A/N: Well now…doesn't this look like a ghost from the past? Nearly four months ago I got hit with the nastiest bout of writer's block I had ever experienced and it never seemed to let go. But I never forgot about this story and I don't intend to forget it now. I hereby promise that I will never take more than one month between chapters, and there shouldn't be too many more of them anyways. Thank you to everyone who is still reading this story. It's people like you that keep and my monstrous offspring going!

One benefit of taking such a long time off is that I had a chance to read over some of my writing and I realized that one of my biggest weaknesses is unnecessary vagueness. I've tried to improve this. This is, after all despite the many layers, just a love story. Our characters wouldn't have it any other way.

PLOT RECAP: After Clarice rescued Erik from the mob at the Opera House by beating (literally) some sense into his head, he decided to stay with her and her husband, Hannibal, until he could find the strength to move on. Complications arise when Raoul, fearing for Christine's dying spirit, puts his young fiancée into the care of Dr. Hannibal Lecter, known to the rest of Paris as Monsieur Fell, the Duc de Londres. With the lives of both Erik and Christine in his hands, Dr. Lecter unleashes his own brand of merciless medication, to nearly disastrous consequences. Christine becomes even more withdrawn, refusing to speak to anyone of what goes on behind the closed doors of the doctor's office. And after Hannibal injects him with a detox mix, Erik goes through a horrific phase of withdrawal, nearly tearing his arm open from his hallucinations. Clarice saves his life and in the confrontation afterwards, she and Hannibal nearly come to blows before he completely breaks down and begs for her forgiveness.

Although Clarice and Hannibal have reconciled, Erik has lost the use of his dominant hand, his left hand, after tearing apart his nerves. Raoul has been given an ultimatum by his older brother and comte, Philippe. He must marry Christine within a month or he will have her thrown out. Raoul is in a dilemma because he believes Erik to be dead…the night after he had placed Christine's cares into Dr. Lecter's hands, Clarice had visited him, begging him to take Christine away, going even so far as to lie and pronounce the Phantom to be dead so there would seem to be obstacles in his way. Instead, Raoul is seized by guilt. He blames himself for what happened in the cellars of the Opera and he blames himself for the Phantom's "death", he tells Christine nothing. And while Christine agonizes over the fate of her Angel, she refuses to believe him dead.

The board is set…let the games begin.

Chapter 22

Fledgling Hope

Three weeks passed by without incident.

Three weeks was how long Raoul needed to work up his pitiful reserve of courage to tell Christine of his brother's ultimatum.

Her face was calm after he finished his confession. She did not gasp in shock, she did not act indignant, and she did not smile at him. Raoul began to feel nervous.

Finally she nodded from where she sat in her armchair in the sitting room of the cottage. "What must I do?"

Raoul felt as if his legs had been cut out from under him and he fell to his knees before her, taking her hand in his own. "Must! My darling, you shall do what you wish and nothing else!" He continued, talking very fast. "You hate this life, I see it in your eyes, their light is gone. The high brows and aristocracy are not for you; I have tried my best, but they will not see past your name and your birth, they refuse! You wish to perform. You wish to continue to pour your soul into music, and you want to see the angels weep from it."

Christine blinked, she knew there were tears in her eyes. "You presume too much about me, Raoul."

"I know you, Christine, you have been a part of my life for so long, how could I help but to know you? Music…beauty…Christine, that is you. That is what I love about you."

Her eyes widened at his words spoken in a more earnest manner than he had used for weeks. "But Raoul, I cannot go back…"

"Not to the Garnier, we would never dream of it. But it is not the only Opera in Paris…and Paris is not the only city in the world. The whole world, Christine, we could go anywhere you liked!"

"And your family? Would we be leaving them behind?"

"My family is only my brother. And he does not need me, he has made that clear. Just think, we could leave all of this behind…"

"Raoul, no."

"…never looking back. We could start anew!"

"Raoul, no!" He looked up, shocked, as he realized that she was gripping his hand almost painfully with her own. The tears that had only been forming within her eyes were now glistening and ready to fall. "No, Raoul. No more…No more running. I don't think I could bear it."

The young aristocrat looked up into his beloved's eyes, stunned by what he saw there: unbearable sadness and a resigned, inviolate determination.

