Seven o'clock found Ophelia in good spirits. She rolled out of bed, feeling refreshed despite the short night, and pranced to the bathroom, bag in tow. Hannibal had already emerged from his room; the pleasant sounds of cooking breakfast were audible from downstairs.
Ophelia relished the opportunity to shower. Soap felt like the world's greatest invention; she had never felt cleaner after scrubbing every inch of her skin with the stuff.
As the smell of breakfast intensified, permeating the cocoon of scented lotion and perfumes that Ophelia had created in the bathroom, she pulled on the softest dress in her bag: a blue cotton frock with flowers embroidered on the Peter-Pan-esque collar. She paired it with a pair of simple black flats and an ankle bracelet that was made entirely of tiny silver flowers. It was her favorite, and only, piece of jewelry, and she wore it most often when she was dancing. The flash of silver always encouraged her to leap higher, spin faster, and turn more smoothly. Ophelia then proceeded to twist her hair up into a loosely braided bun and powder a bit of makeup on her face and over the bruises on her neck and wrists. She was ever so grateful that she looked like a woman again, and not a scraggly rat-child.
Hannibal's back was to her when she bounded into the kitchen, her hands fiddling with the curled tendrils of blonde that danced around her face. He was already dressed in a dapper suit, his hair combed neatly back.
"Morning!" Ophelia chirped, surprised by just how cheery her voice sounded.
Hannibal threw a quick glance over his shoulder, nodding cordially to her, "Good morning, Ophelia. How was the rest of your night?"
"Better," Ophelia took notice of Hannibal's curt glance. It seemed as if he was hesitant to meet her eye.
"Eggs Benedict," Hannibal turned quickly, sliding a steaming place across the counter toward her, "of sorts. My own recipe. Fresh squeezed juice as well."
"Awesome," Ophelia dug in immediately, her stomach nearly jumping up her throat to get at it, "Where did you learn to cook like this?"
Hannibal laughed shortly through his nose, "Like I said before, I am rather particular about what I put in my body. And in the bodies of my guests, which I do not have often, I must admit. I suppose experimentation did the trick. And all the best ingredients, of course. I do enjoy cooking for my small group of acquaintances, though. They share my finer tastes."
Ophelia nodded, not wanting to talk through the enormous mouthful of food that she was chewing. She washed it down with the glass of orange juice that Hannibal had slid toward her, then watched him as he started on his own plate. He glanced up at her once, and her eyes immediately darted back to the half-full glass.
"Roses," Hannibal quipped before taking a swig of juice.
Ophelia looked up at him again, one eyebrow raised, "What?"
"Your hair," Hannibal took his empty plate and set it in the sink, glancing at the clock, "smells of roses."
"Oh yeah," Ophelia laughed, "Shampoo." She downed the rest of her juice as she began to clean up her plate and silverware. Hannibal watched her out of the corner of his eye as she stood next to him, scrubbing the remnants of her breakfast off of the plate and placing it delicately into the dishwasher. She was much shorter than him; the top of her head barely reached his shoulder. He watched her sunshine hair bounce while she worked away, silent and surprisingly normal.
"Shall we be off, then?" Hannibal exited the room, making for the entrance hall where his keys, wallet, and appointment book were all neatly stacked on a small glass table.
Seeing as she no longer had a purse, wallet, or cellphone to call her own, Ophelia made her way out to Hannibal's sleek black car empty-handed. He held the door open for her, and she nodded politely as she slipped inside, the tinted windows instantly turning the inside of the car to night.
After a few moments of uneasy silence, Hannibal reached for the radio, flipping it the knob to the first channel that wasn't solely static.
"Tragedy has struck, folks. We just can't seem to catch a break, " the radio blared, "Twenty Arizona State University sorority girls were killed two nights ago, authorities report. No names have been released, but a suspect is said to be in custody at this very moment. In fact, those are the only details that have been released to the public, but the team as WKEZ one-oh-two point nine is here to keep you updated. You heard it here first, folks."
Ophelia felt heat rising in her cheeks and salty water pooling in her eyes. She looked out of the window, trying her hardest not to show her distress as Hannibal quickly changed the channel to a culinary talk show. And there for a moment she had started to believe she was escaping her fate.
