Starling made her way down the hall, and knew he could hear her coming. The floorboards did not creak terribly, but the sound of footfalls was unmistakable. Didn't matter; she wasn't trying to sneak up on him. The right side of the hallway gave away to the railings separating first floor from second. The stairs were ahead. She looked over the railing. Front door, two tall windows on either side, curtains. A large foyer with dark, matte tile flooring. To the left of the front door, she could see the house led into another room. To the right, it lead to yet another room, this one with two double doors spread open. Light and warmth came from that direction. She heard the turning of paper.

He's reading.

Before she could move again, she sensed movement from the room, the sound of something being placed down—a cup onto a surface. Sounds of footsteps across the room, shuffling of something, papers or folders. Then there was music, a recording of some kind of a piano. She recognized the piece. Danse Macabre, by Listz. Steely, biting Romanticism, alright. She descended the stairs, her hand drifting along the smooth banister, and she listened to the music.

A pocket watch's long drift to the bottom of the Marianas Trench. It's hands count the seconds at the bottom of the sea. She wasn't sure where that had come from, and wondered for a moment if he was right about her. He often was.

At the bottom of the stairs she peered into the room. The fireplace was unlit. It would be summer soon. A table lamp next to the sofa and a sconce on the wall lit the room. The sofa faced the fireplace and there, Dr. Lecter sat with his back to her, facing the fireplace. His head was slightly bent, his collar as crisp as the stark line between dark hair and neck. There was a bandage, there. There was a bookcase on either side of the fireplace, which was oversized. A dark chair in a corner between book case and a window. The window was open, and she could feel the wet warmth from outside. She heard a page turn, and looked back at Dr. Lecter's sleek head. He had not spoken, but knew she was there. They both knew he knew. She came forward and his head came up, turned in her direction slightly. She could see his cheek, the tip of his nose and some eyelashes.

"Would you like some coffee, now?" he asked without turning further. "There's a cup for you." He gestured to the chair nearest the sofa. A coffee cup and saucer sat next to it on a side table. When she was seated, they looked at one another. Dr. Lecter sat the book aside and crossed his legs. Starling picked up the cup and took a sip.

"Mmm."

Dr. Lecter gave a pleased nod, and watched her examine her fingernails. "I cleaned them," he offered.

Well, of course, thought Starling. A neat bouquet of his DNA, ready for extraction after all of this was over. One way or another. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"They're going to wonder where I am at work. You covered for Ardelia, but I can't just not show up on Monday. They'll wonder. And they'll look."

"I'm sure they'll understand when you explain where you were."

"And what am I to explain?"

"I would never ask you to lie, Clarice."

"Then you will have to leave."

"I'll have to move, yes. I'm optimistic it won't come to that."

She could not fathom what could possibly compel her to lie in his favor. Starling looked around, for a moment. "How long have you been here?"

"A few months. I'm renting, before you ask."

"I see. Where were you before here?"

"Here and there," he said, smiling. "But mostly there."

Starling nodded with her lips pursed. Get him to talk. You can't listen if he's not talking. Step one, active listening. "You like it?" She felt stupid, but shook the judgment away. Had to start somewhere.

"It's fine. The landlord likes things oversized. Not all of the furniture is appropriate to the space. But it will do. There are quite a number of ghastly renderings of Leda and the Swan. I've draped most of them."

"Why not that one," she pointed to the one above the fireplace.

"Because I like it."

"It's got good anatomical articulation," Starling said, looking at the painting.

"I agree. It's an Anne Shingleton."

"Why do you like it?" "It has a lot of heat in the fucking. I appreciate that in a visual representation of a story. If it has no feeling, no heart," he said, briefly placing a hand against his chest," then what are you communicating, really? That you've got a good handle on technique. However, I am of the opinion that without idea, technique alone falls short. The reverse can be true, too. All idea without technique can come across as childish or difficult to interpret—alienating the observer. Often it is under the guise of artistic gesticulation or a heroically shared catharsis, Clarice. But beneath that mask of grandiosity is laziness."