The next morning, Christine met him outside the mansion's front door. He stopped dead at the sight of her. She was dressed in a freshly-starched gown of a stiff white color and a wine-red woolen cloak to keep her warm in the frigid winter. Her hair was bound tight atop her head and fashionable white gloves adorned her hands. She looked years older than she was.

When she saw him, she smiled. It was a smile of the old Christine. "Shall we go out?" she said.

They returned to the house just as the sun was dipping below the horizon. For the entire day they had browsed parks, storefronts, coffeehouses and made small talk with various worthy denizens of the city. For the entire day, not a single person had cast a reproachful eye upon Christine. Her hand that he held in his own felt like wax as they walked up the frozen dirt path to the mansion.

Philippe's carriage was parked outside the front door, and as Raoul watched, the Comte came out of the house and walked towards his vehicle. His brother stopped when he saw them on the path, frowning in confusion at Christine's appearance. He placed his top-hat on his head as they stopped in front of him.

"I am going out of town on business, Raoul."

"I see."

"There's been some disagreement over the shipment of fish from Brittany. I need to leave tonight."

"I see."

"I should return before the end of the month."

"…I see."

"Dear brother, I believe that I can trust you to look after things in my absence. And that everything goes…according to plan?"

Raoul saw red. "My fiancée is standing right here beside me, dear brother, and we will not stand for your low-browed insults, you pompous coward." And with that he turned and nearly dragged Christine into the house with him.

"Oh Raoul…"

"No! He deserved it and more! How dare he insult you like that with you standing right there, as if you were some…burden to be taken care of like that rotten shipment of fish in Brittany. You are no one's burden, you are…are family."

"Raoul…"

"Please Christine," – he was fumbling in his pockets now – "never think of yourself as any different. I never have." The light from the ring glinted off the tears in her eyes. Oh Christine, Christine…I cannot bear to see you cry. Especially not because of him again. That is why I cannot tell you what I know you deserve to know. Can you understand, Christine? Can you one day forgive me for this deception?

She took the ring and placed it on her finger, and then she was kissing tears from his cheeks that he hadn't even known were falling. If he had not buried his head so desperately against her neck, if he not wanted to block out everything reminding him of his own cowardice, then he would have realized that she held him, not as one would hold a lover, but as one would cradle a weeping, bleeding child.

The hand that held the needle full of straw-colored liquid did not tremble as it flicked the needle-point, watching treacherous bubbles of air floating to the top. A bit of the liquid erupted like a fountain from the tip as the hand pushed the air from the syringe.

"Are you sure about this?"

"Would I be doing this if I were not?

"No…but I question if you are doing this for the girl's good, or for your own."

The fingers clenched. "What is that intended to mean?"

"Are you not simply trying to prove yourself right?"

"I already know that I am right."

"What if she is not strong enough?"

"She's strong enough. I know."

"How? How can you possibly be sure?"

"Because I know myself. And Christine is but a shadow of myself, still trapped in the darkness. For while I had years to gradually learn of the evils of the world, she had only one night."

"So you can help her."

"No. But I know who can."

Hannibal was silent for a second, but he already knew who she meant. "The word 'hypocrite' comes to mind at this moment."

Clarice hid the syringe within one of her ample sleeves. "Oh pish posh, Hannibal. I am not a nastily temperamental old man, and I can do her no harm."

Clarice pushed the door to Hannibal's study open to find Christine already seated, or to be more accurate, lying upon the long sofa. Clarice was surprised, for she knew that the young girl was prone to shuffling her feet when she first arrived, twisting the straps of her bag nervously until Hannibal handed her a glass of water and bade her to sit.

She had always been a flighty child but only since that night in the cellars had she begun to be afraid to speak to anyone. She treaded around conversation as if it were broken glass, as if any false move would send the biting shards in their direction. This young girl, who had devastated two men so terribly without intention now feared making the same mistake again. She feared it so much that she now shunned interaction of any kind except what occurred under this roof. Christine always left with a strange whimsical smile on her face after meeting with the doctor.

Oh, Clarice had listened very carefully to every single meeting that took place under her roof. She knew of the hours that Hannibal spent talking to her in a low voice, simply encouraging her to speak. And then of the many hours afterwards, of encouraging her to speak of anything that would not make her weep.

But to see her now, waiting so serenely, so calmly. Her white gown fell gracefully upon the sofa, without a wrinkle in sight, her bag clasped loosely in her hands upon her chest.

