( Special thanks to my Daddy for volunteering his mental status exam form
for me to plaguerize. Sometimes it's okay to have a real-live psychiatrist
in the house. Then again, sometimes it's -not-)
Clarice was on the road again by ten after eight, having made quick use of the grubby hotel's tepid, rusty shower. It seemed ridiculous now that she'd left so late the night before. Baltimore was just an hour or so drive, and yet some vindictive need to leave had seized her the moment she'd made the decision to follow up on this lead.
Which would probably end up being no more than a wild goose chase, or a sick joke on the doctor's behalf. She'd most likely find the scattered remains of some poorly solved murder case, c/o Hannibal Lecter, another mark against him in the FBI's Big Black Book.
And yet...as the outskirts of Baltimore came into view, she couldn't help but muse over the incongruities. She could not imagine why there had been no further investigation on this Fielding girl's death. After all, it'd been Lecter himself who had found her, at least that's what the article had touted. Granted it was before everyone realized he was a mad, raving serial killer, but she knew protocol. Any death directly linked, or even indirectly linked to him should have been given a second glance after they'd realized what the hell was going on.
As for this moment, Clarice had no real idea where to start. A library would probably not yield much as far as information went. If the death had been ruled a suicide and left as such, there'd have only been one or two articles even remotely referring to the incident. She doubted the obituary would be of any help. Still, it wasn't wise to rule out all sources, so she resolved to visit the Baltimore campus library first. This, unfortunately, would require obtaining permission from the school officials, perhaps even the Dean, but a quick flash of her shiny, newly reprinted badge would probably do the trick.
Fighting her way through the work-rush traffic, it took another hour just to reach the University. Following the signs that directed her to the main campus brought her right by the school housing, which caught her eye for a moment. Were they the same apartments, perhaps? The buildings certainly didn't look new. It was definitely possible that they hadn't been restored or rebuilt since the late seventies.
Squinting against the harsh morning sun, she directed her car towards the admission building, finding it somewhat difficult to tear her eyes away from the apartments dissapearing in her rearview mirror.
...*...
There was something buzzing faintly in the back of Cora's head. It was a sound that occurred intermittently, in bursts of five. Then a cessation for a few minutes, and the cycle would begin again. It took her three instances of attempting to identify the source before the bleary word 'phone' managed to trip across her ragged subconcious. It was with the same dragging lethargy the she stumbled out of bed and into the kitchen to find a way to cease this nerveless racket. The four walls and ceiling seemed to be dancing, and it was not at all pleasant to behold, especially since her brain currently felt as though it was being cleaved in half by a blunt butter knife.
"Hell-O." She stuttered into the evil black reciever, leaning against the fridge for support. Why the fuck was the floor moving?
"Is this Miss Fielding?"
"Yeah." What the hell time was it? A glance to the clock confirmed nine fourteen. In the morning. Everyone knew better than to call her this early. Someone was about to die.
"This is Constance Ryder, from Doctor Lecter's office. I'm calling to confirm your interest in the class Dr. Lecter will be conducting, and to ask if you will be available to meet with him this afternoon."
Oh, God. Too many words. Doctor Lecter. Class. Afternoon. These made sense. Cora found herself nodding, and then realized that the gesture was completely useless.
"Yes...I can...Okay. What time?"
"Two o'clock. Can you be here then?"
"Yup." Not the most eloquent of answers, but it seemed to satisfy this Constance person, who droned out the address again before hanging up and leaving Cora to her own devices.
She stood there for several pregnant moments, one hand on the refrigerator and the other on her forehead. Something was keeping her from remembering what happened the night before, and she was reluctant to push the issue. Dave...something...touching...she shuddered and almost screamed when a pair of tiny paws landed on her shin.
"Cleo." The kitten blinked at her, and then yowled plaintively. A glance to the food dish ascertained the reason, and Cora made quick work of filling the little bowl so the cat would stop making noise.
The trek back to her room seemed far too long to be real. Cora stopped dead in her tracks when she finally pushed the door open. It took some time for her to register the sight of dried blood, puddled and flecked on the floor next to her bed. Her sheets were streaked as well, the substance now gone coppery instead of scarlet. There were handprints on the walls too, side by side, smeared down to the baseboards. Her stomach turned once, twice, and she looked down at her body.
