On a Wednesday afternoon, Starling paced the hotel room at the Monterey Bay Inn. Her window looked out onto the ocean, where the setting sun turned the water orange and the beach goers into happy, black specks on the beach. Her drapes were shut.
Eventually, she fired up the laptop she'd just bought at the nearest Radio Shack, and wrung her hands. The round-trip plane tickets to Sogndal varied between $3,280 and $3,450. Lecter had not mentioned that.
"What the…" she murmured, running a hand through her hair. In a strange way, she had a moment of gratitude. She had traded feeling terrified for feeling angry. She'd take that deal, any day.
One year ago, she'd created a fake email account for the purpose of communication, if that became necessary. She logged on to see any messages. Amongst the spam, she found one email, sent nearly two months ago. It was itinerary for her flight the following day. There was no note attached, and the sender was from a Charles Closter.
Starling closed her eyes. One, she could have bought it herself. Two, the fear was back. At least, she reflected, there was still some anger, there. But it wasn't fear for her life. Where the fear came from was a place Starling could not name. Yet, it was there, nonetheless—making her knees wobble and her mouth dry and the small of her back slick.
The flight left at 5:40 in the morning the following day, and stopped at Heathrow Airport for a one hour layover. She was not expecting to be on a plane that early. She checked for other flights, and realized why it had come down to this one. All of the others had long layovers, several of which were overnight. This wretched flight he'd chosen was the best there was, and she put her head in her hands and growled just once, quietly, into her balmy palms. She wasn't sure why. She steadied herself, and looked at the rest of the flight, her face pale in the blue light.
It would take her ten hours to cross an ocean. Then there would be one more stop at Oslo, at which point she would catch her final flight to Sogndal Airport, Haukåsen, arriving at ten after six in the morning. Norway time, on Friday. To her, it would be nine at night, the previous day. If that did not aid in making what was to follow feel like out of time and reality, she did not know what would.
Their reunion was an odd one, and not what either expected or planned. By the time Starling's flight landed, right on time at ten after six in the morning, she was as tired as she had ever been. She was so tired that, by the time she was on her third plane, she was no longer filled with anxiety. Each worry, each panic-inducing scenario that ravaged her mind fell away. Like crumbs cast into a park pond, each morsel floating on the surface either plucked or descended below, one by one. She could not hold onto them.
There was a distant pulse of panic, nerves or excitement in her gut as she exited the plane. Another as she walked through the terminal, and she felt cocooned by the strangers around her, blanketed from the stares ahead from those who greeted them.
Then she saw him. He stood among them, near one of the widows. He stood with his hands in his pockets and wore no expression, which soothed her. His overcoat was long, down to his ankles, his hair slick beneath a merino wool felt hat. His shoes were shiny, even in the ghastly airport lights. Unlike the others he did not wave or come forward, only gave a bow of his head and waited. Starling had no idea how she looked, and glad she didn't care.
Suddenly, she was standing in front of him, watching him look her over.
"Good morning," he said.
"Good morning."
"Come," he said, removing his hands from his pockets and directing her away from the crowd. "I have water and a little food in my car."
She thought then that she must look like a refugee, and drifted along next to him like wayward luggage with a screwy wheel.
She knew it would be cold and had worn her thick, wool coat. She'd neglected to wear a scarf or even bring gloves, so she pushed her hands in her pockets and tucked her chin in as they left the airport and the frigid, morning air hit her with the force of cold water. The complete obliviousness of others bothered her just a little, as they walked to his car. His pace was quick, but not too quick for her. The cold, the haste of his stride and the general sense of falling took her from the airport to his car. It carried her from a world without Hannibal Lecter in it, to a world deluged by him.
She watched him load her meager luggage into his backseat.
Whore.
She watched him open the door for her and she collapsed inside, the door smooth and muted as it closed. She was alone for a few beats and she watched him walk around, a chipper, prowling wilder in his gait and mood. Now that she'd watched him a bit she saw beyond the lack of expression. He was pleased. He was…happy?
Traitor.
She was so tired, she could not even tense when he was seated next to her. He leaned over and took out a water bottle from the glove compartment and a small, tin box.
"Drink. Eat. We'll have a more filling breakfast when we arrive at our destination, unless you'd like to sleep."