"Heroically shared catharsis. Was that a personal reference, Dr. Lecter?"

"I don't know, Clarice. Is it?"

"I think it would be fair to say so."

"And I agree," Dr. Lecter smiled at her, his eyes bright, for a moment. She thought of red, glittering Christmas tinsel. She thought of her first Christmas after her father's death.

"Tell me something, Clarice. Did you feel a burden lifted at all? Had you shared those things before me?"

"Not really. Off-hand remarks, that's all."

"Ummm. And my first question?"

"It's hard for me to say. More happened that year than just telling you a story."

"Hard to hear your own thoughts over all the noise, Clarice?"

"Yes. Do you ever feel that way?"

"I can relate to it. But there are ways to put the world on mute. I could show you how some time, if you ever asked. All you ever need to do is ask, Clarice."

"I'ppreciate it."

Dr. Lecter smiled, again. She wasn't trying as hard, now. She was relaxing, gaining confidence. "How's the headache?"

"It's there."

"How much caffeine do you usually have in a day?"

"At least three cups of coffee."

He tisked her. "Self-medicating is self-medicating, Clarice. Even if it is legal. Convenient, perhaps."

"Well, one thing at a time," she said, giving him a wry smile, a bit of mock warning. He seemed to like it. Starling narrowed her eyes and looked down into the coffee, thinking. "Dr. Lecter?"

"Yes, Clarice?"

"There's something I've wondered for awhile."

"Tell me."

"There seems to be a period of time, between Europe and your practice in Baltimore, in which you weren't…amusing yourself. Then you went on a killing spree. What prompted that?"

"There are always a myriad of ways to entertain one's self. The way to which you're referring, a killing spree as you call it, was merely one. As to why it began, I would liken it to someone who enjoys wood work, painting and quilting—or whatever multiple hobbies you like—and a natural rotation occurs. Who is to say what brings on a bout of woodworking, and how or why that gives way to painting. It happens often among those who enjoy multiple pastimes. The rotation, I mean."

"A rotation," Starling said, nodding.

"That's right. But I suspect that's not the case for you. Anything give you a thrill, Clarice?"

Starling did her best to not show the quickening of her heart, when they locked eyes at that intoned word. "I don't know that I'm a thrill-seeker. "

"No, I bet not."

"But then-cooking, drawing and cannibalism don't give you a thrill, either. Do they?"

"No, I wouldn't say I get a thrill by the common definition. But I can be delighted, Clarice. Can't you? Isn't there anything which delights you?"

"I'll have to think about that. When you ate a nurse's tongue, you're pulse never went above eighty. If it had, it would have indicated sadism. A thrill from causing pain. But you're not a sadist, are you?"

"There you go again with those sorry epithets, written by fools in little rooms where no experience is to be had. I thought you would have moved beyond that, Clarice. It's been nearly a year and I found you to be a quick study."

"Would it delight you if I did move beyond it?"

Dr. Lecter's laugh was rich and intoxicating. "Oh, Clarice. You don't have to try to delight me. You do it quite naturally. And I applaud you. You've been doing very well."

"Doing well?"

"Oh, yes. You've been an exemplary listener. And I give you permit to move to the following step. I forget though, perhaps you can remind me. Is it rapport which follows or empathy?"

Starling suddenly found the contents of her cup very interesting.

"Clarice?"

"Empathy. And that's the step we're on, actually."

"Then, brava. You managed to be a step ahead for a few minutes. In a way."

"Thanks."

"Oh, don't be destitute. I told you. You've been doing very well."

"Thanks."

"Ready for another cup?"

She nodded and thanked him when he took it. She watched him leave and chewed her lip. It had been close to three hours since she'd been awake. How many hours, days or weeks would this siege last? She'd just come out of one. She didn't know if she had the mental energy for another one with Hannibal Lecter. She already felt exhausted. When he returned, he sat the cup down next to her elbow on the table, and took his seat. What did he want? Control. Let him have it. Offer them things they want. What would she get in exchange? Rest. No, no. Do not relinquish control for the sake of the peace that comes with surrender (Is it surrender?) Surrender would be if she relinquished hope. Hope wasn't going anywhere. In fact, she was full of it. What to get in return for not fighting for control? Trust. Yes, trust. Trust leads to opportunity. Trust leads to negotiation. What now, then? Let him lead. She took a sip of coffee and waited.