The havoc wreaked upon her thighs was enough to make her dizzy again, but she could not make herself turn her eyes away from the barb-wire slashes. It was this that brought the events of the previous evening more clearly into focus - the bar, drinking...there was a muddled period from the time she got into the car with Dave to the time she remembered screaming for him to get out, but she knew something had happened. That familiar, twisting evil feeling in her gut almost propelled her to sieze the knife again, which was now lying complacently on the bedside table.
"No." She said aloud, laying a protective hand on her upper leg. Willing herself to bypass the blade, she stumbled into the background and turned on the shower, choking back the bile that rose in her throat.
Up until last night, it had been five or six years since she'd lost control enough to hurt herself. It had also been that long since her last sexual expeirience, a particularly vicious memory that still made her cringe. She'd managed to remain a virgin, thus far, through her body's fight or flight mechanism that kicked in every time a man (or adolescent boy, bless their poor little hearts when she screamed at the sight of a bare chest) tried to touch her. She'd given up drinking in high school for that very reason; it lowered her defenses and made her grope for something she thought she wanted. And even when the heated, lippy kisses were recieved without much protest, the next day would always yield a session in the shower where she would scrub and scrub and open her mouth in silent, throat ripping screams.
The water stung the new wounds, but it was a chaste reminder of why she'd never drink again. When she got out of the shower, she could doctor them and weld them shut with a tight bandaid and hope that the scars would fade over time.
Wiping the condensation from the mirror, Cora stepped back and looked at herself. She felt an irrational, strange puff of pride at the glaring red slashes on her thighs.
I control this, she thought as she began combing the the tangles from her pale hair. I control this, and it's damn near the only thing.
Cleo padded softly into the bathroom and settled down by her feet, idly licking the drops of water that had collected on Cora's ankles. She reached down and tufted her fingertips over the kitten's velvet ears, momentarily comforted by the feeling.
Then she turned and faced the bedroom, the splashes of color on her white sheets and hardwood floor. This would take a while.
...*...
A mop bucket, six rags and another shower later, Cora's room was in a much better condition. By this time it was just after noon, and she would have time to launder her sheets in the apartment's facilities before jetting off to her meeting with Doctor Lecter. She hoped the stains would come out in the wash, after all, the sheets had been her favorite.
It was buisness as usual, in other words, and she had resigned not to give another thought to the fiasco of last night. The phone rang just as she was about to walk out the door, and she contemplated letting it ring until the thought that it could be the Doctor's office crossed her mind.
"Hello?"
"Cor? It's Julia." Came the familiar voice, slightly uncertain. Cora was not prepared for the concern in her friend's tone, and it threw her usual stand-offish approach to Julie's boisterous nosiness for a loop.
"Hey. What are you doing?" Cora replied, shooing Cleo away from the pile of bloody sheets in the middle of the kitchen.
"Uhm...nothing. Hey...Dave said you guys got in a fight last night."
Cora snorted derisively, a noise that masked the cold fire in her stomach at the mention of Dave's name. Of course he said they'd gotten in a fight. The truth was probably too embarrassing - that she'd refused his advances and collapsed on the floor in a fit of sobs. She still could not remember exactly what had happened, but whatever it was, it had been enough to evoke old feelings worthy of self-destruction.
"I wouldn't call it a fight, hon. He tried to...well. It's not important. Why did he tell you?"
"Well, he was worried about you. H-"
"Worried?! Oh Christ, Julia. I can't talk about this right now. I'm going to be late." There was silence for a moment, and the sound of a muffled sigh.
"Alright. But...please, call me later. I want you to tell me what happened. I'd rather hear it from you than from him."
After Cora hung up and was crossing the parking lot for the laundromat, she felt genuinely guilty for being so closed off to Julia. It's just that it was not in Cora's nature to be close to anyone, as the people she'd allowed herself to trust had always, in some way or another, let her down.
Still, she was not prepared to explain the situation to anyone. Because Julia would want to know -why- Cora had reacted so violently, and that would mean the truth of that night in April, with the police and the stench of death and not speaking for six months...
Maybe some day, but not now. The nightmare memory itself was too much, even damn near twenty years later.
...*...
Hannibal smelled the blood on the young woman as soon as she settled into the chair in front of him. It was obvious whatever wounds she had had been recently tended, with...hmm, betadine, iodine. Some kind of mild salve. He was now quite convinced that the young woman was a self-mutilator, something he had only encountered once, perhaps twice in his career. The extent of the damage she had caused herself was unclear, although he knew it must have been formidable for the scent of her blood to reach him so quickly.
