The house on the lake is a sturdy place, where brick joins steel and wood, braced and waiting. It is sturdy and it is hollow, but not so spacious that it alienates. It keeps out the rain and cold, it stands against the wind—but it's walls and mirrors are sufficiently absorbent of any talk and mood. It remains sedate amidst the babbling, sighing and raging of the life it keeps.

In the safe, fleecy embrace of unconsciousness, Starling was free from fear, anger and pity. She lay in a bedroom on the second floor of the house. She lies on her back, spread out against the tidy coverlet.

Dr. Lecter sat in a chair in the corner of the room, watching her breathing. When it changed slightly, he came swiftly to her side to check her pulse, and then her blood pressure. She would be fine, but she was dreaming. Her eyes danced beneath her eyelids, and he looked at her with his head to the side.

It was late morning when she woke, and the first thing she did was attempt to scratch an itch on her side. The simple, natural gesture was met with resistance at her wrist and, half-asleep, Starling complained quietly. She moved to roll on her side and could not. She awoke completely and suddenly.

Her eyes opened wide, her heart speeding up a little too fast. Within the first blink of her eyes, she saw the room-comfortable, clean and liberal in cherry wood and mahogany. Within the second blink, she saw a burning, collapsing compound, smoke and fire. Within the third blink, a myriad of pleading eyes. Another, the room again. Another, resentful tears and the smell of gun smoke. One more, and the presence of another. She looked at the doorway, where he was standing.

For a moment, she blinked several more times, thinking she was seeing a merging of her most stinging memories and reality. Perhaps in her sleepy stupor, the two had fused for just a moment. He stood still and rigid. No, not rigid…only straight as an arrow. His posture was not hostile. She knew what that looked like. His arms were at his sides, his shoulders back. His calm infused the room like incense.

"Good morning," he said. His voice gave her a jolt. Then she was spinning.

Starling swallowed. "Good morning, Dr. Lecter." Her heart was hammering and her palms and feet were instantly cold and sweaty. She didn't know what her voice had sounded like, she hadn't heard it; it had been a sound too distant to hear over the internal roar, too insignificant amidst the terrific sense of falling.

He made no move to enter the room, but stood still and sturdy as the mahogany furniture. He seemed to give her a moment to compose herself. She was quite still, her face rather placid compared to the internal tempest by which she was suddenly thrashed; but her eyes were wide and dilated, her mouth shut into a thin line. He could see the perspiration above her lip from where he stood.

Starling moved her arm a micron. Her arms were away from her body and bent at the elbows. Her palms faced up, in an unintentional display of surrender. She risked a glance at her left arm. It was tied to the bed post with a silk scarf, and she looked slowly back at Dr. Lecter.

"Alright," Starling began, unsure if she had something to say beyond it.

"Alright," Dr. Lecter said in a less questioning tone, as though they had wrapped up a long and meaningful discussion. "How are you feeling? You slept all morning."

Starling didn't know how she was. Her senses were returning. Beneath the fear she found anger, perhaps even a sense of betrayal. Not all of her senses had returned, and she reacted to the anger instantly as a child might, her mind and voice finding a way to feed it.

"I'm fine, if you like helotry." She swallowed again, and licked her lips. He still had not moved, and she took a moment to further survey the room.

He'd said he wouldn't call on me, she thought. She heard those words in his voice when she'd first read his letter after his escape. She always heard them in his voice…God, that voice. It had been a source of comfort, those words. A sense of understanding, a sense of closure. …I won't call on you, Clarice…She heard her name in his voice, resonant in the acoustics of her mind, Clarice, Clarice.

"You know, you do catch me off-guard from time-to-time," he was saying. "One moment a reference is lost on you, and the next you remind me of your aptitude with a quick prose. It's effortless, which is promising. I think, sometimes, that you are a poet, at heart. An uneducated, ornery poet."