And waited. Long minutes of silence came after that, and Starling felt a little disappointed when he resumed reading. For just a moment, she started to ask what he was reading, but stopped herself. After nearly an hour of silence, Starling's thoughts were enough to keep her on edge, but she was slipping into an odd, tense boredom. She found herself glancing at him, where he sat. It was strange, to say the least, seeing him outside of a cell without his prison clothes. There, his more sinister qualities, which he made less of an effort to mask while imprisoned, seemed to match the dark, grim backdrop of an asylum. At the same time, the way he moved and spoke did not. He didn't allow his surroundings to affect him. Starling considered that she possessed the same wisdom, and marveled for a moment at the observation that they had something in common. This, at least, was a safe connection to make. Here, however, he appeared perfectly befit in the room. His dark clothes, his clean, masculine scent; there was nothing out of the ordinary about the picture. She tilted her head, looking at him. She'd never given herself the time to do so. He was not looking at her, and while she thought it reasonable to assume he knew she was watching him, she chose to overrule the assumption. If he didn't like it, he could tell her so. It was important to observe him, to know this man who kept her hostage. This was what she told herself. . .

His hands were the same, except for the fact that his sixth finger was gone. Some muted place in Starling did not favor it. In three minutes, Starling's eyes returned to Dr. Lecter's hands seven times. In three minutes, her eyes returned to his lips five times, though she stopped herself nine times. She does not consciously acknowledge it. The undercurrents of her thoughts, feelings and actions, both primal and advanced, are rooms not ready for exploration. Starling's foot began to twitch, erratically. His eyes were focused. His posture, easy. His features were slightly less fine than they once had been. She was quite certain he'd had a little work done. His ears were the same, and his lips. He had good skin for his age, she noted. He had more color than when he'd lived in a dungeon. What a melodramatic word, dungeon, she considered. This rogue thought was, unbeknownst to Starling, a strategic one offered up by her unconscious mind; sent to block a deeper reaction to the image of Dr. Lecter's face and body so close to her own. Had the reaction been given voice, it would have observed Dr. Lecter's sexual appeal. The rogue thought does not completely block this reaction, but muddies it. Two words were able to form. He's so…

Upon being offered these two words by her own mind, Starling's consciousness fumbles with them for a moment, like nervous hands catching a fragile thing, unexpectedly. He's so…

Starling felt the distant sentiment, could feel the animal alert to attraction (the whirl of a head toward the caught scent, a rabbit's twitching whiskers) and even the mental chemistry for the briefest of moments; heat in a palm against a door, a door containing the flames and chaos of an inferno. She scrambled for words to finish the fragmented sentence, came up with the word 'charismatic', and moved quickly forward in time. All of this, in less than two seconds. All of this, too swift for analysis. She continued with her observation of Hannibal Lecter and, noting the even plane of his shoulders (a grasshopper leaping, brittle twig snapping) and the veins along his fair hands (a buck starting, haunches shuddering) and his dark sleek head (a chameleons tongue launching, ballistic speed in slow motion-sticky, elastic and…) and Hannibal Lecter's maroon eyes which suddenly held her whole (a gazelle veering, tufts of grass fluttering!)

"Clarice?"

"Yes?" she asked quickly, her foot stopping its movement.

He looked at her without speaking a beat too long for her liking, and she swallowed. "Are you bored?" he asked, with a familiar intone of mock.

"Yes," she admitted.

"I take it, based upon your behavior," he said, glancing at her foot," that you're not used to that."

"No. I suppose I'm not."

"An excellent beginning."

"Beginning of what?"

"Discovering what delights you, of course. You create an existence of constant movement, in order to ignore your internal dialogue, so that you never have a moment which lasts long enough to get bored. What comes from boredom, Clarice?"