"Sleep," Starling said. It was not an answer or even a response; she only repeated the thing that sounded good, so good. The anxiety had kept her awake through the whole trip and now, exhausted by both travel and apprehension, it was all she wanted. Sleep. When she only held the bottle and tin box in her lap, he put the car back into park and unscrewed the lid of the water bottle for her.
"Drink it, Clarice. Then you can sleep."
She looked at it, and wondered if she was already asleep.
"Five sips," he added. He watched her obey, and when she was finished, he recapped it.
Starling slept for the four and a half hour drive. Dr. Lecter looked at her as often as traffic lights permitted.
It had been raining for awhile, and stopped only twice for a few minutes. It was nearly cold enough for more snow. It was beginning to rain again, when the car turned and slowed. Starling roused briefly, and looked out of the window. There was old snow on the ground, which was becoming a sloshy mess in the slowly warming weather and rain. It began raining harder just as they were pulling into the driveway. Not even the groaning of the garage door lifted her eyelids. They were so very heavy. Some little part of her was awake enough to know they had arrived somewhere, that the car had stopped, that there was a tinny roaring outside, and that the passenger's door was opening. She felt his hand, warm on her shoulder.
"Clarice. Here, take my hand. That's right, up you go."
She leaned into him until they reached the door, when she let go of him and watched him unlock it.
"I've rented the entire cabin, so it's just us," he was saying.
"There are six bedroom, two baths, a kitchen and two lounges. We'll sleep in the largest bedroom nearest to the kitchen. Tonight, you can have your own room, assuming that's your preference," he continued, leading her inside. They were in the kitchen, an open space shared with a living room. The fire was not lit, yet. He deposited her onto the sofa, and Starling immediately laid down in the fetal position, found a fur throw and hugged it to her chest.
"I'll be back shortly. I need to check us in with the lockbox."
"Okay."
Starling looked at the unlit fireplace and drifted for a bit. Later, her eyes opened again to see Dr. Lecter sitting with his back to her. The fireplace had a raised, stone hearth that wrapped around one side of it. Dr. Lecter sat on it, leaning forward to light the fire. She could smell the wood begin to burn. A candle was lit on the corner of the hearth, in a tall taper. Her eyes closed again.
Jezebel, Judas, whore, traitor.
When she woke again, she woke to sounds and smells in the kitchen. For just a moment, she thought she was home, and Mapp was cooking up a storm. And then her life with Ardelia Mapp, the FBI and all of the other debris that went with it was the dream.
It was lighter out now, but not as light as she would have thought. It was still raining. She sat up and rubbed her eye for a good, long minute. When she stood, she stretched enough she made a little squawk, and Dr. Lecter's head came up.
"Good morning, again," he said, and she turned to look at him and nod.
"Morning."
"You need to eat as soon as possible," he said, watching her come to sit on a barstool across from him. His sleeves were rolled up and his hands were working something in a bowl."Luckily for you," he continued," you are going to eat very well, this weekend."
"Weekend," she repeated.
"Are your communication skills still that rudimentary? Yes, Clarice. Weekend. Today is Friday morning, tomorrow is Saturday. I have you for three whole days and two nights," he said. His teeth seemed almost to bite on the word.
"Yes, I know," she said, irritably. Before she could go on, she heard scratching from somewhere, and she stood up, nearly knocking the stool over.
"Ah, yes. We have a guest, this time. I would have told you before, but you were indisposed," he said. She was already darting down the hallway, and he smiled to himself.
Starling stood outside of a closed bedroom door, her hand on her throat. The horrors her mind suggested made every muscle in her body tense. She imagined opening the door to find some dismembered person having crawled to the door, their eyes and mouths sewn shut, perhaps. Batting helplessly at the door with a mangled hand. The image was absurd, she knew in her rational mind. Her body didn't listen to reason, and her heart pounded.
Scratch, scratch.
Whore, Jezebel, traitor!
She opened the door with her hand over her mouth, and a dog immediately ran out, circled around her once, jumped on her legs, and circled again, barking, its nails clacking on the hardwood floors. Starling looked at it, looked in the room, down the hall, and back at the dog. It wagged its tail and hopped up on its hind legs. She crouched down and gave its head a ruffle.
"Well, fuck me," she murmured. "Come on," she said, walking back down the hallway.
"You have a dog, now?" she asked him, standing in the middle of the living room. She looked around for a moment, as though the furniture would somehow explain this new absurdity.