Christine realized then that the reason for the tranquility was because Christine was asleep. She smiled slightly as she brushed a lock of hair from the girl's face and felt her forehead. At least she appeared healthier than last time. She shook her shoulder gently.

"Christine, wake up."

The girl made a sound halfway between a growl and a mewl and Clarice had to bite back a smile. She felt as Christine's breathing became less regular and her arms began to stiffen. She was conscious but not truly awake.

Christine's head rolled towards the hand upon her shoulder. "…Angel?"

Clarice blinked. Well…some things had not changed. She sighed. "No Christine, not an angel. It's just me. Wake up, my dear, it isn't even yet dinnertime."

Christine blinked in confusion as she swung her feet to the ground, clutching her bag tighter in her hands. She looked even more confused when Clarice motioned that she should slide to one side of the sofa to make room for another person.

"Dr. Fell, well he…he usually sits over there and I lie here alone. It is better for my treatment, he says. He says that I should become accustomed to my own company and…" She trailed off.

Clarice laughed humorlessly. "Subtlety has never been one of my husband's better qualities. But, I thought that we could try something new today. Just between the two of us, would you like to try?"

"What is it?"

"Do you trust me, Christine?"

The question was unexpected and Christine pursed her lips for only a brief moment. "Of course I do."

Even Clarice was stunned by her instinctual response. "Why?"

"Do you remember the first time that we met? No, not that initial brief interview in my dressing room; that was no more than an awkward mess of fumbling propriety and female gossip. I meant when we truly met. It was after the Pha—…after he brought me back to my dressing room and I awoke to find myself alone. I screamed from the fear of being alone and you took me in your arms without a word. It didn't matter that you hardly knew me, that I was not your daughter, you took it upon yourself to care for me then. And again when you accompanied me to the graveyard. I didn't deserve any of it, but you did it nonetheless."

Clarice looked at her with a mixture of confusion and awe. Those had not been the words of a child. Christine was becoming a more confusing paradox by the day. Fueled by some furious resolve, the young girl was forcing herself to grow, but haphazardly and with unpredictable results, like a fledgling flapping from sapling to sapling.

"I am honored that you think of me in such a way, my dear. I would like to ask you to do something for me then."

"Anything."

"I want you to believe that we are alone. That there is no world outside of this room and no people besides the two of us and those who come to visit us when we wish them to."

Clarice frowned slightly in confusion but she said, "Okay."

"You must promise to completely forget everything except what I have just told you, do you understand?" Forget everything, blot the vicious world out of mind. And then here, away from your past, away from your guilt and your pain, I may help accomplish what I should have done for you long ago. "Now Christine, I want you to think for me, who are your friends?"

"Mmmm, well Meg, I suppose."

"Meg is currently rehearsing for the Opera's next show. Can you think of someone else? Someone else who would never fail to have the time for you?"

Yes. "No."

"Are you sure?"

My Angel. "My…my father. But—"

"That's perfect," she said quietly over Christine's protests. "Now tell me, if he were to meet you here, would that make you feel better?"

More than anything. "But my father is…"

"You have not forgotten your promise, have you, Christine?"

"No…"

"Do you wish to see your father, Christine?"

Oh Papa… And her eyes suddenly brightened as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. "Oh yes, I dearly wish that Papa would arrive."

Clarice smiled so warmly that Christine could not help but smile back. "Just sit here for a moment longer then, my dear. Wishes take a little time to travel."

The needle was so thin that Christine did not feel it enter her arm. Clarice patted her comfortingly on her upper arm, being sure to wipe away the tiny drop of blood.

"Your father will be here very soon. Are you excited to see him?"

The girl clapped her hands excitedly. "Yes, I can't wait to see Papa!"

Clarice got up then and took the bag out of Christine's hand. Removing a thin tissue from inside she wiped away the sheen of cold sweat that had collected on the young girl's forehead before pushing the bag under the sofa.

She walked to the door and opened the door to go. She turned back and looked once more at the starry-eyed child sitting on the sofa, her entire body nearly humming from joyful anticipation. "I am leaving the room now, Christine. When the door opens again, it will be your Papa that comes to see you." And as an afterthought, she added, so softly that Christine surely could not hear her. "Remember your friends, Christine…there was one man you did not even think to mention before another."

