The room was darker now, quiet and still.  Only the soft whisper of her breathing betrayed the fact that she was still alive.  A single white candle on either side of the four-poster mahogany bed illuminated the ethereal scene: Clarice Starling, at rest.  Gone were the shadows of anger that had hovered around her mouth, gone the lines of tension etched across her forehead, gone the staring intensity of her wide-open eyes.  Covered in only a light silk sheet, she was ageless, timeless, and supremely beautiful.

            From the velvet armchair in the dim corner, Hannibal Lecter’s eyes never strayed from her motionless form.  His body was a statue, the picture of implacable control.  Only a part of his brain registered every detail of her condition, monitored the nuances of every breath, and waited for the first signs of the stirring of consciousness.  The other part focused on relaxing his own strain, the muscles of his body aching from the hours of crucifixion, bound in unnatural pose.  It had been long indeed since his body had been subjected to that kind of treatment, and he hurt all over.  He tensed and released every muscle separately, willing himself to relinquish the aftermath of the struggle, to return his body to the readiness that might be required at any moment.  He laughed then, soundlessly, only the hint of a smile playing on his face.  It would do no good to relax his body if he could not master his mind.

            In the heat of the action, Lecter had forced his brain down familiar avenues of control.  He recalled holding Starling’s body tightly in his arms while the giant pigs roared around his feet.  The only portion of the adventure worth calling to mind, he reflected, playing the scene over and over in the cinema of his memory palace.  He remembered the machinelike ticking of his thought: this action now, that action then, watch for this, remember that.  The gorgeous order of a computer program had usurped the power of the flooding images, scents, sounds… only the smell of Starling’s hair in his nostrils had caused a moment’s wave of passion.  Even the dripping wound on her shoulder had not affected him so.

            Not until he had her safe, back at the house on the Chesapeake, and had laid her unconscious body on the butcher-block island in the kitchen, did he feel the first stirrings of anger, of fear and black revenge.  He gathered his equipment swiftly and turned on the harsh spotlight he had installed over his impromptu operating theatre, then cut away the remnants of her shirt, exposing the bloody mess.  With water first, then Betadine, he scrubbed her skin clean, prepping her for surgery.  He froze as he gazed at the hole in her flesh.  In that moment, it looked like a stigmata.

            A torrent of thought, symbol, image and emotion threatened to engulf him.  An impulse to put his mouth to the wound tore at his self-control.  A vision of Clarice falling at his feet in the filthy pig barn, her eyes meeting his as she fell, burned behind his eyes.  He braced his arms on the table, his head dropped down and he inhaled deeply, steadying himself as the world shook under his feet.  With a scream like a whiplash he called himself back to order, shouting in the vaulted chambers of his mind.  Instantly, his head snapped back and he became once more the icy Doctor of his infallible reputation.  With the bolt shot tight on the doors of the palace, he delicately inserted an IV line in her right hand, slid an airway in her mouth, tilted her head back and propped a towel under her neck.  Almost gratefully he hid her face under an oxygen mask and lightly anesthetized her, just deep enough to keep her unconscious.  He probed her shoulder cautiously with a small forceps, removing the bullet while keeping damage to nerve and muscle fiber at a minimum.  He looked at the blood-coated lump of metal a fraction of a second too long, then threw it violently off into the corner of the kitchen.

            As he irrigated the wound and packed it with antibiotic powder he recited chemical formulas and algebraic theorems to keep his thoughts at bay.  While stitching the lips of the gash together he demanded perfection of himself in every motion.  He placed each suture precisely, deftly, to minimize the detrimental cosmetic effect of the…

            Fool, snarled a harsh, raspy voice from the back of the palace.  Do you think this is the scar she will mind?

            His hands almost shook as he finished the neat row of stitches, did shake as he dropped the suture needle into the steel basin on the counter.  The critical actions taken, her life relatively safe now, he longed to release the lock on his emotions, his fear, and the unfaced conflict taking place behind the doors, but a soft moan jolted him back to himself and his cool demeanor surfaced once again.  Reaching for a vial of Versed, he drew up a milligram and gently pushed it through her IV.  So attuned was he that he could actually feel her slipping down, away, into the nothingness of oblivion.