"I would have to say creativity, maybe."

"Yes! Very good. Boredom leads to a search, a search for input. Input, particularly new input, leads to creativity."

He went back to his reading, and she felt irritable. Starling set down the nearly empty cup and stood, stretching. "Where is the nearest bathroom?"

"Through that hallway on the left."

"Thank you." When she returned, she made her way to the bookcase. There were a good number in other languages, so she first just looked for words she recognized. She noticed a copy of Goethe's Faust. She pulled it out and looked at the back. It was translated. She opened it at a random point. On one side was the original German and on the other of each page, was the English translation. At least she was somewhat familiar with the story. She sat back down and opened it.

Nearly an hour later, Dr. Lecter looked up at her. To his satisfaction, she did not notice. "Are you familiar with Faust, Clarice?"

"I read it in high school, but my memory was a little fuzzy. It's coming back, bit by bit."

"Which parts stood out in your memory?"

"The general dread. The sense that things will not work out."

"Ah, a certain symmetry, perhaps?" Starling looked up at him.

"In what way?"

"Are you not going about your day-to-day life with a general sense of foreboding?"

She considered, and he waited patiently. "No, not foreboding. That's too strong a word."

"What word would you use?"

"Unresponsive."

Dr. Lecter put a finger along his nose, thinking. "When was the last time you felt responsive, Clarice?"

"This morning."

"Which part?"

"When I woke up and you were in the doorway."

"Not the struggle in the parking lot?"

"No."

Dr. Lecter nodded, as though he had confirmed something. "From that, I surmise that I stimulate you. Would you agree?"

She hesitated. "Yes."

"Then the problem is not pathological, but psychological. Your father, the dead night watchman, figures largely in your value system. He is the imago that swells your heart with a sense of what is good and right. What do you suppose swells within at the sight of me? What do I represent to you, Clarice? As you said, the last time we were in contact, more happened than the telling of a tragedy. Many associations were likely made, in addition to the concrete memories you have of me. What are they? Where do I figure in your mind?"

"You are everything that he was not."

"And what is that, Clarice? Good and right? Those are artless shapes. That is drawing an oval for a head. Look at the painting, Clarice. Is her head an oval? Is her breast a circle? Is the swan a diamond? I want anatomical articulation. "

"He had self-control. He-"

"And I do not? Take a moment to think about that, Clarice. If it's a matter of self-control, then one must assume your father wanted to kill and eat those who offended him, but had the self-control to resist."

"Okay. He protected the innocent."

"Alright. And the opposite of protecting the innocent would be to destroy innocence. Is that fair to say?"

"…Yes."

"Are you unsure?"

"Yes."

"Alright. Tell me your best memory of your father, Clarice."

Starling looked away. It was not avoidance, he knew. She was genuinely accessing her memories. "It's a patchwork. His square-dancing shirt, hanging in the closet. His buttons against my cheek when he held me. The smell of tobacco, his pocketknife. Peeling oranges in the kitchen and telling knock-knock jokes."

"And what of that is the opposite of me?"

A beat.

"Love."

"Ah," Dr. Lecter said, a finger in the air. "Now, that is more interesting. I am the opposite of love, then. So, hate?"

"No. Dissolution."

"So love, in your mind, is the bringing together of things. And the opposite of that, is dissolution. The undoing of things. Now. Tell me what I have undone."

Her eyebrows were knitted. He could see she was struggling with her own mind. It was a difficult thing to come to terms with, as it concerned something very close to her. It is often difficult, if not impossible, for patients to come to terms with their own delusions, even after years of therapy. Help her? He decided to give her space and wait.

"You don't have to answer, now," he said." Just think about it, when it suits you. For now, I think it's time for lunch. You've been oscillating between boredom and stimulation in this room for awhile, now. If you'd like a change of scenery, I would encourage you to venture outside. There is a nice pavilion which overlooks the dock. It's a little warm, but if you stay in the shade, I think you'll find it adequate. I'll be in the kitchen. Lunch will be ready and served in the dining room in half an hour. The dining room is across the foyer and through the music room. Alright?"