"It's not fair to call me ornery, in your position," she said. Her throat was dry and she swallowed again. Absurdly, she desperately wanted to brush her teeth. With the thought, came another simultaneously, keep him talking.

"Your ability to blame circumstance for your temperament has not waned. Not promising. Are you thirsty?"

"Yes."

"I'll be back." She watched him turn and disappear. Even though he had left the room, the movement had startled her. He belonged in the oubliettes of her mind, not here, out in the world. Not free to roam, to move, to see and touch. It was so very wrong. Starling struggled with her bondage. They were only silk scarves, and should easily unravel. She tried to do it without causing the headboard to tap the wall. All the while, she was thinking.

Bathroom to the right, window to the left across from the door. He'd gone left, footfalls down a hallway and stairs. Noise from a floor below. Stairs often ended near or even in front of a front door. Second story window, was there a balcony? She heard the sounds of a body of water, a lapping shore. She wondered if her boot knife was still there.

One of her wrists was free when he returned. He stood again in the doorway with a glass of water in one hand and her gun in the other.

"Alright," she said again, letting her free arm drop to her side.

Dr. Lecter smiled at her. "Alright," he agreed, coming forward. He was not pointing the weapon at her, only holding it, as a warning.

He set the glass of water on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed. The gun disappeared behind his back, too far to reach. With both hands free he folded them in his lap and looked down at her.

"For the time being, I'm going to have to keep you restrained. You understand."

A man with a gun and a man's strength, a woman with one arm free. She opened her mouth for a moment, but chose instead to nod. He gave her a single nod in return, before regarding her free arm, which was on the opposite side of the bed.

"I'm going to go to the other side, now," he said, his voice taking on a very soothing tone. On some level, it irritated her, as though he were speaking to an unpredictable stray.

'Come here, girl. Come here…'

She watched him stand and walk around to the other side. When he sat back down on the bed, she was unsure of what to do with her free arm. She balled her hand into a fist and tucked it in tight to her side.

"I'm going to touch you, now," he said, in the same tone. She waited a beat, and looked up. He was looking at her, as though waiting for permission, with his eyebrows raised.

"Fine."

She looked away, unsure of how she felt about letting him tie her arm. Was there any purpose in fighting for fighting's sake? Was the theater of resistance favorable from any angle? Was she less-than for opting out of it, or was she simply pragmatic? Either way, she could not look at him, as he secured her wrist to the head post. Instead, she looked at the open door and chewed her lip.

"Clarice, I don't want to use something more uncomfortable than this, but if you continue to wriggle out of these, I may be forced to."

He was finished now, and was retrieving the glass of water on the night stand. He sat back down and looked at her.

He gave an amiable nod and moved the glass close, and she lifted her head to meet it. He held it there for her and watched her sip, and found the practice to be appealing. He regretted to take it away.

"Am I entitled to a question?" she wondered.

"Certainly." He had folded his hands in his lap again, and seemed pleased.

"What is it I can do for you?"

Both the question and the tone in which she asked it made Dr. Lecter smile widely, and he laughed. Under different circumstances, Starling may have found it appealing.

"I imagine that's the same dogged tone you use when you're 'handling' people. Am I right?"

"More or less."

"And are you trying to handle me?"

"I'm trying to figure out what I'm doing here. Evidence points to some unsettling conclusions."

"But life is more than just evidence, isn't it? Experience has taught you that."

"It has."

"And what does experience tell you? Not evidence, but experience?"

"It tells me I'm not dead, yet."

"That," he said, a finger abruptly pointing up," is the most basic report of the senses. It is important and necessary, but you can do better. "

Starling sighed and looked away briefly, before answering. "It tells me you're prepared to kill me, but that it's not your preference."

"My preference? My. It is ambitious of you to presume to understand my preferences."

"Am I wrong, then?"

Dr. Lecter seemed all the more pleased when he said, "Not entirely."

Neither spoke for a few moments. Starling did what she could to sound perfunctory. "So, then…what can I do for you?"