"I wish you wouldn't have let him out. He'll get underfoot while I'm cooking."
"I'm not sorry," she said. After a moment, she realized what she'd said and looked at him. He was looking at her with his head to the side. "I think I must have decided I wouldn't lie," she explained," I almost said I was sorry, but I wasn't. So…"she shrugged, offering her palms.
"I'm glad to hear it."
"Enjoy your kitchen mate," she said, sitting cross-legged in front of the fire. She looked over her shoulder when he came into the living room holding a chilled Collins glass. He handed it to her.
"What is it?"
"It's called a Pimm's Cup Royale."
She sniffed it. "Whoa, what's in this?"
"Cognac, peach liqueur and champagne."
"Jesus. That's awfully heavy duty for—what time is it?"
"Half past noon, here. To you, it's about four in the afternoon."
"Oh. When you put it that way…" she took a sip. "Ummm, okay. This is really good."
"I'll never put anything in your mouth you won't like."
"You have, before," she said, and immediately clapped a hand over her mouth.
"You certainly are without a filter, today," he said from the kitchen, and she turned to look at him. Her hand fell to her lap.
"I-I'm sorry. I don't know where that came from. It was rude. I think."
"Nothing matters, not here," Dr. Lecter said, dashing her worries with a flick of his head." Be what you are. I find it charming, actually. And flattered you haven't forgotten."
"It was only a year ago," Starling said. She could hear the clicking of the dog's claws scurrying all around the kitchen, now. Dr. Lecter sighed, irritably. Starling smiled, first; a small burst of air escaped through her nose, and then a full-blown laugh.
"Interesting that my irritation is so amusing to you."
"Isn't it?"
"Come here and eat, my little sadist."
The voice in Starling's head, not quite her own, leapt once again to torment her.
My little sadist…my little doxy!
She shivered at the memory of his name for her, on that night. He called her that all night. It was as though for one night, that's what she became, he transformed her into 'little doxy' with those words.
Little doxy. Little whore.
Her smile faded. She was not allowed to smile. She was not allowed to laugh or enjoy herself, not here, not in this place, not with him. If she was to be his little fucking doxy, she would not, could not enjoy it. She could at least manage that, couldn't she?
When she was sitting at the table, the dog jumped up on her leg, whining. Dr. Lecter looked at him. The dog whined once, and then sat down. Starling considered the dog. It was a puppy, not a small dog. It was all muscle, she saw. Dense.
"What kind of dog is that? It looks like it might be a Rottweiler."
"It is."
"Why in God's name do you have a dog?"
"I took it off someone's hands. His owner tragically perished."
Starling looked at him sharply. Dr. Lecter smiled and placed a plate of food in front of her. "I didn't kill him."
"What is this?" she asked, ready to tuck in before he even answered.
"Caramelized apple crepes."
"My God, this looks good."
"It is."
A few minutes and seven bites later, "Why such a decadent brunch?"
"An excellent choice of words," said Dr. Lecter. He held up a finger, before going on. She suddenly realized they'd never eaten like this. Not together, right across from one another at a reasonably sized kitchen table. Odd.
He took another bite, chewed, swallowed, took a sip of his drink and wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin. "Decadence," he began again, raising his glass," is the word of the weekend. You and your little low-ceiling life, Clarice, are going to have a break in routine. Today, tonight and tomorrow will fill you, in every conceivable manner," he said, looking deeply into her eyes. She couldn't bare it, and looked away.
"Clarice."
"Yes?"
He wagged his drink midair, and she clinked her own with it, quickly.
"I still don't understand why you have a dog. I would never see you taking responsibility for another creature, like that. Do you pick up its poop?" she couldn't help asking. He blinked slowly, and she could have sworn he made effort not to smile; his lips parted for a moment, the tip of his tongue touching the center of his upper lip as he briefly looked away.
"Clarice, let's discuss things like feces when we're not eating, yes?"
"Fair enough," she agreed, and after a moment,"I hope you do."
A few quiet moments passed as they ate. The patter of rain and the crackling of the fire calmed some of Starling's nerves, but she found the presence of the dog to be the major influence in her increasing calm. That and this drink, she thought.
"What's his name? It's a boy?" she wondered.
"Yes. His name is Cerberus."
"Of course it is."