Depthless eyes colored like ripe merlot remained passive, none the less. She was perceptive, this one, perhaps more so than any of the other students he'd intereviewed thus far. If he acted oddly, or hinted at his knowledge, she would sense it.
"I hope this meeting was convienient for you, Miss Fielding. I know Saturdays can be somewhat full for students." he began smoothly, his smile soft and fleeting. The diminuitive Miss Fielding appeared, by all accounts, to be a creature of unnatural calm. He wondered at what could have shaken her so severely in a span of twenty-four hours, for he knew the wounds were new. He had not noticed them in their meeting the previous afternoon.
"Yes, Dr. Lecter. I had nothing planned for the afternoon yet, I usually take Saturdays off to relax." Her parry was polite, well-structured, her tone even and nonplussed. "If anything, you've rescued me from lazing about an entire day." The gentle attempt at humor was noted, its propriety perfect for the moment. If anything, this girl was well-schooled in manners and the art of simple, small conversation. Hannibal chuckled with the appropriate amount of appreciation to her jest.
"Glad I could be of some service. Shall we attend to buisiness, then? We'll be deviating a little from the standard status exam, as my goal here is only to ascertain your ability to benefit from this class. I've no interest in psychoanalyzing you or your peers. I just want to make sure you aren't wasting your time."
Cora listened to this mini-monologue, swallowing his justification easily and allowing him to continue with an encouraging nod of her head.
"Good." Hannibal uncapped his pen and glanced up at her, marveling again at how she managed to sit perfectly still, as immobile as the replica bust of Pallas flanking the entrance to his office. "Please state your full name."
"Coralynn Amelie Fielding."
"How old are you?"
"Twenty two."
"What day of the week is it?"
"Saturday."
"I'm going to tell you three objects, and in a few minutes I will ask you to repeat those objects back to me. The objects are apple, pencil, and shoe."
"Yes, sir."
"Where are we?"
"Commerce street. In your office. In...in Doctor Lecter's office."
"Count backward from one hundred by sevens, please."
"Ninety three, eighty six, seventy nine, seventy two, s-"
"Good. What is thirty six plus fifteen?"
Cora paused a moment, then answered, "Fifty one."
"Who is the President of the United States?"
"Richard Nixon."
"Spell the word 'human.' "
"H-u-m-a-n."
"Now spell it backwards."
"N-a-m-u-h."
"The objects I asked you to remember a few minutes ago. What were they?"
"Apple, pencil and shoe."
"Good. Now, w-..."
The interview proceeded as any other would, though most of the overtly personal questions were omitted. Hannibal chanced quick glances at the girl as she answered, jotting each tic of the face, each moment spent contemplating an answer, any discomfort the subject appeared to display. When it was over he thanked her politely and flipped his notebook closed.
"Miss Fielding, I see no reason why you would not excell in this course. You are exceptionally bright and seem to be perfectly capable of handling an extra class. If you are still interested, we will be meeting at six thirty every Monday night."
"Thank you very much, Doctor Lecter, both for accepting me and for arranging the class in the first place. I'm thrilled to be learning from one such as yourself." Cora replied, bending down to scoop up her purse. She winced, a quick thing hidden beneath her curtain of hair. The sudden movement thrust the fabric of her jeans flush against one of the slashes on her thigh. The thin, premptory scab cracked and the wound bled anew beneath the layers of gauze she had secured around her leg. Hannibal's nostrils flared.
"Again, it is my pleasure. I'll be seeing you Monday then, Miss Fielding." He stood, rather more quickly than he had intended, for the fresh scent of her blood was making his own rush with adrenaline. True to his perception, the young woman started slightly at his movement, even though the haste with which it was executed was hardly enough to register in the mind of a normal person. Something had happened to this girl.
Cora stood to leave. She did not shake the Doctor's hand, as he had not offered it, instead opting to display a gracious half-nod of his head and a slightly outstretched hand to indicate the door. She turned, crossed the lovely woven carpet, and then paused halfway as though she meant to ask...
"Dr. Lecter...would it be...I mean..." She looked mildly flustered, the first real sign of adverse emtotion he had seen thus far from her. "Could you tell me if a student named David Pellerin will be joining the class as well?"
Now, what would she have to do with that boarish youth? The doctor supressed a menial arch of his brow. Her manner had become decidedly less stable at the mention of his name, and the pained expression on her face read a plea for his answer to be negative.