As if Hannibal had heard her thoughts, he patted her awkwardly on the shoulder and assured her, "Not to worry. You'll get to tell your story. It'll all be fine in the end."
Ophelia looked back at Hannibal, who had resumed driving in silence. She shook her head and trilled her lips, accepting that, though she had committed the unthinkable, this man could help her. This man who, for some reason, she had been bent on seeing.
"Sure," she breathed. If, in one of her memory-lost moments, she had decided to trust Hannibal Lecter, she could do it now.
Hannibal's office was comprised of two rooms: a small waiting chamber, and an enormous, open, atrium-like space filled top to bottom with bookshelves, statues, and various works of art. Near the back of the room was his desk, a wide mahogany piece of work with books, papers, and folders tucked neatly into drawers and organized stacks. A leather chair sat in wait behind the desk, just the right height and width for Hannibal's tall, strong frame.
"No secretary?" Ophelia glanced over her shoulder at Hannibal.
He shook his head, "I've found that this is a rather solitary occupation."
In the center of the room, illuminated by two ceiling-to-floor bay windows, were two chairs and a table. One, for patients, was a luxurious chaise lounge. Across from it was a leather chair similar to the one behind the desk. Only this one was stationary and directly faced where the patient would be sitting. Beside that was a small table that Ophelia presumed was used to make notes on.
The upper half of the room was accessed by a set of stairs flanked with odd metal statues of varying shapes and sizes. These stairs led to a balcony overlooking the office, and was also full of books, art, and dignified-looking reading nooks.
"This place is so serious!" Ophelia stood before a particularly odd wrought iron piece of artwork. It looked as if it had been banged up at some point in its stationary life, "You don't play around, huh?"
Hannibal smiled down at the papers that he was shuffling through at his desk, "Not with my clients, no. The first of which should be arriving any minute now."
"I'll go up there," Ophelia started up the stairs, "Do you want me to... do anything?"
"No," Hannibal shook his head and looked at his watch, then up at Ophelia, "Peruse my selection of books, if you'd like. I'm afraid not much will interest you."
Ophelia started down a long row of bookshelves, running her finger along the shelf as she went. She stopped at a particularly thick looking book and smiled, "Great Dialogues of Plato."
"That's a bit-"
"'And what, Socrates, is the food of the soul? Surely, I said, knowledge is the food of the soul.' Right?" Ophelia grinned, her voice turning mockingly dramatic and deep as her thumb traced the spine of the book.
Hannibal's impassive face turned dumbfounded for a split second, "That is... correct. Sorority girl turned philosophical thinker?"
Ophelia laughed, "Sorority girl who was bored enough to take a Greek philosophy class summer of sophomore year."
Hannibal chuckled and turned away from her as she plopped down into one of the chairs closest to the back of the balcony. She held the book open in her hands as she watched Hannibal open the door, letting in his first patient of the day.
The man was short and squat, with a kind of Pillsbury look about him. His shiny bald head could surely serve as a mirror if she squinted hard enough, Ophelia reckoned.
"Good morning, Mr. Burton," Hannibal shook the man's hand as they sat down across from each other.
"Dr. Lecter," the man chortled, "Please, call me Barry. Am I going to have to remind you every time?"
Hannibal cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable with calling the man by his first name, "Barry. How are you feeling?"
"Well, Doctor, I'm feeling pretty damn tired right about now," Barry leaned back on the chaise, "The dreams haven't stopped any."
"Are they the same as before?"
"No, actually," Barry sat up again, "last night's was different. It was more vivid than the others. I woke up feeling so drained."
Hannibal nodded, "Tell me about it."
"Well, in it I'm a writer. That's accurate to real life. But I'm not a good writer in the dream. I've been having a lot of trouble, so my wife, son, and I travel to this old hotel during the winter months so I can be alone to work on my writing and earn a little cash on the side. It's so weird, there's all these ghosts and my kid and wife start freaking out because we get snowed in. And my kid gets sick and starts acting not like himself because, ya' know, there's spirits in the hotel, right?"
Ophelia frowned, furrowing her eyebrows, waiting for Hannibal to cut the man off. He was obviously messing with Hannibal.