Dr. Lecter raised his glass to his lips, watching her over the rim of the cup. Starling swallowed.
"I apologize if what I put in your mouth last year offended you, Clarice," he said, setting the glass down. Starling didn't look at him, cleared her throat and focused on her food. He went on."I'm even sorrier that you found your own taste offensive."
"Stop."
"I, for one, find you to taste quite good."
"Stop it."
"Sweet and tangy like a peach vinaigrette."
"I said, stop," Starling said, keeping her voice low, calm, her eyes still cast down. She pressed her fork into the crepe and it leaked and oozed, sweet and sticky.
"A little musky, like bourbon."
Starling's fork clattered against the plate, and she met her forehead with a hand, rubbed her temple, and Cerberus barked and wagged his tail. She felt his paws on her calf.
"Down," Dr. Lecter said in a low voice. The paws retreated. "Clarice, we need to talk about your recently developed self-hatred."
"Do we, now?"
"Look at me. If you can look at me while I tell you how good you taste, if you can look at me and feel alright, I'll leave it alone."
She raised her head. "Wouldn't it be something if I could just enjoy this nice breakfast you made?"
Dr. Lecter regarded her, his head leaning back a micron. What an exceptional, graceful way to forbid him, he considered. He let out the smallest puff of air through his nose, though Starling didn't know what it meant, and didn't care. He nodded once, and left her alone.
When they were finished, Starling was more or less dismissed to the living room while Dr. Lecter took care of the dishes. Cerberus followed her and she was glad for the company. He hopped up onto the couch next to her, his small body warm and dense against her thigh. She put a hand on his back and gave him a few strokes.
"Yeah, you're a good boy," she said, and he poked her palm with his cold, wet nose. "On the head? Alright."
"I thought you two might get along," Dr. Lecter said from the kitchen.
"Yeah, well. This guy's easy."
"Ah, is that the root of our troubles, Clarice? I'm not easy?"
Starling snorted. "If only that was the root of our issues."
Dr. Lecter's voice suddenly right behind her made Starling jump. "Isn't it exhausting to pretend you despise me?"
Starling didn't response, and kept her eyes on the dog. She smiled at him, soft and sad, and scratched behind his ear.
"Clarice, if you don't want to talk to me about something, use your words. Don't ignore me. I will not tolerate it."
"I don't despise you," she finally said, nearly a whisper.
"And that bothers you." He came around to sit next to her.
"No."
"How was your breakfast?"
"Very good."
"Good. Now, we will discuss first your masochism, then your sadism."
"I am not a sadist," she said, looking at him, incredulously.
"You have sadistic qualities, and it's better to address them now, before they begin scheming without your consent or knowledge—but don't get ahead. First, your masochism. Do not pretend to be ignorant of it."
For a long time, Starling was quiet. By the time she spoke, the dog was asleep and the rain had stopped.
"How can I not hate myself a little for what I've done?"
"When did the hate start?"
Starling held her shoulders for a moment, thinking. "It wasn't immediate," she said, nodding at his implication. "It took some time to sink in. At first, it didn't seem real."
"No. It didn't," Dr. Lecter agreed.
"It was as though what had happened was so surreal, so beyond measure or coping, it could not be delegated by my mind as reality. It wasn't true disassociation, but not unlike it, either. But I had the memories, and I thought of them often enough, I guess it started to seem more real. They were bookmarked and became dog-eared, and it shifted closer and closer to being categorized as reality. That took a few months."
"And what did you feel?"
Starling laughed, dryly. "Buyer's remorse."
"I don't think that's true."
"Not entirely. I did go through a phase of being horrified that I'd made a terrible mistake, and there were certainly days I considered breaking our contract, and not showing up here. But I think, even when I thought that, I knew I would come. I knew I would follow through."
"Failing to follow through is not in your repertoire."
"No, it isn't. More than that, I thought…" Starling swallowed, and rubbed her palms along her pants.
"Yes?"
"Then…if I did break the contract, I did…what I did-for nothing."
Dr. Lecter breathed in and out quickly, just once. Sensing some kind of shift in the conversation, Starling finally looked at him. He smiled at her for a moment.
"Let's get something out of the way. It may be challenging."
Starling sighed. "When is it not?"
"Clarice, I want you to make an effort to answer the following question truthfully. Will you do that?"