"No, Miss Fielding. Why do y-"
"Thank you." She replied quickly, her politesse thieved by relief. A flurry of pale rose gold, and she was gone, the door thumping softly shut behind her.
Clarice was on the road again by ten after eight, having made quick use of the grubby hotel's tepid, rusty shower. It seemed ridiculous now that she'd left so late the night before. Baltimore was just an hour or so drive, and yet some vindictive need to leave had seized her the moment she'd made the decision to follow up on this lead.
Which would probably end up being no more than a wild goose chase, or a sick joke on the doctor's behalf. She'd most likely find the scattered remains of some poorly solved murder case, c/o Hannibal Lecter, another mark against him in the FBI's Big Black Book.
And yet...as the outskirts of Baltimore came into view, she couldn't help but muse over the incongruities. She could not imagine why there had been no further investigation on this Fielding girl's death. After all, it'd been Lecter himself who had found her, at least that's what the article had touted. Granted it was before everyone realized he was a mad, raving serial killer, but she knew protocol. Any death directly linked, or even indirectly linked to him should have been given a second glance after they'd realized what the hell was going on.
As for this moment, Clarice had no real idea where to start. A library would probably not yield much as far as information went. If the death had been ruled a suicide and left as such, there'd have only been one or two articles even remotely referring to the incident. She doubted the obituary would be of any help. Still, it wasn't wise to rule out all sources, so she resolved to visit the Baltimore campus library first. This, unfortunately, would require obtaining permission from the school officials, perhaps even the Dean, but a quick flash of her shiny, newly reprinted badge would probably do the trick.
Fighting her way through the work-rush traffic, it took another hour just to reach the University. Following the signs that directed her to the main campus brought her right by the school housing, which caught her eye for a moment. Were they the same apartments, perhaps? The buildings certainly didn't look new. It was definitely possible that they hadn't been restored or rebuilt since the late seventies.
Squinting against the harsh morning sun, she directed her car towards the admission building, finding it somewhat difficult to tear her eyes away from the apartments dissapearing in her rearview mirror.
...*...
There was something buzzing faintly in the back of Cora's head. It was a sound that occurred intermittently, in bursts of five. Then a cessation for a few minutes, and the cycle would begin again. It took her three instances of attempting to identify the source before the bleary word 'phone' managed to trip across her ragged subconcious. It was with the same dragging lethargy the she stumbled out of bed and into the kitchen to find a way to cease this nerveless racket. The four walls and ceiling seemed to be dancing, and it was not at all pleasant to behold, especially since her brain currently felt as though it was being cleaved in half by a blunt butter knife.
"Hell-O." She stuttered into the evil black reciever, leaning against the fridge for support. Why the fuck was the floor moving?
"Is this Miss Fielding?"
"Yeah." What the hell time was it? A glance to the clock confirmed nine fourteen. In the morning. Everyone knew better than to call her this early. Someone was about to die.
"This is Constance Ryder, from Doctor Lecter's office. I'm calling to confirm your interest in the class Dr. Lecter will be conducting, and to ask if you will be available to meet with him this afternoon."
Oh, God. Too many words. Doctor Lecter. Class. Afternoon. These made sense. Cora found herself nodding, and then realized that the gesture was completely useless.
"Yes...I can...Okay. What time?"
"Two o'clock. Can you be here then?"
"Yup." Not the most eloquent of answers, but it seemed to satisfy this Constance person, who droned out the address again before hanging up and leaving Cora to her own devices.
She stood there for several pregnant moments, one hand on the refrigerator and the other on her forehead. Something was keeping her from remembering what happened the night before, and she was reluctant to push the issue. Dave...something...touching...she shuddered and almost screamed when a pair of tiny paws landed on her shin.
"Cleo." The kitten blinked at her, and then yowled plaintively. A glance to the food dish ascertained the reason, and Cora made quick work of filling the little bowl so the cat would stop making noise.
The trek back to her room seemed far too long to be real. Cora stopped dead in her tracks when she finally pushed the door open. It took some time for her to register the sight of dried blood, puddled and flecked on the floor next to her bed. Her sheets were streaked as well, the substance now gone coppery instead of scarlet. There were handprints on the walls too, side by side, smeared down to the baseboards. Her stomach turned once, twice, and she looked down at her body.
The havoc wreaked upon her thighs was enough to make her dizzy again, but she could not make herself turn her eyes away from the barb-wire slashes. It was this that brought the events of the previous evening more clearly into focus - the bar, drinking...there was a muddled period from the time she got into the car with Dave to the time she remembered screaming for him to get out, but she knew something had happened. That familiar, twisting evil feeling in her gut almost propelled her to sieze the knife again, which was now lying complacently on the bedside table.
