Chapter Three:  Asylum

            He opened the door and she looked within.  Hardwood floors, Persian rugs.  A hall tree that held a fedora, a trenchcoat, and a neatly coiled length of copper wire.  In the dim light, Starling could just make out stairs and a passage leading further into darkness.  A frame, draped, hung on the wall.

            Rented, then.  And the owner alive.  She let out a breath she’d not known was trapped in her chest, and raised a foot to step over the threshold.  She stopped, reconsidered, and bent over, unlacing her muddy boots and sliding them off.  Setting them neatly next to the door, she stepped into the foyer.

            A muffled snap and soft light brought forth a honeyed dawn as the wood came to life.  She turned and saw Lecter, hand on light switch, slipping his own boots off.  He smiled and gestured at a small table in the corridor.

            “You can leave your… accoutrements there, if you like.”

            Her hands moved in wall-patterned tracks over her body as she laid down keys, handcuffs, gun and holster.  The click of metal on wood was loud in the hallway.  She patted herself down and felt a fullness in her pocket.  The desire to giggle again seized her as she brought out the folded paper and placed it on the table.

            She glanced up at him, but he was studiously polite, looking elsewhere.  Following his gaze, she saw an old pier glass in the next room.  Their eyes met in the glass and held.

            “Feeling a little like Alice?” he asked.

            “If I saw a white rabbit right now I think I might scream,” she admitted.

            He looked away and she turned to face him.  “My pardon.  I’ve kept you standing here when what you need is a bite to eat, a wash, and a good sleep.”

            “Sounds like just what the doctor ordered.”

            He smiled at her feeble attempt.  “Very well.  Come along.”

            He led her through an incredible dining room, but she had no chance to linger and take it all in.  When she stopped to look at the curio cabinet, he laughed.  “I’ll give you a tour tomorrow,” he promised, and she nodded her assent.

            The kitchen was large and smelled wonderful.  She saw copper and iron hanging from the ceiling, slate tiles and butcher block below.  He pointed her to an open doorway, and she entered to find a small washroom.  Glad of the chance, she took care of the bare necessities and returned to find him setting out a plate of bread and cheese.

            “I know it’s not much, but a big meal wouldn’t be good for either of us right now.”  He wiped his hands on a towel hanging on a rack near the sink.

            Starling sat down, but her eyes never left him.  He seemed different somehow, but she couldn’t put a finger on it.

            “Can I get you something to drink?”

            There it was again.  Something was pulling at a corner of her mind, but she was too tired, too hungry, and too everything to figure it out.  Leave it alone, Starling.  It will come.

            “I’d like a glass of milk if it’s not too much trouble.”

            “Certainly,” he said, pulling a stoneware pitcher out from the refrigerator.  He opened a cabinet and took two tumblers down from a shelf, filled them, and brought them to the table.

            “Is there anything else you would care for?”

            “No, thank you, Doctor.  Please, sit down and eat.”

            He served her a portion on a plain white china plate and then did as she asked.  Taking a small slice of the crusty bread, he topped it with the pale, creamy cheese and brought it to his plate.  He reached for his glass of milk and held it up.

            “I would like you to feel at home here.  Take as long as you need.  Consider this… your asylum.”

            Her hand froze on the way to her glass as her mind tried to wrap itself around what he’d just said.  Ah, hell.  Just go with it.

            She raised her tumbler, too.  “To asylum,” she said, and clinked glasses.  Looking straight into his eyes, she searched for meanings but found only her own reflection.

            The cheese was excellent, soft and smooth, with a round, moist taste that complimented the yeasty flavor of the bread.  The milk in her glass was lustrous and white, without the blue tint that she’d gotten used to but still hated.  She tasted it and was instantly in heaven.  Whole milk.  It had been years.

            Her eyes closed and she ate dreamily, savoring the simple, wholesome flavors.  When she opened them again, he was watching her.

            “Is everything to your liking?”