            Only then did he allow himself to really see her, to capture in his mind the dirt caked in her auburn locks, the foul mud crusting her khaki cargo pants, the bruises flowering on her paper-thin, pale skin.  He placed one hand softly on her sternum, between the swelling mounds of her breasts, and felt the rhythm of her breath.  He inspected her lips, took her hand and examined her nail beds.  Only a part of him thrilled at the intimacy implicit in the contact.  Only a part of him remembered the first time their fingers had touched, and the electric shock of that unforgettable moment.  That touch had been both theme and counterpoint in his dreams ever since, endless variations playing on his mind like quills on the strings of a harpsichord.  But the Doctor was in control now, keeping cool, keeping clinical, coldly judging if she would be able to tolerate the stress of a bath.

            The voice from the back of the palace hissed again in his mind.  If you are so calm, Doctor, so cold, from whence comes the heat in your loins?  From whence the hammering of your heart?  It’s ticking away, you know, at a rate more like one-eighty-five.

            Looking at Clarice, concentrating on her hurts, her needs, Lecter had been able to ignore the voice.  He took off the oxygen mask, withdrew the airway from her mouth, and removed the saline drip but left the capped IV line in place in case she would need more sedation or hydration.  With a bandage scissors he cut off the rest of her soiled clothing and tossed it into the fireplace.  Gathering her naked body into his arms, he took a deep, steadying breath and moved carefully toward the staircase and up to the master suite.

Lecter paused in his reflections to minister to Clarice’s care.  He expertly opened her eyelids and gazed into the black wells of her pupils, lingering to take in the unseeing blue of her eyes.  Tenderly he shifted her position, turning her onto her side so she faced the velvet armchair.  She stirred slightly, just a momentary lapse in the regularity of her breathing and a brief tension in her muscles.  He held his breath until she quieted again.  Taking the thick, white down comforter from the foot of the bed, he drew it up to her shoulders, his eyes lingering on the red line of sutures.  Expressionless, he returned to his watchful post.

            The voice inside his head was mocking him.  She’s almost in a natural sleep, Doctor.  Soon she’ll wake and all your choices must be made.  Which head are you thinking with now?

            He stilled the voice with an iron will.  Slowly he let his thoughts drift back, summoning the feel of her naked flesh nestled against his chest, the smoothness of her thighs on his arms, the silken fall of hair that caressed his hand as he carried her up the stairs, the peace he had known in that instant.

            The items in the master suite had been an act of whimsy once, a playful collection of things he’d seen in stores, in catalogs as he had indulged his tastes over the last ten years.  The closets were filled with clothes that he had seen, and in seeing, thought of Clarice.  The bath was overflowing with scents and lotions, little luxuries he had amused himself with.  It had been a diverting little game, to imagine how the smells would mingle with her own clean, feminine odor, always touched with a hint of gunpowder.  He had almost not had them shipped to America, fearing that the game had gone too far.  Now, bringing Clarice into this room, he knew that it had been no game at all.  It was the down payment on a dream he had not allowed himself to realize he possessed.  I thought I came halfway around the world to watch you run, he thought wryly as he lowered her body to the thick bath rug near the tub.  Now I know I came here to let you catch me.

            The voice tried again to puncture Lecter’s serenity, but he parried the thrust.  “This moment,” he whispered aloud, “is not for you.  It is not for analysis.  It is for experience.”

            He took a thick Egyptian cotton bath sheet and covered Clarice while he moved about the elegant bathroom, lighting the candles he had stored in every nook and cranny.  The scent of almonds, vanilla, spice and musk soon permeated the air.  Filling the tub, he poured in the bath milk he had had made for Clarice in Florence.  He stripped himself, tossing the clothes into the bedroom fireplace, which blazed higher in response.  The heat felt like a lover’s embrace on his bare skin.

            Returning to his patient, he examined her again.  Finding nothing amiss, he picked her up and held her close as he stepped into the deep tub.  Thankful for his strength, he let her feet down and supported her under her arms, his hands crossed over her chest and cupping her breasts.  He noticed that her nipples had responded to the open air.  The feeling of his fingers on the crinkly flesh excited him.  He felt the smooth curve of her pressed against his hips, felt his body respond to the closeness.  He lowered himself down carefully into the hot water, keeping her on top of him, shivering with a frisson of sensual pleasure. Lying back in the tub, he nestled his chin in the hollow of her neck and leaned her head back onto his shoulder.  She covered the length of him almost exactly, like a blanket of skin over his body.