"No." She said aloud, laying a protective hand on her upper leg. Willing herself to bypass the blade, she stumbled into the background and turned on the shower, choking back the bile that rose in her throat.
Up until last night, it had been five or six years since she'd lost control enough to hurt herself. It had also been that long since her last sexual expeirience, a particularly vicious memory that still made her cringe. She'd managed to remain a virgin, thus far, through her body's fight or flight mechanism that kicked in every time a man (or adolescent boy, bless their poor little hearts when she screamed at the sight of a bare chest) tried to touch her. She'd given up drinking in high school for that very reason; it lowered her defenses and made her grope for something she thought she wanted. And even when the heated, lippy kisses were recieved without much protest, the next day would always yield a session in the shower where she would scrub and scrub and open her mouth in silent, throat ripping screams.
The water stung the new wounds, but it was a chaste reminder of why she'd never drink again. When she got out of the shower, she could doctor them and weld them shut with a tight bandaid and hope that the scars would fade over time.
Wiping the condensation from the mirror, Cora stepped back and looked at herself. She felt an irrational, strange puff of pride at the glaring red slashes on her thighs.
I control this, she thought as she began combing the the tangles from her pale hair. I control this, and it's damn near the only thing.
Cleo padded softly into the bathroom and settled down by her feet, idly licking the drops of water that had collected on Cora's ankles. She reached down and tufted her fingertips over the kitten's velvet ears, momentarily comforted by the feeling.
Then she turned and faced the bedroom, the splashes of color on her white sheets and hardwood floor. This would take a while.
...*...
A mop bucket, six rags and another shower later, Cora's room was in a much better condition. By this time it was just after noon, and she would have time to launder her sheets in the apartment's facilities before jetting off to her meeting with Doctor Lecter. She hoped the stains would come out in the wash, after all, the sheets had been her favorite.
It was buisness as usual, in other words, and she had resigned not to give another thought to the fiasco of last night. The phone rang just as she was about to walk out the door, and she contemplated letting it ring until the thought that it could be the Doctor's office crossed her mind.
"Hello?"
"Cor? It's Julia." Came the familiar voice, slightly uncertain. Cora was not prepared for the concern in her friend's tone, and it threw her usual stand-offish approach to Julie's boisterous nosiness for a loop.
"Hey. What are you doing?" Cora replied, shooing Cleo away from the pile of bloody sheets in the middle of the kitchen.
"Uhm...nothing. Hey...Dave said you guys got in a fight last night."
Cora snorted derisively, a noise that masked the cold fire in her stomach at the mention of Dave's name. Of course he said they'd gotten in a fight. The truth was probably too embarrassing - that she'd refused his advances and collapsed on the floor in a fit of sobs. She still could not remember exactly what had happened, but whatever it was, it had been enough to evoke old feelings worthy of self-destruction.
"I wouldn't call it a fight, hon. He tried to...well. It's not important. Why did he tell you?"
"Well, he was worried about you. H-"
"Worried?! Oh Christ, Julia. I can't talk about this right now. I'm going to be late." There was silence for a moment, and the sound of a muffled sigh.
"Alright. But...please, call me later. I want you to tell me what happened. I'd rather hear it from you than from him."
After Cora hung up and was crossing the parking lot for the laundromat, she felt genuinely guilty for being so closed off to Julia. It's just that it was not in Cora's nature to be close to anyone, as the people she'd allowed herself to trust had always, in some way or another, let her down.
Still, she was not prepared to explain the situation to anyone. Because Julia would want to know -why- Cora had reacted so violently, and that would mean the truth of that night in April, with the police and the stench of death and not speaking for six months...
Maybe some day, but not now. The nightmare memory itself was too much, even damn near twenty years later.
...*...
Hannibal smelled the blood on the young woman as soon as she settled into the chair in front of him. It was obvious whatever wounds she had had been recently tended, with...hmm, betadine, iodine. Some kind of mild salve. He was now quite convinced that the young woman was a self-mutilator, something he had only encountered once, perhaps twice in his career. The extent of the damage she had caused herself was unclear, although he knew it must have been formidable for the scent of her blood to reach him so quickly.
Depthless eyes colored like ripe merlot remained passive, none the less. She was perceptive, this one, perhaps more so than any of the other students he'd intereviewed thus far. If he acted oddly, or hinted at his knowledge, she would sense it.