"Are you hungry, Clarice? I've made you some breakfast."

Starling was not expecting this, and her eyes narrowed. He watched her head turn a fraction. "Not particularly," she said, at length. They both looked down at the sound of her stomach growling.

Dr. Lecter's eyes rose before his head did, and he smiled. "Ah, the betrayals of our anatomy," he said, with a friendly wink. "I'm going to bring you something to eat. I won't be gone long, and I'll have your gun with me. Before you wonder, I've disconnected the landlines. You will not find my car keys, I can promise you. We are remote. Clarice?"

"Yes?"

"Stay."

Starling felt the first sober rush of anger, and it nearly equaled her fear. She let some of it show, wanting him to know her distaste. She understood, analytically, that he had chosen a simple command to make her powerlessness more apparent to them, and would expect anger. Possibly, he aimed for angering her. The purpose could be anything from a grander design to simply poking her to see what she'd do. But he'd done that, before. Perhaps, he simply enjoyed watching her manage.

He was still looking at her, admiring the minute hostility play on her expression.

"What do we say?" he asked.

Okay. Well, goddamn you, Lecter. You fucking creep.

"I'll stay," she said, her voice sounding pretty even.

"I'll be back."

Starling realized a few moments after he'd gone that her heart was still hammering and she was sweating from head to feet. She moved a little, finding the back of her blouse was damp. Now, she needed to brush her teeth and shower.

Many thoughts, words and images darted about, a disorganized swarm, but the thought which came most constantly, in many different forms beyond the words themselves, was this:

What does he want?

The words struck her as foreign and offensive. She had never been the victim. She was the one who, hopefully, showed up in the nick of time. She was the one to break down the goddamn door. She was not the one plagued by the question, 'What does he want'.

Starling wondered if she'd cry. As she lay waiting and helpless, she found she did not. She wanted to attribute it to her strength, but couldn't. It was true she had reason to think he may not want to harm her, but every victim, every single one, hopes that maybe they'll 'get out of this'. And sometimes they do. Hope is a natural defense mechanism. She resolved to keep close watch on any and all of her defense mechanisms. She had to pay attention to everything. He would be. When he came back, he was carrying a tray.

"Dr. Lecter?"

He did not answer before setting the tray down. There was an omelet, fresh vegetables and a small bowl of seasonal fruit.

"Have you got a spare toothbrush?"

His smile was pleasant. "I do. Do you need to do that before eating?"

"I'd prefer that."

"I understand. This will take some finesse, if you'll cooperate," he said, heading to the bathroom. He came back with a glass filled with water from the sink and a toothbrush with toothpaste on it. A hand towel was draped over his forearm.

"Are you going to brush my teeth for me?" she asked. Her expression must have amused him. He sat on the edge of the bed again.

"Of course. You'll need to sit up a little."

It took only a few minutes, but went down in Starling's mind as one of the most bizarre experiences of her life. She fidgeted her legs and didn't know where to look. When she needed to spit, he offered the old water cup. He cleaned off her lips with the towel, and offered the other glass for her to rinse. A final spit, and he cleaned her lips again. A minute later, he returned from the bathroom.

"We'll start with the fruit, it will help cleanse your palette. I doubt toothpaste and omelet is a spectacular combination."

"Neither is morning breath and omelet."

"Fair enough."

He sat down next to her and offered her a bite from a fork. She glanced at it, identified it as papaya, and opened her mouth. While she was chewing, he skewered a slice of orange.

Starling wondered if there was an order of words she could use that would make him tell her what he wanted. Did this not constitute as 'calling on her'? She opened her mouth again when he offered her another bite. He did not hide the pleasure he seemed to take in feeding her.

And there was pleasure in feeding her. It was not something he assumed or anticipated, nor was it something he curbed. He did examine it, for the amusement it brought him.