"Yes," she said, slowly.
"Clarice, did you enjoy the things I did to you?"
She looked away, immediately. It wasn't because she couldn't look at him, knowing he knew the answer. It was because at the mention of it, at the mention of the things he did to her, she felt a distinct chirp, inside. A hot, thorny flick where such a sensation should not exist in the presence of this man, and (God!) not in response to those…things…he did.
WHORE.
She heard an odd, quivering burp of a sound, and her hand shot up to her mouth, realizing she'd made it. The tears were so unexpected; she stood abruptly, looking around. She could not stop them. They would not be stopped and she sought an exit. She could not fathom weeping in front of him. He would enjoy it, he would revel in it, he would slurp it up.
"Clarice."
He was blocking her way and she turned around, but his hands stopped her. She pushed at him and his hands became tighter. She covered her face. The stubbornness she felt did not abandon her, she clung to it too tightly, but it changed alliances. Now, she would not flee. No, she would not flee the room, tail between her legs, like a child. If she was to cry, she would stand here and do it. Let him feast. Fuck it all. Fuck it all.
TRAITOR.
Minutes went by, and she listened to the sounds she made and hated them. Minutes went by, and she found she was sitting again, and there were arms, and she grabbed hold of them. Long, long minutes went by and the tears that began the tantrum were not the same tears that ended it. Her face was wet and swollen and pressed against something stiff and soft. Her hands, she realized were tired and aching, her nails embedded into skin. Not her skin. She breathed steadily for a time, gathering herself back together slowly, patiently. She leaned back, and looked for a few moments at the wet spot on Dr. Lecter's shirt. She sniffed.
"Sorry."
She felt a hand cup her chin and she let it guide her face up to look at him.
"You are not a whore," he said.
"What?" she asked, bewildered.
"You are NOT a whore. Do you understand me?"
"Did I—"
"Over and over again. Among other things. I'm glad it's out of you. Those things do not belong in you. That's why they spilled so easily."
"But…you called me your little doxy. How am I your doxy but not a whore?"
"Oh, Clarice," he said, his thumb stroking her cheek. "A doxy is a loaded word. A whore means only one thing: a whore. It is also a very derogatory word. Doxy, on the other hand, has multiple meanings. It can be used to mean a prostitute or a mistress, yes. But it can also be used to mean a sweetheart, a lover, a non-courtly love affair. It also has a distinct, separate meaning, a defined opinion. I used the word doxy for a reason, and I'm sorry that reason was not apparent.
"You are not a whore. You are not my whore. You are my doxy, my infrequent lover. You are my little doxy, my wayward beloved. You are my doxy…my headstrong, brave, defined opinion. I will not apologize for calling you that, and I will not stop calling you that, because I know what it means to me, and now you do, too."
Starling looked at him, knowing she may have never been so ugly in her life, and felt okay. He let go of her face and neither spoke, but each unraveled themselves from one another and sat back in their seats. They looked at each other, looked deep, and the rain came back and the ground outside was a filthy slush that began to spread.
Something was happening. . .
Dr. Lecter kept himself very still. She'd fallen asleep, again. He would wake her in a few hours if necessary. He hoped she would not sleep very long. She was beautiful asleep, it was true. But he preferred her active; her eyes open, aware, looking at him, thinking, feeling. He only had a few days. Only a few precious days with her.
Something was happening. . .
Dr. Lecter kept himself very still. A strange, faraway thumping disrupted his thoughts from time to time. A tribal, primitive sort of drumming that came from inside his own body, his own palace. It wasn't really a sound, he knew. It was a feeling, a feeling he grappled to reconcile, a feeling he could not oppose, nor accept. This feeling was abhorrent, cruel and pitiless. This feeling was inexorable, urgent and exquisite. He could not yet endure to feel its approach; he could only hear it, like the remote advancing of a stampede. The steady, muted sound of horses, or war drums on the hills. Some...thing was happening. . .
Dr. Lecter kept himself very still, and when Starling's eyes fluttered open, she frowned. He sat where he'd been before; he had not moved an inch. He was watching her, had been watching her, but that was not why she frowned. She frowned because Dr. Lecter looked alarmed. The moment passed very quickly, and she wondered if she had not understood what she'd seen.