            “This is the best food I’ve eaten in quite some time, Dr. Lecter.  Thank you.”

            “Perhaps… but, no, let’s leave tomorrow to its own devices.”

            “That suits me right down to the ground.”  And it did.  Aided by a filling belly, a warm room and a comfortable chair, her fatigue had returned full force.  She could feel her eyelids drooping, and wondered how he managed to stay awake at all.  Well, scratch that.  She didn’t wonder, but she was a little envious.

            She finished her plate and pushed it back slightly on the table.  “Did you say something earlier about a bed, Doctor?”

            He smiled.  “Of course.  But first, let me draw you a bath.”

            “A quick one.  I wouldn’t want to fall asleep and drown.”

            “As you wish.  Follow me.”

            He led her up the stairs into a long hallway filled with closed doors.  He opened one and she followed him in.  A well-appointed bathroom, all blues and silvers, with the most inviting tub she’d ever seen.  He started the water, fussed with the temperature, poured some violet liquid under the stream, then let the tub fill while he retrieved towels, bottles, and a hair-dryer from various cabinets.

            She stood there as the bath filled, not certain what to say and too exhausted to think of small talk.  He tested the temperature one more time, then turned off the spigot and moved to leave.

            He paused at the door.  “One moment,” he said, then left.  She inhaled and the scent of lavender filled her nostrils.  He was back as quickly as he’d promised, bearing a set of maroon silk pyjamas.

            He proffered them to her a bit gingerly.  “I hope they fit,” was all he said, and he turned and walked out, closing the door behind him.

            She held her armful and looked at the door.  She decided against turning the lock, then got down to the business of stripping off her sweaty shirt and khakis.  Her eyes searched the room, but found no hamper.  She settled for folding them neatly and setting them on the counter.  She stuffed bra and underwear inside the pants, then climbed into the bubbly tub.

            The water was exactly right, just hot enough to tingle, but not enough to scald.  Her muscles tensed then relaxed, and she lay back, resting her head on the porcelain rim.  This felt too good to be true.  It was all a dream.  It must be a dream.  She felt like she was sleeping now, as her eyes closed and lassitude enveloped her body.  Much more of this and she would…

            No, it would not do to fall asleep here, Starling, she admonished herself.

            “Hannibal Lecter’s bathtub.  I’m in Hannibal Lecter’s bathtub.”  She whispered it over and over again like a mantra to bring herself back to her senses.  It worked, too, as she imagined how Ardelia’s face would look upon hearing that sentence.

            “Enough of this, let’s get down to business,” she muttered as she took up the midnight blue washcloth and soaped herself squeaky clean.  She looked at the dirty water with resignation, but then spied a handheld shower attachment up higher on the wall.

            She opened the drain and let the water out, then rinsed herself all over and washed her hair.  As she turned the faucet off, she sighed long and hard, leaning up against the tiled wall.

            Grimly, she toweled herself off and put the hairdryer to good use.  She brushed her hair and put it up in a loose French braid, securing it with a few bobby pins she looted from a drawer.  Rented house, she reminded herself.

            She searched bottles until she found a body lotion.  While she was smoothing it all over her skin, she realized she was avoiding looking in the mirror.

            Hell’s bells, Starling, let’s get it over with.  She ran her hand over the silk pyjama top, feeling the fabric catch on her rough palm.  She shook herself and pulled it over her head.  The pants she held up and snorted.  They’d fall off in a heartbeat.  She folded them back up again and laid them next to her clothes.  She considered putting her underwear back on but couldn’t stand the thought of that sweaty cotton against her clean skin.

            Finally, she ran out of things to do.  She took a deep breath and looked at herself in the glass.  The maroon brought a hint of color to her fair skin, and played very nicely with her hair.  Got to find the positives, she thought, when you’re about to face a… a… a legend with nothing between you but a few grams of spider stuff.

