe, could not move, could not think. The music in the room seemed to silence, the twirling couples slowed to a near halt. It was over quickly, along with the sensation of every scraped knee she had doctored, every insulting comment she had endured, every gun she had fired, every tear she had shed over the heartless, wicked, brainless institution that drove her to this pivotal point. What was it for? Regardless of how long she was destined to live, Starling never thought she would see the day that someone call her anything but athletic, anything but a dedicated, hard, earnest worker. Anything but what she was.

What was someone to feel when informed that her entire existence meant nothing?

A success indeed. Going to Dr. Lecter had transformed her, but more over all, she had transformed herself. After all, had not Graham reported anything that was not in a sense true? Not the estimates on her background, of course, but the very same concerns and questions tormented her relentlessly for the past two weeks.

So, here she was. The conclusive night. A successful report. The seeming end of a new beginning.

That was all well and good, but offered little help.

What was left for her now?


* * *