"Alright." It was nice outside, but getting humid. Starling shielded her eyes for a moment, looking at the sky. There were clouds in the distance, and they were the kind that brought rain. As if to confirm her suspicion, she saw distant lightening followed by the lowest rumble of thunder. She went forward, scanned the water and shore. No boat. There were other lake houses, but they littered along the other side of the vast lake. They indeed had quite a lot of privacy. She glanced around the side of the house. It couldn't take too long to get to one of those other houses on foot. She was near the west side of the house, and she glanced in the nearest window. He was there. The window faced what Starling presumed was the kitchen sink. He tilted his head and beckoned her with two fingers, come here.

Starling wondered how fast he could run in his nice shoes. For just a beat, she considered it. He would catch her, she was almost certain. There was a door on the side of the house, that couldn't be more than a few strides from where he was standing. That wasn't much of a head start. Clarice Starling was an endurance runner, not a speed runner. But…ummmm. The thought of him running in his nice shoes, tree branches catching him, perhaps tripping over a root before reaching out and grabbing her… She gave a curt nod and turned back to the lake, and then the sky. It was hard to gauge if the storm was headed precisely in their direction. It was.

They ate across from each other at the table, each focusing on their food. At only one point did Dr. Lecter look up and admire the shine on her lips. At only one point did Starling think about her gun and boot knife. When they were through, Starling excused herself. Back in her quarters, she lay down and rubbed her throbbing temples. She wasn't a napper. The only times she successfully napped were the times she had a headache.

During the minutes it took her to drift off, she wondered if she'd be able to sleep in this place, with the imago of dissolution lurking somewhere beneath her.

She awoke to the calm, rhythmic tapping of rain. Regaining her memories in a quick, snowballing effect, she snapped her eyes open. She rolled over and looked for a clock, but couldn't find one. She sighed and glanced at the window. By the amount and position of the light, she'd guess it to be close to six in the afternoon, but the rain made it hard to tell. She must have slept until late that morning when he brought her, maybe as late as eleven. For a bad moment, her mind attempted to bring forth imagined visions of her asleep in his car, of him carrying her inside, cleaning her nails, tying her to the…she stopped the thoughts. Glancing at the closed bedroom door, she listened. Beneath the steady patter of rain was music. She couldn't be sure if it was another recording, but had the feeling it wasn't. The home absorbed the sound differently.

Her headache was gone, she was glad to note. And now, to proceed. Proceed with what? Was it too soon for negotiations? Had she given him enough sense that she had relinquished control over the situation? She decided she'd know once she saw him. She went to the bathroom, and after relieving herself, she leaned against the countertop and looked at herself in the mirror for the first time that day. All things considered, she looked refreshed. Her hair was a bit messy, and her shirt had become wrinkled. She straightened up, ran her fingers through her hair. She removed the shirt, and stood in jeans and a black tank top. She weighed the pros and cons of allowing herself the comfort of domesticity. If she were in her own home, she'd likely be wearing what she was wearing now, minus the bra. She really wanted to remove it. She did, and examined the effect. Considering the color, she felt it was difficult to tell, unless someone was looking for it. Most men would.

Starling was unsure of many things; she had the humility and the wisdom to admit that. One thing she was sure of was how unsure she was about the humanity of Dr. Lecter. Yes, he was in a human man's body. But how much in common did he really have with one? Was he ever unsure? Was he ever embarrassed or defensive? Had he ever fought for a cause? Had he ever been in love? Had he ever stroked a fevered head? Did he look at tits?

Starling snorted at herself in the mirror. She didn't think he'd read into it, at least. If he did, he'd likely come to a reasonably accurate conclusion. She was not the type of woman to flaunt her body, or use her femininity to manipulate. In fact, she despised it when women placed feminine strength in their sexuality.