As Clarice was closing the study door upon Christine, a door was opening upstairs, the knob of the locked door turning like a well-oiled machine under Hannibal's hand after knocking had produced no response. The room was dark when he entered. Erik had pulled the heavy curtains tightly across the windows and needle-thin slashes of light peeking around the edges were the only signs of the bright afternoon sun.

It took him only a moment more to realize the sound that he was hearing. Chopin's Fantasie Impromptu continued its slow soulful rhythmas he approached. As Hannibal drew closer, it became obvious that Erik was cradling his left hand in his right, using his good hand to move the fingers of his dead limb to depress the keys on the piano. His pair of hands moved through the piece at a respectable pace, although the tempo remained half of what it should have been.

Erik did not look up from the keyboard as he spoke. "Three weeks," he said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I have been practicing this piece for three weeks. I have now regained the skill of a small child."

"And your temperament?"

Erik's hands stilled over the piano. He grinned and Hannibal could see a shred of earnest within the familiar sarcastic twitch of his lips. "Improving by the day."

"A true miracle indeed."

The coldness returned to Erik's face in an instant. "Have you come to dispense anything other than you withering formalities? Or shall I continue attempting to repair what you have broken?"

"I predicted that the improvement in temperament would not last," Hannibal said coolly.

A discordant crash ripped through the room as Erik let his dead hand fall heavily atop the keys. He closed his eyes and a nerve twitched in his hand. "I had believed that years of dealing with incompetent managers had made me immune to human irritation. How ironic that such an intelligent specimen as you should prove me wrong."

Hannibal merely smiled. Erik's eyes were closed, and so he could not see that the twitching nerve was in his limp left hand. "I had a summer home in Paris."

"What?" Erik's eyes blinked open.

"You wonder how I managed to play Doctor Death in America while simultaneously discussing architectural specimens with you in Paris. I divided my summers between Paris and Italy."

"Why are you telling me these things?"

"Because you deserve to know the full story. And all good stories require some background information. Clarice and I left America for Europe within a month's time after she left her traitorous family for me. We preferred not to live in a place that in a hundred years believed itself to have lived an eternity."

Erik's eyes were fixed at a spot about two inches above the keyboard. "And you believe that we have? Let me tell you that we have learned precious little in our centuries of existence. In America they would not care about my face."

Hannibal raised an eyebrow. "Truly? I would warn against placing things you've never met upon a pedestal. The truth may disappoint you. It certainly did Christine." The other man winced and grunted. "Ironic, isn't it, Erik? But trust me. I believed the same unflattering depictions of our dear European continent after the Crimean War. Yes, Erik, I was born in Europe, in Lithuania, a little country that you have likely heard nothing of, for we were serfs of the Russian behemoth. We adopted their language and customs under the pain of extinction. We did not ask to be part of them, nor did we ask the British and French to ravage our country on their way to save their Holy Land from the heathen Russians. An entire people, nearly wiped out for the sake of the right to worship saints on the best plots of ground.

"And so I fled for America after the Catholics brought the hand of God and the lust of man upon my father, my mother, and my baby sister. It was, shall I say, a life-changing experience for a boy of ten years? And so I spent my life taking back what God had taken away: wealth, fame, women, fine art…if God could not be bothered to take care of my miserable existence then surely what I was doing could not be bothering him. Is any of this beginning to sound familiar, Erik?"

Erik was staring at the other man with intense fascination. "So why did you stop?"

Hannibal smiled grimly. "What makes you so certain that I have?"

Erik matched Hannibal's smile. "Her."

"What would a heartless murderer know of love?"

Erik folded his trembling hands in his lap. "Are you referring to me or yourself?"

A familiar gleam appeared in Hannibal's eyes. "Perhaps I was wrong to say that we were nothing alike. After all, both of us are ugly beyond human comprehension, in one way or another. We are both treated as monsters, why attempt to act as a human? We are not human, Erik, so why bother acting like them?"

Erik's hands were clenched into hard fists, but his eyes were clear and bright and he turned them upon the other man now. "What keeps you going? What do you want, Hannibal?"

There was a hint of admiration in his smile. His patient had learned restraint. "The same thing that you do, Erik. I have to know that there is something out there that is greater than man…and more merciful than God."