            Once again, the thought of Ardelia’s expression was enough to put a bit more backbone into her posture.  She stood up straight, took a big breath, and went to the door.  She could not recall ever being more apprehensive about opening a door in her life.   Not even in the basement surrounded by Catherine Martin’s screams.

            She opened it.  He wasn’t there.  She stepped barefooted into the hallway, and saw that there was one other door open, and a soft, flickering light danced on the floor outside.  She stepped softly down the hall and turned into the lighted room.

            A bedroom, with a dark oak sleigh bed and rich, woodsy colors.  The flickering came from a silver candelabrum on the nightstand.  The covers were turned down and a few white petals were scattered on the deep green sheets.  A note was propped up against the pillow.

 

“C.—

I hope the room is suitable.  Should you need anything through the remainder of the night, please feel free to ring.  I’ve taken the liberty of placing a few items for you in the armoire.

Pleasant dreams,

H.”

 

            Sure enough, there was a bell rope at the head of the bed.  She went over to the massive armoire and opened the doors.  A few sweaters, T-shirts, and a pair of black jeans hung from the rod.  Also there, she noted, was a robe of thick brocade.

            She shut the door and climbed into the high bed.  Well, it’s refreshing to know that he hasn’t entirely changed his spots.  He’s still playing games.  Good.  She blew the candles out and was grateful for the moonlight.

            As she settled herself in the bed and pulled the warm down comforter up under her ears, she swiftly regressed from consciousness.  Almost unnoticed, like a bell in the distance, was her last thought.  That’s what it is.  Since we came into this house, he’s never called me by my name.

            But this thought, like she herself, was soon far lost in slumber.

 

Interlude:  The Country House and its Hospitality

            Lecter lay in his bed, above the covers, hands folded on his abdomen, until he ceased to hear the sounds of Starling’s motion.  He lay there while he contemplated the state of his pantry and cellar, while he walked amidst bronzes in paneled halls, while he sipped wine-dark patience from blue-tinted crystal.

            He reached for the water pitcher on the nightstand and poured himself a glass.  The lemony coolness felt like liquid silver going down.  He rearranged his body in repose once more, and closed his eyes.  He smelled flowers and gunpowder.

            He got up and padded across the rug.  The door swung silently on hinges well oiled.  He removed Starling’s clothing from the bath and brought it down to the laundry room.  Filling the sink, he poured a capful of soap in and kneaded the fabric while he considered the possibilities of a late brunch.  Fortunately, he had eggs aplenty, and… ah, yes, of course, that peppered bacon he’d found at Leibundgut’s.  The man knew how to hang a pig, a rare thing on this continent.

            He rinsed the clothes and put them up to dry, knowing it would take a while in this musty basement.  But it was a nice house, otherwise, well suited for his purposes.   The décor was not ideal, true, but that could be gotten round.

            He was considering a centerpiece for the breakfast table as he walked back up the stairs.  He stopped briefly in the hall.  Good maintenance is its own reward, he thought, as he turned the knob on Starling’s door.

            She was curled into a tight ball at the far edge of the king-size bed, cocooned in covers, with just her eyes and nose coming out the top.  Her hair had come undone from the loose braid and lay tousled on the pillowslip.  He noted that her water pitcher was nearly empty, and retrieved it.

            Back down the stairs, where he removed fresh lemon slices from the refrigerator and refilled the pitcher with ice and water.  On his way back up, he stopped, set the pitcher down, and went to his desk.  He scribed a quick note and returned to the kitchen.

            Up the stairs again, and back into her room.  He set the pitcher down carefully and laid the note against it.  The moonlight through the window made black of the dark green comforter, and her face peeping from beneath was almost ghostly by contrast.

            He left the room, eased the door closed, and returned to his own bed.  Under the covers this time.  He spent the brief moments transitioning from wakefulness to sleep in pondering whether she would stay long enough to require more clothing, and how he would procure these items.

            And then he slept, and dreamt, and was not sure if he would wish his dreams upon her.