To feed Starling…he considered the concept, as he placed a strawberry onto her waiting mouth. To feed Starling…was to provide nourishment. It seemed to be congruent, he decided. He enjoyed providing her with nourishment from multiple facets. But in what capacity? He did not have a familial reaction to her. A pet, perhaps? A beloved pet? A pet that could reason and plan? A pet that would eventually grow big…a pet which was already quick. The next time she opened her mouth, he looked at her teeth. They were small and straight, pleasing to the eye. She had healthy gums, he'd noticed when brushing her teeth for her. That had been interesting. He took unnecessarily long bringing another slice of orange to her mouth. She'd already opened it and was waiting. He paused only a moment, to get a good look at her tongue.

Perhaps not a pet, then. He did not consider her as a lover. He had not sensed real attraction from her. Intrigue, certainly. On a purely animal level, her body responded to his body, appropriately. When he moved, she moved. When he gave her a lingering look, her pupils dilated and her skin had even flushed a number of times. She often placed her hands in front of her lap, covering the genitals. It was a telltale sign that she unconsciously acknowledged being a female in the presence of a male, and was naturally protective of her orifices. She occasionally glanced at his mouth and hands. All base animal reactions, which did not speak for her higher brain. They could not be helped.

Dr. Lecter took great delight in programming the human mind. It was not that he was unwilling to tweak her to his specifications, but becoming his lover was not something he considered an option. If she ever could be, it would have to be at her instigation. Therein lied hypothetical scenarios, and Dr. Lecter turned his attention from it in disinterest. No point in dwelling on that which was likely impossible.

He was feeding her the omelet now, and she was enjoying it. She made little attempt in hiding it. She didn't see any point in a trivial, childish dig. Of course the food was good, and so of course, she enjoyed it. She did not enjoy being fed. She felt terribly awkward. Dr. Lecter seemed absorbed in his task and his private thoughts.

She didn't think he wanted sex. Had that been the goal, he could have fucked her already, same as killing and eating her. Instead, she was lying on a bed, getting fed breakfast.

What the fuck does he want?

Breakfast was washed down with a cup of mint tea. By the time he had returned from the kitchen, now carrying a bag, she felt a headache coming on.

"Dr. Lecter?"

"Yes, Clarice?"

He had set the bag down at the foot of the bed between her sprawled ankles and was removing some of her clothes, laying them out neatly on the bedspread.

"Could I have some coffee?"

"Experiencing withdrawals, already?"

"Yes."

"In a bit," he said. She watched him hanging her clothes in the closet.

A few minutes later:

"Dr. Lecter?"

"Yes, Clarice?"

"How long is my stay going to be?"

"I don't know, Clarice. It will be up to you, mostly."

"I see. I suppose I couldn't request being escorted home today, then."

"I'd prefer you stay."

"I see. May I venture to say I don't?"

He looked at her. "Of course you may. I invite you to be honest and frank. I've always admired that about you."

Starling found herself sighing. "Not a whole lot of company you'll find, in that corner."

Dr. Lecter gave her a look. "Now, now. You've chosen with whom you do business. You can't go complaining about the boorish company you yourself chose to keep, Clarice." He looked at her with a raised eyebrow, before turning again. He was folding her underwear into a drawer. What a strange image. What an alarming image. What an infuriating image.

"Dr. Lecter?"

"Yes, Clarice?"

"You said you admire my frankness. May I be frank?"

"Please," he gestured, with an inviting hand. He had straightened up and returned to the foot of the bed.

"What the fuck am I doing here?"

"Ah," he wagged his finger. "There's a difference between being frank and being rude."

"I'm frankly inclined to be vulgar."

"There is a difference between vulgarity and rudeness. There is a time and place for certain vulgarities, but never for rudeness. You're frankly inclined to anger. And justified. But that does not excuse rudeness."

Fight him on it? Pick your battles. Stay on point. Appeal to his sensibility.

"I apologize," she conceded. "What am I doing here?"

"You're here to keep me company. I enjoy spending time with you. I think, given permission, you would enjoy spending time with me."

"Permission?"