"If you say 'love' I think I'll vomit."

Hannibal laughed shortly and did not miss a beat. "Clarice entered my life courtesy of a well-conceived plan by the only family she had ever known. Her mother died in childbirth and she had been robbed of her father at a very young age; her father was a frontman for the Pinkertons. This meant that he was one who charged into gunfire first to be shot so that others would be spared. He might have been a hero to his little girl, but to the rest of the world, he was expendable meat.

"So he died, which was not terribly surprising. What was surprising was how several witnesses had seen his partner pull father Starling in front of him as shield when it happened. What should have died as a statistic ballooned into a nasty scandal, and the respected Agency couldn't live with that. So in apology, they took young Starling under their wing. They trained the little nestling and held her up to the public eye for approval of their charity, all the while chopping away at her feet for she was nothing but a thorn in their side.

"Clarice never tells this version of events. Her story is that she entered the Agency of her own worth and they drove her out from jealousy. The truth is much less exciting, and also, she does not like to brag."

"I fail to see how."

"It takes great courage to persevere in the face of impossible odds."

Erik snorted. "Or great foolishness."

"Is it a quixotic quest to seek what you desire most despite how the world may turn against you?"

"Riddles again, Hannibal?" he growled.

"The Law Almighty grew desperate in the face of the killer who skinned his young victims. So desperate that they stooped to using a pretty face to try and loosen my all-knowing tongue. It would have been laughable if she had turned out as nothing but a mere plaything. But this waifish wide-eyed child who descended into Hell had the audacity to fight back. The innocence in her eyes merely reflected the gleam of a raging fire. And in the process of savoring her pain like the sweetest nectar, I grew ill. It was a malady of the mind that seeped into every part of me; it was a disease that crippled my mind. I fought off my ridiculous ailment furiously, for a monster did not have a soul. But every time she appeared before my cell, every time her pain-filled eyes would flash to fight back, and later when I slipped my bars and hunted her in her own home…there was something absolutely beautiful about our mutual madness.

"It made no sense, I always hated weakness in others and had long depended on my own strength to see me through life. Do you see now, Erik? Do you see now how…different we are?"

Erik, whose eyes had slowly been clouding in thought; they hardened and snapped up to glare at the other man. "What?"

"You are such a sensible man, Erik. You would never fall victim to such a folly. Take Christine for example. I don't believe that anyone ever loved more than she loved you. She was a child, though, and still is, and she mistook her love for fear. And so did you."

"Goddamn it, Hannibal. I've had enough of—"

"Stop me when I speak falsely, Erik. There was no doubt about your own feelings towards her, though. But you were strong and refused to surrender to certain madness. To certain weakness. Your strength has always been your greatest ally. Your strength has allowed you to continue living as a human although all your life you have been treated as a monster. You could be feared instead, Erik, you could have people cowering at your feet. And for awhile, you did. But then you stopped. Frightening ballet rats is a poor substitute for the executions of Persia. You were so determined to be human despite your God-given destiny as a monster. If that is not perseverance in the face of impossible odds, I do not know what is."

"That's enough."

"It burns to be called 'monster', does it? But it is simply a label. A label has no power unless it holds some truth."

"I said that's enough!"

"Is it such a bad thing to be a monster, Erik? Fear turns the most powerful men into willing servants. Why not hurt them, Erik, truly hurt them like they've hurt you? Those scars on your body, you could revenge tenfold. Would that not be justice?"

Hannibal had not moved from his place on the other side of the room but Erik felt as if the other man was shaking him furiously. "Why are you saying these things, why do you insist? Does it still amuse you to dangle my life from your hands like a marionette? You've had your fun with me, isn't the result pleasing? To see me plod like an invalid upon an instrument that I have been able to play blindfolded since I was three? To see me unable to experience the only kind of love I have ever felt?" Erik let his immobile left hand fall from his lap to swing to his side.

"I am merely repeating everything you have thought all the years of your life. Why does your strength fail you before the truth?"

"Do you enjoy this, Hannibal? Do you enjoy manipulating the thoughts and beliefs of others until they go mad?" Erik stopped talking suddenly and just as sudden, a wave of realization and self-loathing hit him with crippling force. Fresh upon the surface of his mind, he was seeing Christine kneeling beside him, clutching at his sleeve like a dying person and pleading for her lover's life. Stop…he knew she was saying in her mind…Stop before I go truly mad.

