Croisé, croisé, and another walz step before she initiated the next loop. Her skates dragged on the ice, sending a few sparks across the smooth surface as her balance flawlessly shifted from left to right. The slight twinge of her calf reminded Frances that even though two years had passed, this particular bullet hole would never become a memory. Damn that killer who had nearly taken her husband and drowned her in the process.

Sometimes, Frances wondered if she should have allowed fate to unravel on its own. But her heart, that treacherous organ, squeezed painfully at the mere idea of losing Hannibal.

Time dragged on in their strange status quo; it couldn't last forever. Frances knew, deep down, that their precarious equilibrium had started shifting. Something was coming, something bigger than she'd ever faced in this life. It was like walking in a long narrow tunnel, feeling the light at the end radiating from afar. Fearing it. As if she'd been a vampire this entire time, trapped in the clutches of Count Dracula, but unable to find completion away from him.

Her biggest fear; to be unable to handle whatever was about to be hurled at her face. To have become so subdued, so tamed and docile, that she couldn't stand on her own and do what was necessary. Would she honour her calling, or allow Hannibal to shape life the way his twisted mind wanted it ? Was there any strength left in her, any conviction to oppose him ?

For the moment, though, she danced on the ice, arms outstretched as if to touch the sky. The smooth surface gave her freedom she didn't have at home. Everything was controlled in Hannibal's house, and the smallest misstep was sure to create consequences. The last one – her carving upon the galette – had been one of her last acts of war. When she felt mischievous enough, she poured her unfinished cold tea into the teapot again to get newly warmed tea; this was sure to gain a raised eyebrow.

Unacceptable.

Frances grinned sadly; was this the extend of her rebellious nature, now ?

"Hey Fran !"

Fran-ces, two syllables, too much to ask ?

The young woman glared at her comrade; what was it with those people with the need to shorten her name ? Colline – her fellow skater – raised an uncharacteristically bushy eyebrow at her, and Frances sighed in defeat. As she skidded backwards, the woman lifted her chin to the seats.

"Your pop's here."

Nope. Not in this reality.

Frances' heart panged in sadness; No matter how much time passed, she missed her family. There was no doubt about who, exactly, had been mistaken for her father. Colline was still skating backwards by her side, her gaze resolutely fixed upon the man who stood, imposing, by the rink's side.

"Wow, he's hot."

Frances rolled her eyes as she waved to Hannibal.

"That's my husband, idiot."

Colline almost tumbled backwards, saving herself with a practised twist before she face planted altogether. Frances left her behind with a chuckle, ignoring the shocked expletive as she pushed on her skates to join the psychiatrist. Left, right, left, a practised gait and blades digging into the ice.

Hannibal's eyes followed her every move until she skidded to a stop beside the open door. His eyes, predatory, betrayed nothing of his inner thoughts. And even though he extended his gloved hand to pick hers, Frances felt the loss of emotion keenly. Sometimes, she wished for anything else than this cold, controlled expression. She'd take a murderous frenzy over this a hundred times over, if only to see a spark ignite in the depths of his eyes.

But emotions were harder and harder to coax out of him. Those beautiful, exotic features remained placid and affable.

As she climbed out of the rink, Hannibal brought her silk-covered hands to his lips and mock kissed her knuckles. Few words were exchanged as she unlaced her boots, flexing the abused toes as they recovered their freedom. A red rose caressed the skin of her cheek and Frances cocked her head aside, the usual warmth failing absent in her chest.

The token of affection was welcome, but not enough to thaw her frozen heart. A kiss landed on her cheek, warm breath ghosting over reddened skin. His looming presence, at least, registered in her brain and Frances sagged against him to pick up the rose.

"Arigatō gozaimasu, Hannibal." (thank you)

Japanese was their secret language, practised once in a while, amongst other things. It tied him to the past, and that she didn't mind reminding him off. As if the ghost of Lady Murasaki could somehow keep him in check.

"Anything for you, my beautiful," he whispered against her ear.

Anything for you, except for a normal life.

A shiver ran up her spine; she observed as he wiped the flat of her blades in a cloth and frowned.

"I'll have to sharpen them anew."

Frances nodded absently; her skates had never been so sharp in the past, but this was one of her husband's quirks. Any blade must be in pristine condition; you never know who you might have to kill after all. By now, many of her fellow skaters had joined them on the bench; their stares said it all.

She knew what they saw. A rich, gorgeous man doting on a young wife. A gold digger, maybe, or an escort with her sugar daddy. Perhaps a jet set couple. A lavish home. Her cachemire sweater and his Burberry coat. The luxury lifestyle of the local 'ton'. Maids on call, handling the dry cleaners, grocery delivery, shopping at will. They probably imagined her life well enough, down to the garden she had claimed for herself in Hannibal's backyard.

Long, elegant fingers squeezed the ripe fruit, assessing whether the texture would complement his future salad. The summer sun harshly beat against his back, sweat already dropping between his shoulder blades under the long-sleeved shirt.

"I'd settle for that one," Frances hummed from the second row of her vegetable garden. "Ananas tomato and cinnamon basilicum will be brilliant together."

Hannibal hummed his agreement, taking in the luscious mix of aromatic plants and colourful vegetables that now thrived in his backyard. Four types of basilica, no less, tomato, zucchini, eggplants, capsicum and salads mingled happily with fresh coriander, mint, rosemary and thyme.

"Meow."

Duchesse lounged, watching her mistress, covered with dirt, pluck any branches that fell out of place in her new Eden. Half-hidden under a bush, spots of summer sunlight caused her immaculate coat to shine.