"Yes, from your conscience, your compatriots, and your dead father imago. None of which will give you permission. But there is a way around that."

"…And that is?"

"To have no choice. When choice is taken from you, so is responsibility. Permission is rendered irrelevant."

"So," Starling ventured, licking her lips," I'm here because you want…"

"Yes," he encouraged.

"A conversationalist?"

"Let's bring it down into friendlier terms."

"What, a friend?" she let a hiccup of laughter escape.

"Is that so preposterous?"

"Yes. You know it is, don't do that."

"Don't do what?" he challenged, his demeanor amused, again.

"Do not act like we are not…adversaries."

"Adversaries. Were you going to say enemies? You couldn't quite bring yourself to say that though, could you?"

"No…no, we're not enemies. But we're not friends, either."

"We had friendly moments, I think," said Dr. Lecter, softly. He was finished putting away her things, and put the empty bag in the closet. When he returned, Starling regarded him. Seeing she had something to say, he waited, one hand casually draped on top of the foot board.

"We had moments in which you chose not to mock me. I don't confuse that with friendly. And neither do you."

Dr. Lecter considered her, looking pleased again. Pleased and disappointed, and Starling could not begin to understand how and why he seemed to experience both at once.

Lecter decided to move on from attitude, mood and behavior, and assess her anger.

"May I ask you some questions, Clarice? Could you handle that?" He kept his voice non-confrontational, but the words he chose were sure to whet her appetite for enmity.

"Fine."

"You overhear a friend bad-mouthing you. How angry would you feel?"

'Depends on the friend. I don't have many. If it was my-" she hesitated a moment, suddenly feeling that it was wrong to say Ardelia's name in Dr. Lecter's presence. "-if it were my roommate, I'd be hurt."

"What if it was a co-worker? What if a group of your so-called backup were standing around, calling you the bride of Dracula? I'll bet it's happened more than once."

He wasn't altogether wrong. She'd never heard it in those terms, but it was beside the point. The sentiment was there.

"Somewhat angry. Angry that people can be so easily persuaded to alienate another. Even though it's nothing more than a cheap way of aligning themselves with the pack."

"Easier to estrange the Other than to be special."

"Yes."

"On your way home from work you stop at the bank to deposit a check. As you're standing in line patiently waiting your turn, you notice a child with a chocolate bar running around screaming. His mother seems to have no problem with it; she's actually beaming with pride. Next thing you know, the child decides to run over to you and give you a big hug, smearing little chocolate hand prints all over your pants. How angry does that make you feel?"

"Fairly angry. Why are you giving me this rudimentary exam?"

Dr. Lecter was reminded of the questionnaire that had brought her to him, and smiled. "You never answered my question."

"Yes, I did. I said it would make me fairly angry."

"No, no, no. The last question, the one before I took my leave. How do you manage your anger? I would simply ask you, but you dance around it like a little sujet. If you were able to directly answer a question about yourself, I'd implement that technique. And we're not bargaining anymore."

"Sujet?"

"Nevermind. Shall we move on to the following question?"

"I'll answer the real question. I freeze it. I freeze it like nitrogen, so that I can work."

"That's an undeveloped mechanism. When does it unfreeze? Before you know it, you'll have a billowing river of smoke spilling from your head. "

Dr. Lecter filed this imagery away for later use, when he had time to sketch.

"I don't know. Maybe when I run."

"Maybe. Maybe it's when you take a life."

Starling looked at him, sharply. "Don't say that like I do it all the time. It's only happened twice so far, and I did what I could to avoid it."

"Did you pity them?"

"Yes."

"Is that true? Clarice?"

"Yes."

"If someone were to kill you, Clarice, what would you prefer to see in the eyes of your murderer? Would pity help you to pass? Would it be an acceptable apology?"

"No."

"Would it anger you?"

"Yes."

"Does pity, in and of itself, anger you?"

"It makes me uncomfortable."

"Feeling it or being the receiver of it?"