"I hope this meeting was convienient for you, Miss Fielding. I know Saturdays can be somewhat full for students." he began smoothly, his smile soft and fleeting. The diminuitive Miss Fielding appeared, by all accounts, to be a creature of unnatural calm. He wondered at what could have shaken her so severely in a span of twenty-four hours, for he knew the wounds were new. He had not noticed them in their meeting the previous afternoon.
"Yes, Dr. Lecter. I had nothing planned for the afternoon yet, I usually take Saturdays off to relax." Her parry was polite, well-structured, her tone even and nonplussed. "If anything, you've rescued me from lazing about an entire day." The gentle attempt at humor was noted, its propriety perfect for the moment. If anything, this girl was well-schooled in manners and the art of simple, small conversation. Hannibal chuckled with the appropriate amount of appreciation to her jest.
"Glad I could be of some service. Shall we attend to buisiness, then? We'll be deviating a little from the standard status exam, as my goal here is only to ascertain your ability to benefit from this class. I've no interest in psychoanalyzing you or your peers. I just want to make sure you aren't wasting your time."
Cora listened to this mini-monologue, swallowing his justification easily and allowing him to continue with an encouraging nod of her head.
"Good." Hannibal uncapped his pen and glanced up at her, marveling again at how she managed to sit perfectly still, as immobile as the replica bust of Pallas flanking the entrance to his office. "Please state your full name."
"Coralynn Amelie Fielding."
"How old are you?"
"Twenty two."
"What day of the week is it?"
"Saturday."
"I'm going to tell you three objects, and in a few minutes I will ask you to repeat those objects back to me. The objects are apple, pencil, and shoe."
"Yes, sir."
"Where are we?"
"Commerce street. In your office. In...in Doctor Lecter's office."
"Count backward from one hundred by sevens, please."
"Ninety three, eighty six, seventy nine, seventy two, s-"
"Good. What is thirty six plus fifteen?"
Cora paused a moment, then answered, "Fifty one."
"Who is the President of the United States?"
"Richard Nixon."
"Spell the word 'human.' "
"H-u-m-a-n."
"Now spell it backwards."
"N-a-m-u-h."
"The objects I asked you to remember a few minutes ago. What were they?"
"Apple, pencil and shoe."
"Good. Now, w-..."
The interview proceeded as any other would, though most of the overtly personal questions were omitted. Hannibal chanced quick glances at the girl as she answered, jotting each tic of the face, each moment spent contemplating an answer, any discomfort the subject appeared to display. When it was over he thanked her politely and flipped his notebook closed.
"Miss Fielding, I see no reason why you would not excell in this course. You are exceptionally bright and seem to be perfectly capable of handling an extra class. If you are still interested, we will be meeting at six thirty every Monday night."
"Thank you very much, Doctor Lecter, both for accepting me and for arranging the class in the first place. I'm thrilled to be learning from one such as yourself." Cora replied, bending down to scoop up her purse. She winced, a quick thing hidden beneath her curtain of hair. The sudden movement thrust the fabric of her jeans flush against one of the slashes on her thigh. The thin, premptory scab cracked and the wound bled anew beneath the layers of gauze she had secured around her leg. Hannibal's nostrils flared.
"Again, it is my pleasure. I'll be seeing you Monday then, Miss Fielding." He stood, rather more quickly than he had intended, for the fresh scent of her blood was making his own rush with adrenaline. True to his perception, the young woman started slightly at his movement, even though the haste with which it was executed was hardly enough to register in the mind of a normal person. Something had happened to this girl.
Cora stood to leave. She did not shake the Doctor's hand, as he had not offered it, instead opting to display a gracious half-nod of his head and a slightly outstretched hand to indicate the door. She turned, crossed the lovely woven carpet, and then paused halfway as though she meant to ask...
"Dr. Lecter...would it be...I mean..." She looked mildly flustered, the first real sign of adverse emtotion he had seen thus far from her. "Could you tell me if a student named David Pellerin will be joining the class as well?"
Now, what would she have to do with that boarish youth? The doctor supressed a menial arch of his brow. Her manner had become decidedly less stable at the mention of his name, and the pained expression on her face read a plea for his answer to be negative.
"No, Miss Fielding. Why do y-"
"Thank you." She replied quickly, her politesse thieved by relief. A flurry of pale rose gold, and she was gone, the door thumping softly shut behind her.