"You have done wonderfully. Your tomatoes have no equals."

Frances addressed him a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. He knew tomatoes had been her father's specialty; she had praised his skills with both awe and sadness in the past, hence his suggestion that she followed in his footsteps. He wasn't disappointed by the result; the ripe fruits that grew from his soil had the taste of his childhood. A taste of Lithuanian gardens, and Italy.

His memory palace transported him to happier times, and he almost missed Frances' grumbles as she struggled to tie up one of the biggest branches of her beef tomato plant. They had outgrown the tutors and now looped over her head in an arch.

"... as long as they are edible."

A lopsided smile quirked Hannibal's lips. That was all too true; if he didn't take care of the potted plants in his house himself, there would be none alive. Frances had no care for decorative plants.

"I am well aware of your tastes, my beautiful."

The innuendo was ignored in favour of a scoff; perhaps it was time to take more proactive measures.

"A side effect of being submitted to botany classes, I'm afraid," she ranted, stowing the scissors away. "You're lucky you didn't have to…"

Frances stopped when she suddenly found herself nose to nose with him. Hannibal's upper lip revealed a tiny fang of satisfaction at her flustering.

"You'd be surprised," he deadpanned.

An eye roll was her only response, but he could literally see the rapid pace of her pulse as her carotid fluttered. She may act unaffected, but her body betrayed her.

"Of course you have ! Is there anything you haven't done ?"

Hannibal reached for her elbow, unwilling to smear his white shirt with the dirt encrusted below her nails. The air smelt of tomato flowers, the fragrance powerful in the enclosed space of their arch. Frances blinked twice, as if his presence in her garden was strange. Was she so used to being alone that he felt like an intruder ?

"Nuclear physics."

Chocolate eyes narrowed in suspicion before they widened at the jest.

"Baka," she chuckled, nipping at his jaw in retaliation (idiot). Her scent tickled his nose, and Hannibal buried his face in the crook of her neck to kiss a piece of clean skin. A gentle hum welcomed his ministrations and her hands twitched, itching to circle his waist. When he pulled away, Hannibal was satisfied to find her gaze more open and her body relaxed.

"Just pick what you need," she said. "I'll join you shortly."

"Come Duchesse," Hannibal said regally. "It seems like the mistress dismissed us."

The swish of a bushy tail was his only response as the feline watched him with apathy. Slit irises seemed to challenge him, as if to say; what would you possibly have to offer to dislodge me from such a delicious nap ?

Hannibal knelt before his noble friend and winked.

"I'll fix you something to eat."

The animal's head perked in interest and she jumped to her feet, following him regally inside the house. The psychiatrist watched his four-legged companion with fondness; animals were easy to manipulate. A piece of raw meat was always sure to satisfy Duchesse.

His wife wasn't so easily tricked.

As she adorned her Victorian boots, Frances winked at Colline who openly gaped at her husband.

Fools.

They probably imagined well enough the casual touches she offered him, just so that he remembered he wasn't alone anymore. That lingering caress on his shoulder as she sat down for breakfast, or the time she spent in his lap when his mood turned sour.

And he returned her affection. It was in the way he draped her in a robe when she exited the shower, tying the knot himself because she was too lazy to dry herself entirely. Or when he returned with sheer fabrics to wrap her in when she lounged, naked, in a bed. New silk and wool scarfs, dentelle de Calais or etamine throws.

They would be right, all those people.

But oh, there was so much they didn't know. So much that couldn't even be imagined, so far-fetched it was. It was what they didn't see that killed her.

Hannibal was restless. Gathering himself like a predator about to pounce. She felt it in the turn their lovemaking was slowly taking. In the brutality of their sparring matches. In the predatory gleam of his eyes, the increased control over every aspect of his life.

Hannibal was drifting away from her, twitching in her grasp.

Two years of peace.

Thus was the reason why she picked her fountain pain at the beach house, a few days later, to write a letter to Will. Hannibal had left for a busy day, and the words came pouring over the white stationery.

"Was I selfish ? A humanist ? An accomplice ? Will you judge me, dearest Will ?

I denied closure to those families whose people died at his hands, and in the meantime... it was an act of pure love to accept it like he was. No one has ever done it before, and I wonder if anyone would ever do it after myself.

But it denied all my principles to yield in the first place. It was selfish of me, really; I couldn't accept the idea of Hannibal being imprisoned and unhappy. Like a mother with a psychopath child, I accepted to trample my principles, my beliefs, and everything that makes me the Keeper of Time in the first place.

Denouncing him won't revive those people. I know I should have, but I can't bring myself to do it. So I did the next best thing. I prevented him from killing, taking the burden on myself, ignoring that I would share it with you.

I'm sorry, Will, that you had to handle part of the responsibility. It wasn't in my plans, and I utterly failed to protect you. I hope that, one day, you will be able to forgive me.

You understand why I couldn't tell you. It can't make you an accomplice, not with Jack breathing down your neck. I cannot imagine what your precious, beautiful mind would go through if you had to make the same choice. To denounce him, to denounce me.

I was sent here to tame the beast. So I melted in the background, taking care of his needs, keeping him distracted, pouring my love forth, hoping it would be enough to keep it together. But it isn't.

I feel it coming, the end of my rope. I'm powerless, Will, and I'll have to make that ultimate choice soon. I feel it in my bones. It will be the most difficult of all.

I'm bidding time, I'll dig my heels in for months, years if I must. I'll struggle, I'll confront, I'll fight. You can trust me do my best. The very best for you, for humanity, and most of all, for him.

Sincerely Yours,

Frances

Needless to say, the letter was never posted. Instead, it disappeared.