"Both."

"Thank you, Clarice."

"You're welcome. Are you getting what you want out of this?"

"I'm encouraged," he said, smiling and giving her foot a pat. It happened so quickly and casually, she did not experience surprise at the touch, but surprise at the lack of amazement. She wondered if he was going to implement techniques to produce Stockholm Syndrome. Was that his aim? He didn't generally play unsophisticated games with her. When she thought of Stockholm Syndrome, she thought of the sex traffickers she'd dealt with—common, if not insidious little pricks that cash in on the vulnerability of young girls. She certainly did not think of Dr. Lecter. Then again, he wouldn't need to do much. The body and mind simply cannot stay in a state of emergency. It has to acclimate, eventually. He would only need to wait for her own body to betray her. She watched him come forward, until his lap was so near her left arm, she could feel the warmth. She looked up at him.

"I have to go to the bathroom. I don't suppose we're going the route of a bedpan."

Dr. Lecter smiled and then pursed his lips, looking at the bathroom.

"I mean, if you want to do that to yourself. By all means," she said, gesturing with her hand where it lay ineffectually above her head.

Amuse him. Is he amused? Yes? Yes.

"Actually, that brings us to an interesting, albeit necessary point in our session," he began, and Starling's ears perked so slightly, he nearly did not notice. Her wheels were certainly turning, now. He was quite certain it was due to his use of the word 'session'.

Keep her curious. Keep her active. Is she paying attention? Yes.

"To bind or not to bind. Can I trust you to behave yourself? You've always seemed to me a rather sober woman. You can see what techniques are applicable to any given situation, when they are appropriate and when they are not. Do I need to worry about you fighting to prove your fortitude? Remember that you have nothing to prove, here."

"You can trust that I won't do anything to make my situation worse."

"And that would include behaving yourself. Yes?"

She gave him a withering look. "If you want to put it in those demeaning terms, for whatever reason. Yes."

"You understand you're not leaving until I decide it's time?"

"Yes."

"Good. You mentioned your roommate, earlier. In that regard, I think it necessary to inform you that you left her a note saying you've decided to take a little vacation, after all."

"I see," Starling said, slowly. He had untied one of her hands, and his thumb brushed along her wrist. She felt the hair on her arms rise and press against her sleeves. "I don't know if you've noticed, but our handwriting is quite different."

"I think she'll find it convincing," he answered. He was untying one of her feet. She was glad to still be wearing her shoes. He moved to the next foot.

"As I'm sure you noticed, I've brought a few of your things. I would love to correct your wardrobe, but can't have you coming home with too many new things."

Starling considered all that this statement implied. He intended to return her home, well enough to be questioned. He also intended for her to lie about her whereabouts? Or perhaps he assumed that anything he gave her would go into possession of the Bureau. She wanted to probe him on that, but chose to stay docile. He seemed to want her that way, for the time being. They were both walking a fine line. She didn't think he particularly wanted to kill her, but to assume he wouldn't was foolish. To assume I wouldn't is, too.

Dr. Lecter was untying her last bound limb, her right arm. She hadn't seen the gun since he'd returned a second time from the kitchen. She wondered where he'd keep it. It's all she'd need…

He quickly stepped back, giving her plenty of room. He gestured to the bathroom. "Help yourself to anything you need, Clarice. I'm going to leave you alone for now. If you need anything, I'll be downstairs in the drawing room. If not, I'll be back up around lunch time. Do you like squash?"

"Yes."

"Good. Perhaps you'd like to take a shower."

Starling was standing now. Standing now, in the same room with him.

No net, no cage. No net NO CAGE!

"Are you implying something?" She asked, exerting control over her expression and mastering it.

Dr. Lecter's smile was big, his small teeth so perfectly straight and white. "Not at all, Clarice. I can appreciate your inherent redolence."

Too flirtatious, too friendly? Was she put off beyond the bounds of her capability? No. She's mastered herself, again.