            He reached with one hand for the soap, supporting her with his other arm as he lathered up her body.  Silently, he apologized to her for the intrusion, knowing that she would wonder about this bath when she awoke.  Nothing, however, could have stopped him at this moment.  He savored every instant, filming it for his private studio, recording every sensation -- the way the slipperiness of the soap made her breasts slide under his touch, the softness of her skin on his fingertips, the smell of her wet hair as he washed all traces of the farm away.  He stroked her for what seemed like hours, exploring the planes of her flat belly, the half-spheres of her firm buttocks, the triangular mound between her legs, and the folds and tesseracts of her sex.  When he had finished, he knew the geometry of Clarice Starling as well as he knew his own.

            With measurable sorrow, he lifted her from the bath and toweled her dry, watching a blush spread over her skin as the terrycloth inspired her circulation.  Her hair he dried and twisted into a knot at the nape of her neck.  He selected a black silk negligee and drew it over her perfect body.  Time stood still.  The drape of the spaghetti straps over her collarbones, the shadows on the silk where her form curved beneath… he could have spent ages simply looking, simply drinking it in, simply…

            Simply devouring, growled the voice.  Don’t pretend she isn’t good enough to eat.

            Lecter’s body grew tense as he picked Clarice up and arranged her on the pristine white sheets of the four-poster bed.  Do you think I don’t know the choices I have to make here, he thought, do you think I haven’t calculated the costs?  But there is a variable in the equation, there’s a term I can’t define.

            Slowly, he dressed, taking his usual care as he selected the shirt, brushed the pants, knotted his tie, put the Harpy in his pocket, and slicked back his hair.  A spray of cologne and his appeared to be every inch the reserved, elegant gentleman he was accustomed to seeing in the mirror.  But as he returned to Clarice, he knew the truth and it was a very different matter.

            Sitting in the velvet chair he watched her, all the while pondering the crux of the problem.  I can read her like an open book and enjoy her spirit like a fine wine.  I can play her like an organ and pull out all the stops of her emotions.  But I can never predict what she will do next.  “And that is why I love her,” he whispered in a voice he had never heard before.  “That is why I cannot take away her choice.”

            The derisive laughter filled his head.  That is why you want to kill her, control her, consume her, sneered the voice.  Because you don’t know if she will choose you.  Why would she?  She knows what you are, make no mistake.  She knows.

            Lecter leaned back in the chair, and for a single moment, was defenseless.  The voice had cracked the palace foundations, and let the monsters out to play.  He felt the need, the anger, the whimpering fear of his pathetic attempts to make the soldiers choose him, oh, just choose me instead of her, oh, please, please, please…  For one single moment, Hannibal Lecter was vulnerable enough to be ruled only by his passions, only by his rage.

            Quick as a cat he leapt from the chair to the bed.  Flicking open the Harpy he lunged for her, at that moment blind to everything but the lust for blood.

            In the blindness, he saw a vision.  The same vision that had assaulted his senses in the kitchen, the image of Clarice, eyes locked on his as she fell wounded at his feet.  He saw the way her gun had shaken when he first spotted her approaching in the darkness at the farm.  He smelled the L’Air du Temps of her younger days.  He heard, in his mind, the screaming of her lambs.  And then it was her voice that came into his head, as insistent and quick as ever.  What do you see, Doctor Lecter, what do you see?

            He looked again into those eyes, her soul streaming through them, as it had always done.  He drank in those eyes and read them, as easily as he read her back in the Baltimore hospital.  He saw infinite regret… not that she had come, not that she had wasted her life for a monster, a murderer, a cannibal.  He saw regret that she had failed him.  He saw the pain his death would cause her.  He saw the fear that she had lived in vain.

            Barely, he caught himself.  The faintest scratch, a hairline of red, marked her ivory neck.  A single drop of blood glistened crimson in the hollow of her throat.  He smiled then, a true smile, and bent his head to taste her.  Metallic iron, sweet honey, bitter tears, salty sweat.  His Clarice.

            Breathing a bit rapidly, he settled back into the chair to await her awakening.