Dust swirled, dancing in the broad, afternoon sunbeams, and then continued a lazy descent to the marble floor. Lattice windows of iron projected shadows onto the floor down the tiled hall. This part of the memory palace was largely inspired by St. Peter's Basilica, and like the papal home, words could not capture the quintessence of such a place. Dr. Lecter strode down the corridor, not from a need to hurry, but out of satisfaction to be moving in quick, sure strides.

This was the wing devoted to his stay in Maryland, because it always reminded him of St. Paul's. The London cathedral was designed and begun by Christopher Wren, whose last work was to be the glowing culmination of his career. Mercifully, Wren died with no knowledge of the impending distortions. He specified no gravesites in the church, and was interred there himself; forbade sculptures and was given free-standing monuments; banned gold and inherited a gilt ceiling; instructed translucent windows to allow sunlight and was sealed in by garish stained glass. His vision was a temple dedicated to God, of simple, natural elegance, and it became a monstrosity flaunting the arrogance and pettiness of man.

Hannibal was wryly amused as his shoes audibly measured his progress down the long passageway. Dr. Chilton's attempt to defile his mnemonic palace, to tear it down brick by brick, was akin to the lesser architects making their defiling marks on Wren's work. It took a fool to attempt such debasement on an armed fortress, but a fool was what Chilton was. A delicious one, in fact.

The cadence of footsteps slowed as Dr. Lecter neared his most frequent destination. As always he paused, centering himself before reaching for the sculpted brass handle in the otherwise unadorned mahogany door. Out of all his unusual traits none was ever so ignored by critics and fans alike as his capacity for reverence. His veneration of the sublime was quintessential to his being. It was the need to worship that drew him here.

This was the section of his mind devoted to Clarice. Before doing anything else, Hannibal summoned the memory of her jogging through the woods: the movement of her muscles as she moved along the path with lithe grace, the crisp feel of the fall morning air, the distinct smell of worn leather and lotion. He had ached for her then, this wayward starling. She had changed so much from the time she had come to interview him in Maryland, all young confidence and naiveté, thinking the world was as straightforward as she was. She knew better now, and her running reflected it. She was no longer training for the trails she would face, but using it as way to suspend the current ones; to clear her mind of politics, injustices and pettiness that others had thrust upon her.

Dr. Lecter turned his inward gaze from the memory palace, allowing both the image and structure to fade. Morning light filtered through the gauzy curtains, highlighting the mussed hair of the determinedly burrowed Clarice. She was his living sculpture, a perfectly cut diamond he had discovered in the rough. He complemented her satin skin with finest silks, smoothed her calming voice with the romantic languages, enhanced her already intoxicating female scent with delicate blends of perfumes of his own design.

Yet this unselfconscious, vulnerable state always intrigued him the most. Reaching over, he caressed the small fleck of gunpowder embedded in her cheek, her earned mark of courage. Still mostly asleep, Clarice kissed his fingers and drew him in beside her.