Dr. Lecter had his head leaning against his hand in the crook of his forefinger and thumb. The finger on his temple pulled his eyebrow up in a parody expression of conceit. His lips parted and his cheek flinched. "Come with me. I want to show you something."
There was a conservatory on the other side of the cabin. To combat the cold that the long-spanning windows let in, there were hanging furnaces, and Dr. Lecter led Starling to one. He sat down on a timber bench and patted the seat next to him.
Outside, it was snowing. The hills, sugar maples, hazels and hollies all covered, and a short distance away, a herd of reindeer.
"Are those-"
"Reindeer, yes," Dr. Lecter nodded. "There's a Sámi reindeer herder not far from this property. He takes guests on hikes and will let you feed them, if you pay." He seemed to consider, and she stole a glance at him. His eyes were slightly narrowed. "Would you like to see them?" he finally asked. He looked at her after a moment and she looked on, as though he'd grown horns.
"That's okay," she said, slowly. He looked away. "Thank you, though," she added. Her belly twitched.
He inhaled sharply and Starling rolled her shoulders. "I find that a change of scenery can sometimes help in a potentially harsh segue. I want to talk about the inverse of your split matrix. The sadism."
"Why do you think I'm a sadist? Because I thought it was funny a dog annoyed you? Because I liked the thought of you doing a low kind of drudgery like picking up after a pet?"
"No, no. You liked those things because it made me seem more human to you. Then you were upset, because you realized you didn't want to think of me that way. That's to do with you and me, but we're not talking about that, now. We're talking about your tendencies towards sadism, and how it connects with your affinity for masochism. Your masochism, by the way, goes beyond your most recent affiliation with debasing yourself. That was only a branch broken off from the larger body of water."
"What is the large body of water?"
"Haven't you ever heard the phrase, 'a glutton for punishment'?"
Starling didn't say anything, but folded her hands in her lap and stared at them.
"You know what I'm talking about, Clarice. You've known it, you've investigated it, and you've even cornered it. But revelations are disappointingly unceremonious when no action follows it, aren't they? There is a great gulf between comprehending something and applying that new knowledge in life."
"Yeah," Starling agreed. "I know. But I think part of the reason I don't do anything about it is because I'm afraid I'd be in danger of trading it for something worse. At least if I'm a glutton for punishment, I'm not hurting anyone else."
"There it is," he said, smiling softly. "You'd sooner hurt yourself than someone else. Now, the other thing you mentioned is also pivotal to this discussion, Clarice. You said, 'I'm afraid I'd be in danger of trading it in for something else.' Now, if you were so very confident in your desire to protect others, so confident in your inability to harm others for self-gain or spite or even pleasure, why are you afraid of letting go of this splinter in your subconscious? Some part of you, Clarice, is afraid that that splinter is a load-bearing wall in your house. You're afraid if you remove it, it will all come crumbling down, and then-"
"No, I-"
"And then, Clarice, you'd be-"
"Dr. Lecter-"
"You would be like me. You protect the world from you. You can feel that power, can't you? Can't you feel the potential, the might, the supremacy, the hunger?"
"Yes," she said, more piercing then she had intended, and she winced at her own voice. "Yes," she said, more softly, "I can feel it. And I know what you want, and it will never, never happen," she said. She looked at him, then. "Never," she repeated, and he inclined his head.
"Never is quite a long time," he answered, smiling.
"It's never. It is beyond time. Do you hear me? We'll never be together that way, not in this life."
"Ummm," Dr. Lecter, considered. "Is this life, Clarice? Right now, you and I? Could you bear it?"
"I don't know."
"It is what you make of it. If it's real, it's real because you say it. If it is a dream within a dream, you make it so with your words. People mismanage their words. They don't assign the appropriate level of power they contain, our spoken words are incantations! Your mind hears your words, it hears the ones you repeat the most. That's conditioning. In so doing, you make yourself with your words. What do you want this to be? What do you need it to be, even if it's just for now? Allow yourself the luxury of naming this moment, and being its creator."
"Okay," she started, running a hand through her hair."A dream, then. It's just a dream."