"I must admit, you walked into that trap much quicker than I expected even from you."

"Bastard…"

"Then again, I shouldn't be surprised, you were never difficult to irk." Erik felt a sensation like fire rushing through his body, ending in the tips of his fingers. "Where is your strength now, Erik? Do you have the strength now to lift a hand against me? Oh I forgot, you can't."

"That's ENOUGH!"

He felt a shattering blow to his head and when he could next see and think, Hannibal felt himself pinned against a wall with incredible force. His feet dangled several inches above ground and he found himself eye-level with a furious Erik. Intruding upon his dull, intoxicating sensation of self-satisfaction was the feeling of two bony hands wrapped around his throat and effectively crushing his windpipe. He hadn't even seen him move.

"Erik…" There was fire in his eyes, a victorious gleaming red. "Erik, let go of me…your hand will be in pain."

For one brief, terrifying moment, Erik did not understand, did not want to believe. Then a burning, tearing pain in his left arm ripped his hands away from the other man's throat and he stumbled back, a sensation like fire burning through his flesh as his nerves screamed and exulted in this cruel miracle.

He dimly felt pressure on his agonized arm and tried to fight back feebly. Hannibal clicked his tongue like a nurse and easily batted his hand away. "Don't squeeze your arm. Your nerves are adjusting to your explosive activity after such a long period of rest. The sensation of blood returning to your limb will be painful, do not prevent it."

Erik let himself be led over the armchair in the center of the room, only dimly noting that Hannibal could see in the dark nearly as well as he could. He felt himself sink into the cushion of the chair, and then he felt his burning left hand taken in two other hands, warm and rough hands as they massaged each finger, increasing the burning sensation in each appendage.

"A bastard I may be…but a rather effective bastard all the same."

Erik found that he could not speak.

"This was impossible, Erik. Impossible. Are you thoroughly convinced now? We do not live by what is right, what is virtuous, what is…expected. Could a person with a shred of pity in their hearts have said the things I did to make you angry enough to cause this miracle? I trust that you are aware that I meant every word."

"Cold-hearted bastard," Erik grunted again, but there was a victorious gleam in his eyes.

"Can the Vicomte de Chagny do what is necessary to tear the shell of the past from Christine's mind and care for her the rest of her days?"

"What?" Erik looked up in disbelief.

Hannibal sighed in exasperation. "I did not put so much effort into my dastardly plan so that you could crawl back into your rodent hole afterwards. She is waiting for you, Erik. She is," he repeated before the other man could protest. He sobered suddenly, his eyes now quiet. "I have done my part, Erik. I have apologized for my horrific manners as a host in the only way I believed to be just. It is not in my power to piece a life back together. I learned that long ago. I leave that to my better half."

"Hannibal…" Erik said, flexing the stiff fingers of his left hand. "Did you find what you wanted in this world?"

"I believe you already know the answer to that," he said quietly.

And then he moved from his place before Erik's chair and walked towards the door. "Goodbye Erik. I don't think that you will wish to see me again, but if you ever do…I have several new sketches of the finished Opera House that I think you might enjoy."

Erik heard the click of the door as it closed behind Hannibal Lecter. The man he loathed. The man he respected. The man for whom he felt that he could now shed silent tears of gratitude.

He didn't know how long he sat there, repeating the simple motion of curling his fingers into the palm of his hand, relishing the tingling feeling of living, breathing flesh. He did not miss the sound of the door opening and closing with a soft click, although he did not move from his seat. He heard the muffled sound of heels clicking upon the carpet and only then did his hand cease to move.

He saw a tray loaded with a dinner set down before him. He saw a few croissants, several pieces of fruit, what looked like a bowl of vegetable soup and a teacup with a porcelain teapot next to it. Simple foods, nothing that would require use of a knife and fork.

"Hannibal tells me that the two of you had a talk this evening."

"Indeed." Erik lifted the teapot with his right hand and poured a small measure of hot liquid into the cup. The scent of cinnamon and spice wafted through his nostrils.

"I am happy to see that there were no casualties."

"Only one."

"And what was that?"

"The impossible. Will you have a drink, madam?" And Erik lifted the teacup with his bandage-swathed left hand and pressed it into Clarice's nerveless fingers.