The voice, like velvet venom in her ears, says, “Now, Clarice, this maudlin streak is most unattractive.  I would not have taken you for one to be unduly influenced by your unfortunate hereditary tendencies.”

            Not until her nose registers the sweet smell of his tobacco does she realize that this sound did not come from her head.  She opens her eyes to see the cherry glow of a cigarette in the far corner of the room.  Her hand drops like lead to her lap.  A shadowy figure rises from the floor where he had been watching her for hours.  “There are enough people willing to destroy you in this world, my dear.  Though you do have an interesting way of allying with your enemies.”

            He crosses to her, crushes out the cigarette into her empty glass, and removes the gun from her limp grasp.  Unloading it with distaste, he pockets the bullet and places the firearm on the table.  Her eyes follow him while her head remains still.  He seats himself on the couch, leaving a respectful distance between them.  She feels a wild desire to run, an impulse to slap his expressionless face, and the need to cry the tears that have built up inside her.  Unable to do any of these things, she simply sits.

            “This time, there is no deadline for decision and no impetus to action.  You have had a chance to consider your alternatives.  I hope you will not reconsider the option I found in your hand earlier.  But I leave that up to you.  All I ask is that you tell me your desire in this moment.”

            She drops her eyes away, unable to tolerate his searching gaze.  He reaches a hand out, takes her chin, and lifts it toward him.  “You gave me a second chance, Clarice, when you came to me at the farm.  I would be an utter boor if I did not return the favor.”

            His eyes lock on hers.  He smells her fear mingled with the scent of the whiskey and just a trace of lustful longing.  He wills her to cry, commanding that release with just one stroke of a finger across the length of her jaw.    He takes infinite pleasure in the sight of her facades crumbling before him.  The almost imperceptible shake of her shoulders, the silent, quivering intake of breath, the heat of a teardrop on his hand incite in him a powerful hunger.  He brings his hand to his mouth, tasting the tear on the tip of his tongue.  It is an intoxifying cordial, more precious that all the vintage fluids he has savored in his many years as a gourmet of pain.  In it is distilled all her strength, her beauty, her valor, and her honor.  He savors this priceless gift, knowing that if he has his way there will never be another.

            Sensing that she is ready, he wraps his strong arms around her and holds her close.  She melts into his embrace like butter in a sauté pan.  They linger there for a space of time that defies measurement.  He closes his eyes and strokes her back, finding tension still gripping her muscles.  He breaks the contact, holding her by the shoulders and staring searchingly into her face.  “What is it, Clarice?”  The tenderness in his voice surprises him.  He had not meant for it to show quite so nakedly.

            She looks at him, gathering up her courage.  Remembering the spot on her cheekbone, she is able to ask, “Do you love me, Dr. Lecter?”

            Another person he would have mocked.  At another time, he might have laughed at the utter absurdity of the question.  He moves his hand to the neckline of her blouse and pulls it to the side, exposing the wound still red upon her shoulder.  In it, he reads her right to an answer.

            “Yes, Clarice,” he whispers.  “I love you.”

            She smiles a little, then, one corner of her mouth turning upward in an expression that he finds difficult to penetrate.  He waits, an endless heartbeat suspended, the universe motionless for that one instant.  His eyebrow lifts slightly despite his attempts to control it.

            “Hannibal,” she says, and he jumps at the sound of his name in her mouth, “do I really have to tell you?  I know you already know.”  Her smile deepens, and he sees long-denied joy hovering around her lips.

            “I’d like to hear you say it, Clarice.  I’d like to know that you know.”

            “I love you, Hannibal,” she breathes.  The words incite a riot in his senses, and he pulls her close, bending his mouth to her lips while her tongue is still pronouncing the ‘l’ behind her teeth.  The kiss opens a thousand doors.  They have only to walk through them, together.