Downstairs, Starling found Dr. Lecter at his harpsichord. The composition was lively, whimsical and wicked at once and he played it fervidly, putting a little bit of his torso into it. His dexterous hands moved fluidly, if not aggressively, occasionally crossing one another. She could see the strength in his forearms. She waited quietly in the doorway until he'd finished the piece. He took a breath of what, she decided, was satisfaction. His shoulders rolled and then squared, before he turned to her.

"Good evening, Clarice."

"Good evening, Dr. Lecter."

"How was your nap?"

"Fine. What were you playing?"

"Les Cyclopes."

"Would you tell me about it?" she asked, taking a seat on the divan near the window.

"Certainly. It was composed by Jean-Philippe Rameau around 1724. It is a descriptive piece depicting the gods' forgers of the thunderbolt. Its eruptive and theatrical character foreshadows the cataclysms of the Tragédies Lyriques. It is representative of the novel virtuosity that Rameau bestowed to the harpsichord."

"Virtuosity?"

"Yes. At the time, it was a prodigal instrument, and Rameau was not modest when it came to his mastery of it. Headache gone?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Of course. Tell me...what is your prodigal instrument, Clarice?"

She watched him spin around on the bench, so that he faced her. She crossed her legs and placed her hands in her lap over her thighs. "The.40 caliber Glock, preferably the compact."

Dr. Lecter was delighted. "That's only a recent development. Was there something before that?"

"Before that it was the standardized test."

"Why do you think you excelled in testing?"

"I work well under pressure."

"Do you feel pressure now?"

"I feel like it's a good idea to stay present. What's your prodigal instrument, Dr. Lecter?"

He smiled, fiendishly. Starling fought the urge to squirm and met his eyes, steadily. "I'll show you, if it comes to that."

Starling breathed in and out quickly, glanced out of the window and then back to Dr. Lecter. "What is on the agenda for this evening?"

"What would you enjoy doing, Clarice?"

"Within your parameters, I can only assume."

"Of course," he said in a kindly tone, a humble bow of his head.

She looked away. "I don't know."

"That sounded rather dejected. Have you regressed? You're practically pouting, Clarice."

"Have a little faith. This is my second siege within a forty-eight hour window, and I just woke up. I'd say I'm doing alright."

"A siege implies surrounding and attacking a fortified place in such a way to isolate it. No one has surrounded us, and won't any time soon. I prefer to think of it as a reunion, although I'll give you this: I will exhaust your defenses, if I haven't already. But hear me when I say, I have all the faith in the world in you."

"You have total confidence in breaking me down, but you have faith in me? I don't understand that."

"You will. Now, going back to what you'd like to do this evening, think in terms of how you'd like to feel, not in the specifics. Tell me what you want, and I'll fill in the gaps for you."

"I want progress."

"Progress in what?"

"Our reunion."

"Does that mean you would like for the reunion to end as quickly as possible, or to understand more about the reunion?"

"I wouldn't mind having both, if one does not slow down the other."

"Do you suppose that to be a tall order for me?"

"I don't suppose anything."

"Do you know what I suppose? I suppose that you want progress far beyond the bounds of this house."

"I couldn't argue that."

"But for progress, one must trust their own judgment enough to take action. Do you trust yourself enough to take action, here?"

Starling's lips parted and she turned her head a fraction. "Action," she said, as though she was trying the word out in her mouth. "Action could mean violence. I'd like to avoid that."

"Why does it necessarily mean violence, Clarice? Action can be taken in terms of words, decision-making, so forth. Now what action could you take to induce progress, here?"

Starling plunged. "Would you be willing to enter negotiations?"

Dr. Lecter closed his eyes, as though he had entered prayer. When he opened them again, there was something new in the endless night of his eyes.

"It sounds to me like you've decided what you'd like to do, this evening."

They looked at one another in silence for a few charged moments. Dr. Lecter stood quietly and Starling mirrored him, down to impeccable posture.

"I need to start dinner. It is my opinion that we should proceed with negotiations after we've eaten. It could take a rather long time, and we wouldn't want to be interrupted by those pesky betrayals of our anatomy, would we?"

"Fine."