"A dream. Then nothing you do here matters. Nothing holds weight, and you can be what you need to be, if even for a little while. You need to experience those parts of yourself, Clarice. You need to get to know those parts, you must accept them. So long as you try to keep them locked away, they will whisper and haunt you. You hear those words, too. Those whispered words will drive the undercurrents of your thoughts and feelings, and thoughts and feelings will drive you to action. One day you'll find yourself in predicaments you don't understand, and you'll find someone else to blame. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"
Starling ignored the question. She was looking out of the window, her eyes suddenly alert to some idea. When she spoke, she spoke slowly. "Is that what this visit will be about?" she asked the snowfall. She looked at him, and he noted that her pupils were dilated.
Dr. Lecter had seen Starling look her best. He'd seen her eyes bright and curious as a child's. He'd seen her hair shine, her face animated. He'd seen her stunning in a gown, and he'd seen her disrobed in the dark and in the light. This moment could not compare, he decided. Her hands wrung in her lap. Her hair was ragged, frizzy from the rain and sleeping and crying. Her eyes were still a little red around the edges, her parted lips were a little swollen. Her clothes were wrinkled. He could smell her sweat and her fear. But, oh! What looked out of those ravaged eyes was alive, and how they burned! Her eyes moved rapidly back and forth for an instant, a strange, feathery movement. He wondered if he focused, if he practiced, he could smell what she felt. Perhaps one day, he could even smell her appetite. What would that smell be like? He decided that if her appetite had a fragrance, he may very well blackout.
Dr. Lecter took her hands in his and she looked at them, her growing alarm like the slow escalation of the coming blizzard, for which neither was entirely prepared. "Tonight will be about the exploration of these two selves. They have been living in a cage. Tomorrow night, we will unlock it. Tomorrow night you will meet them, and so will I."
"Dr. Lecter," she started, a note of formidable warning stretched taut as a canvas around an almost tender, vulnerable voice.
"Don't be afraid," he said.
"What are you going to do?" she asked. She didn't want to ask, but she had to. "I need to know."
"It's not just what I'll do, Clarice."
"Tell me what you're going to do to me."
"You know what I'm going to do to you."
"NO!" Starling pulled her hands out of his. She had never spoken to him that way, before. "Tell me," she said, lowering her voice, trying to take the edge out of it.
"Do you see? Do you see this reaction you're having? Are you more afraid of what I might do or what you might do?"
"I don't want to command you. I don't want to control you. You're the one who-"
"Quiet," he said, his voice suddenly dark. Starling held her hands in her lap. She was suddenly aware of being cold. His voice had frightened her, and it was distressing. His voice had never frightened her. It had thrilled her, pierced and probed her and even aroused her. If she was terribly honest with herself, and she felt self-honesty was becoming an important part of surviving this covenant, he had aroused her with that voice since the beginning. She had to believe that didn't make her depraved. Or maybe it did, and that was another thing she would have to process. But amidst all those feelings he had elicited, fear had not been one of them. She could be afraid of what he may see in her face or hear in her voice. She could be afraid of what insights he could make, but fearing his disfavor was a new kind of terrible. Caring whether she was in his favor or not was terribly frightening.
"Clarice, I don't want to control you. I want to nurture you, the real you. I want to plant you in good sunlight, provide you with shade and water when you need it."
Starling didn't like that. "That's not what I'm for," she said, almost absentmindedly. She was looking out of the window, again. She waited to see if he would hush her again, but he didn't. "That's not what I'm for," she said again, fortifying the truth she heard in the words. His disapproval didn't matter as much, now that she knew it to be true.
She looked at him, the anger gone. His anger, if there had ever been any real anger, was gone. If anything, he seemed pleased with her revelation.
"Do you understand?" she asked, gently.
Dr. Lecter broke their eye contact and looked out of the window. "I understand what you said."
"But you don't agree?" she wondered.
"It isn't that. But you should know something. Whatever you're becoming, I will be a part of it. That's something neither of us can stop, now. I am a part of your rise in this world. Make no mistake, you will rise. Even in those moments when your back is against a wall and you can't see a way; that's where your strength lies, you know. When you have nothing and no one, and there appears to be no way. That is when you shine brightest. When you learn that, really learn it, I hope to be there."
"I remember what you said in the letter."
"Good. Stop worrying about tomorrow night. Our terms are still in place, I will not injure you. You may experience discomfort or pain, but I will not wound you. Although I don't know if the same can be said of you," he said, looking at her."There are no deals in place in that regard, I have not limited you," he paused when she was looking at him again.
When they regarded one another:
"I will never limit you. Remember that, it's important."