Barry continued, "So then I start going crazy, too! I start seeing these ghosts, and some of them are having a goddamn costume party in the middle of the hotel! And then, the ghosts must be real persuasive or somethin', because they convince me I need to take an axe to my wife and kid! Anyway, I get my hands on an axe and-"
"Excuse me?" Ophelia stood, leaning over the railing, "Hi, yeah, up here."
Barry and Hannibal both turned to look at her with equally perplexed expressions on their faces.
"Who's that?" Barry pointed to her, as if she was one of the ghosts he had so eloquently been describing.
"She-" Hannibal began, but Ophelia cut him off.
"What you're describing, that's literally the plot of The Shining. Like, exactly."
"Barry, I apologize," Hannibal stood, holding a hand out to Ophelia as if to urge her to disappear.
"No, uh, Doctor Lecter, hear me out," Ophelia began to descend the long stairs, "In the dream, did you, at any point, meet a guy named Lloyd?"
"Yeah, as a matter of fact I did!" Barry stared at her, astounded, as she approached, her skirt swishing smartly as she walked.
"Did he give you a drink?" Ophelia stood between him and Hannibal, who was still standing, his lips pursed, "Bourbon on the rocks, maybe?"
Barry spluttered and fumbled for words, "You're right! She's right!" He looked past her to Hannibal, who remained motionless.
"Sir, I apologize for interrupting your time with Doctor Lecter," Ophelia patted the man's sweater vested shoulder kindly, "But I couldn't help but notice your dream bears a striking similarity to the movie. Have you ever seen it? It's one of my favorites."
"I watched it last night before I went to bed," Barry shrugged, "But the dream was still terrifying."
Ophelia nodded, "One time I watched this movie called Killer Clowns From Outer Space when I was sick, and when I fell asleep I dreamed that I was in a corn field and clowns dressed like aliens started falling from the sky. Convinced myself it was real and couldn't let it go for days."
Barry burst into overly zealous laughter, "Oh, man, Doctor Lecter, this lady's a hoot! I bet she's right! I don't know why it got to me so bad, though. I really do have night terrors, though."
"Yeah, me too," Ophelia nodded, "sometimes. But I found that a cup of tea after those dreams seem to do the trick."
"You're a lucid dreamer, Barry," Hannibal spoke up, "Perhaps try a few nights without such films before sleeping and see how you do."
"And tea," Ophelia smiled sweetly, and Hannibal nodded curtly.
"Great!" Barry seemed thoroughly satisfied, though he had been in the office for under ten minutes, "Thanks a bunch, Doctor. You and your assistant are something. Next week?"
"Same time next week, Barry," Hannibal shook the man's hand all the way to the door, and after his bald head was out of sight, Ophelia burst into laughter.
"That guy was ridiculous!" she snorted, "Does he feed you movie plots every week?"
Hannibal was still for a moment, then he turned to Ophelia, his face a mixture of embarrassment and irritation, "How did you know such details about that film?"
"Everybody knows that movie," Ophelia scratched the back of her neck, suddenly worried that Hannibal was upset with her, "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to step on your toes or anything. It's just that he was totally spouting serious-"
"No need to apologize," Hannibal shook his head as he walked back over to his desk to check his schedule, "It was quite impressive, actually. I must admit, I am not familiar with that film at all."
"What?" Ophelia hissed in disbelief, "You've never seen... 'Redrum, Redrum!' You don't know what that is? God, Hannibal, where have you been? Under a rock?"
He raised one eyebrow at her, "No..."
"Clearly you've been somewhere other than Earth for the past forty some-odd years!" Ophelia snorted, climbing the steps to the balcony again, "We're renting The Shining. Soon. And you're going to learn all the good quotes like every other functioning member of the human race."
Hannibal smiled down at his appointment book, "Whatever you say. But for now, I would appreciate it if you would let me do my job. Of course, if another one of my clients starts making vague pop culture references during our discussion, by all means jump in."
At first, Ophelia read his tone as angry and disapproving. But then, before he opened the door to let in the next appointment, he shot a toothy grin up at her. She giggled and buried her nose in the leather bound book, and remained there for the rest of the day.