"Would you like some wine while I start? I invite you to join me in the kitchen, but you're free to do whatever you like."

"No thank you, to the wine. Yes, I'll be joining you."

"You mean chaperon," he said with a grin.

"You have a habit of feeding your guests exotic fare."

Dr. Lecter gave a deeper bow, before inviting her forward with an arm. "Come. "

In the kitchen, Dr. Lecter was busy with his pots and pans, and after a half hour, he turned to her and said:

"Clarice, would you like to go upstairs and change for dinner?"

Taken aback slightly, she cleared her throat. "Have I something to change into?"

"Go and see," he answered, smiling. "I'll do the same. You won't miss anything, I promise."

When they had resumed in the kitchen, Starling came in second. He looked up at her and stopped what he was doing. She had found the gown in the closet, and correctly assumed it was appropriate. She was delectable in a whisper of silk and she licked her lips under his scrutiny.

"Come sei bella," he murmured to himself, and offered her a prosecco cocktail with elderflower liquor, fig, honey and thyme. She took it and let him lead her to the dining room. Once seated, she didn't wait long before he brought her an appetizer. After he'd placed it in front of her, he gave her a smile.

"Bruschetta with figs, gorgonzola, pancetta crumbles, and toasted hazelnuts." "Thank you." "You're very welcome." Dr. Lecter's main course was nearly done, and he had enough time to idle and enjoy watching her enjoy his food. While he lingered, they casually discussed the themes of chamber music, a subject of which Starling was not entirely ignorant. By the time he left her again, he felt confident that she was more relaxed than she'd been in the music room. And yet, he reminded himself, she had never stopped calculating. Everything she did or did not do was theater. She was putting on a show of amenability; the gown, the light conversation, the tentative civility…No, no. Never for a moment assume she is complacent. Never assume she is without. Dr. Lecter with a finger along his nose considered the image of Starling at his table. He liked the image very much, and decided she should be at his table as often as he could manage. When he had first decided to pursue her, he had considered using hypnosis and pharmaceuticals to aid her compliance; he still had them on hand if it came to that. However, he was hopeful he would not have to use those particular tools. He was curious to see what she would do to get out of the situation. He had seen her flex her muscles when under pressure, and he enjoyed watching her process. This was a different angle, an unfamiliar one. He had only been able to see glimpses, before. She had not feared for her own life, before. He wondered how that might change her thinking and behavior, what beliefs or feelings would be kicked to the surface? Hmm…

The main course consisted of mussels in white wine with sopressata and sun-dried tomatoes.

"Mmm."

Dr. Lecter decided he very much enjoyed that sound coming from her closed lips. He appreciated it the most when she made the sound with her eyes closed.

Dessert was torta caprese, and was served with cappuccinos in the drawing room. Their conversation remained light, and when Dr. Lecter felt that they had settled into a harmonious place, he put down his cappuccino and cleared their plates. When he returned, Starling's body-language suggested she was ready. She looked at him where he stood in the open doorway.

"Should we begin here? I'm not sure this room is quite right," Starling reflected.

"I agree. Perhaps a neutral place. You've not seen the conservatory. May I show it to you?"

"Alright."

She followed him through a hallway she hadn't been down, past the stairs and kitchen. They passed a pier glass, and she startled internally at the sight of their bodies in the same open space.

The house was darker here. She followed him into a room with a glass wall and ceiling. It had gotten dark outside, between the setting of the sun and the storm. The rain was a little louder here, but still coming down softly enough that the noise was not intrusive, but calming. Vines grew up along the wall and onto the roof. Two chairs faced each other with a table in front of them. Dr. Lecter pulled one of them out for her. After tucking her into it, he stood in front of her, his hands on his own chair back.

"Would you like some candles?"

"Yes, that would be nice."

He nodded, and she watched him moving around the other side of the room, watched flickers of light develop against the wall in front of him. He turned and came to sit in front of her. The light was low but warm, and distant lightening lit Dr. Lecter's passive face, the light making shadows on his face from the ribbons of water and vines on the glass, like thorny, black tears.