He watched her retreat to the bathroom and was gone before she'd closed the door. Inside, she sat on the closed toilet seat and put her head in her hands. Pushing her hair back and sitting up, she let out a long, shaky breath, glancing at the bathtub. To bathe in the home of the monster. Starling's sense of hygiene won out against any part of her that thought it feasible he would attack her, psycho-style. God, how she hated that her hands trembled.

Like many of us, Starling did some of her best thinking in the shower. The reason, some suppose, is that there is so little to distract us. There is the addition of the calming effect of water. After all, we once lived in water; it is our nine months of peace, never to be truly felt again. Starling takes a lengthy shower, and by the time she leaves the bathroom, a cloud of steam escapes into her temporary quarters. The bedroom door was blessedly closed.

She looked in the closet to see what all he'd selected. She half-way expected to see the few pieces of lingerie she owned, but he had thankfully brought the clothes she wore the most often.

The clothes she wore the most often. He knew the clothes she preferred. How long had he been watching her? How closely? He'd been in her home. She thought of the lotion. Had to be him. She'd put it on, and something about that made her feel deceived, vulnerable and violated. She put it on her skin, let it absorb into her, and him by proxy, on some level. Was that true, or just a silly trick of the psyche?

Starling put on a pair of jeans and a plain, button-up blouse. She lifted her damp hair off of the collar and sat on the bed. Her boot knife was gone.

What the fuck, now?

Starling bore down. She was not a crisis negotiation expert, but she knew the training, and had just come out of real world experience with it.

Force versus negotiation…Even if he didn't have her gun and boot knife, even if this was not on his turf, he still had some strength on her. She'd likely have some technique on him, but there was too much against her to use force and still feel smart. Smart. Right.

There are five steps to negotiation: Active listening, empathy, rapport, influence and behavioral change. The mistake most people make when trying to get someone to do something they want is skipping steps one through three. They start with influence and then expect behavioral change. If people were fundamentally rational, maybe explaining why you're right and they're wrong would work—but it never does.

Starling considered the situation from this perspective. In the current circumstance, she was the hostage and negotiator both. Could that work? She had to believe it could. Had she established active listening? Not as well as she could have, but then that depended…

Did she become his hostage this morning or a year ago when they first laid eyes on one another? From which point should she consider the beginning of this stand off? If she began in the dungeon, she was already through steps one through three. She stood and looked out of the window.

Holding her elbows and leaning forward, she could see the lake and a dock. She looked down. Far enough to break something. And he could be watching. She sighed. Better to be safe than sorry. She would begin with active listening. Begin again.

As a pastime, Dr. Lecter enjoyed playing around with algorithms. They can come in many forms and used for various functions. To Dr. Lecter, people presented themselves to him like algorithms. Previously arranged processes, responding to different problems and circumstance in an unambiguous process. In mathematics, they could be used to perform many useful tasks, such as calculations, automated reasoning and data processing; all things human minds could do, when used properly.

When an algorithm expressly interested him, like Starling, he liked to place it in a place or time, allowing it some things and forbidding others and then, within a controlled environment, set it loose to see what happened. Dr. Lecter had amused himself this way countless times, although he could not recall a time when an algorithm provided such a level of intrigue or self-indulgence. Ultimately, he knew, that's what this was: An extraordinary presentation of self-indulgence.

When he was certain she was preoccupied, Dr. Lecter retired to the study, downstairs. It was a pleasant day, and he opened a window instead of trifling with the air conditioning.

Outside, the noonday spread out against the sky like a wrinkled bedspread. The storm in the East was distant and puckered, tangled sheets kicked to the edge in the morning. The cat that rubbed its cheek along the chimney jumps down, lingering near the standing water within the roof hip. A whispering of its tail, makes a hasty leap. He looks at himself in the wavy window pane, his amber hypnotist eyes glaring. At last, he circles around the porch and, seeing that it would be a howling April night, curled up below and found a place to sleep.