Hannibal and Clarice celebrate their first Valentine's day after Chesapeake.


The master and his wife were odd people.

Anya Delarosa, a sturdy woman with a good keen head on her shoulders would never say this to anyone but the audience of her own thoughts, but it still stood that Dr. and Mrs. Dickinson were odd people.

Firstly came their staffing choices. Not that Anya was complaining, but she did, by and large, have scant experience. She had worked since she was sixteen as a maid, but nothing as grand as the Palacio Duhau. Her family had been in service, her mother even working at the nearby French Embassy. At the woman's side, Anya had learned a basic, casual level of many languages and the ways of rich foreign men. And that was mostly to stay away from them.

But Dr. Dickinson was not like most of the men who Anya had met in her years of service. There was an unsettling keenness about him, and he tended to stare right through you-but he was all easy manners and politeness. However, Anya saw the steel underneath he and his wife. She knew with all the instincts of survival in a business like service she would tolerate no dalliances on his part, and he would not forgive the maid that attempted any on him.

Anya would not like to know what it was to lose their favor.

After an odd interview that included the usual grilling of her credentials, history, and experience, they had asked her to walk the Palacio Duhau with them. Newly bought it was still in a state of unwrapping, linens covering most of the furniture and the windows mostly shuttered from the bright Argentinian sun. They had explained her duties, how they needed an active sort of person to finish their work in the relatively short hours they would give. It was a plum deal, Sundays off, short hours in a fine house. She'd be a fool to pass it up.

Anya had watched them just as they watched her, and she noticed immediately that senora was the less experienced of the two in interviewing the help. She was young and beautiful, and had a furtive eye, but not the hesitant wonder that usually clung to these types of girls. The women who spied older men with fine frames and fat wallets, marrying before they missed their chance. Anya had wondered if the senora's flowing peasant blouse hid a bump of a little master, but no. No, this woman was in command of herself, and instead of following in step behind senor, was often referred to, asked her opinion, and including her wholly in the conversation.

This was not the typical marriage that came to reside in the big houses. In fact, Anya had asked them quietly if they were newlywed, seeing how their touches were never accidental-no casual holding of hands or leaning of bodies. Their glances were still fleeting, their smiles still private and charged. There was no ease of time, nor was there the cool tolerance of an advantageously banal match.

And their rings still shined.

The question had surprised senora, and Anya had wondered if she had coast herself the job, with the searching look the woman gave her. But senor had nodded with a smirk and kissed his lady's knuckles before going on to explain how they wished for a stark separation between their private rooms and the rooms that would be used when entertaining.

It was odd, and even odder when later that week they had offered her not only a position, but a position as the housekeeper, responsible for the entirety of the estate, and when fully moved in, in hiring the rest of the staff. She started immediately, and was paid a little extra to help senor cook, as he was being even harder on the chefs he interviewed than she. But a cook was found in due time, a creative man with some experience but not extensive-just like Anya herself. Even worse, he had the baggage of a wife and children.

Rico had not made the flashiest dish in the world for his test with senor, and, listening as she cleaned the hall outside the kitchen, thought he was about to be thrown from the house when he blatantly said that using the ingredients in senor's kitchen had limited him. But Dr. Dickison had merely asked what he would have done differently, had he access to what he wanted. The discussion turned extremely technical after that and Anya respected the man for his boldness if nothing else.

But even the limited dish seemed pleasant enough to the doctor, and the man was kept on. Anya was beginning to believe that the masters ran more on amusement than anything else. She also believed it was a good thing she was amused by very little. There needed to be at least one sensible head in this house. For that reason, Anya immediately took to senora.

But the oddest thing came on Valentine's day, two months into her service. The house was still being set up, and for now, it was only she and Rico serving as they both searched for the rest of the staff (senor and senora were very exacting, polite enough to look at all of their candidates, but rejecting most for some reason or another).

This day was when Anya thought she truly must be working for the strangest people in the world, as she looked at the tasks before her.

Senor had come home with three bouquets of coral tea roses. After his usual courteous greeting, he had handed them to Anya and asked that she prepare them in a basket for his wife.

"Shall I tie the basket with ribbon? And ribbon around the stems," she'd asked, smiling despite herself. It wasn't a grand or tacky gesture. Simple flowers in a simple arrangement, acknowledging the holiday without giving in to the garishness of the date.

"No, thank you, Anya. I need you to cut off the stems entirely. Leave only the blossoms in the basket. But, a ribbon around the basket would do nicely, I think."

She had schooled her features well enough and simply nodded. When the master had returned upstairs she had looked down at the bouquets and let out a soft "Que?" Perhaps he meant to set them afloat in the fountain? Or perhaps spread them on top of her bed? Or perhaps he simply was going to toss them on her like the roses on wedding guests in that odd painting the master had bought last week.

And then senora had come home, wielding a large white box with a blue ribbon. Anya had quickly shoved the flowers into Rico's pantry, much to his huffing and blustering about the scent mingling with the spices. Inside the mistress' package was a lovely set of fluffy white towels. "Shall I hang these in your bathroom, senora," Anya had asked, grateful when Mrs. Dickinson held one out for her to feel. They were plush, and soft and would be wonderful on the skin when warmed. The hand towels had lovely little antique gold elephants stitched on the edges.

"No, Anya. In fact, take this one." Mrs. Dickenson took one of the hand towels and gently folded it. "And wrap it, please."

"Wrap with paper," Anya had asked slowly.

"Yes, it is my gift for the doctor. Just one, I'll give him the rest later."

"Very well, senora."

Now, standing at the kitchen island, wielding scissors, wrapping paper, basket, and ribbon, the housekeeper hesitated. They are too strange, her mind cried. Who would give decapitated roses as a Valentine's day gift?! Who would give a single towel as a gift at all?!

At least they are strange like this. Senora could be cruel, and senor could be funny with children. You've seen worse things from worse people. At least they are merely odd. Boring and odd.

"Work or go," Rico said, making room for his dishes.

"I am! I...do you know he wants me to cut all the roses to pieces?"

"And?" The cook shrugged, the knife in his hand flashing in the quickly setting sun. "So they are strange? Do it and leave me in peace to cook."

Anya shushed him loudly. It was fine to simply state what they had been told to do-but to give an actual opinion was bad form for a servant. "I did not say that, and you shouldn't either."

"Why not? They are not normal. They come here with all their money and live in only one part of the house. They start out with separate bedrooms and yesterday they ask me to help slide the furniture into one. They're odd, but they pay good and his hand doesn't go up your dress. Cut the damn flowers and go."

"How they hired you with that mouth! You sound like you're from the docks."

"Where do you think I got this?" Rico lifted the metal lid off the fish resting on ice, smirking. Shaking her head, Anya took the first flower and snipped, smiling too as much as the joke was worth. Rough as he was, odd as this house seemed, in the end, her morale was high. Confused, but content.

She hid the flowers in the dining room, where the master was setting up the candles. The many, many candles. Anya eyed their placement, already charting out how to clean the wax up the next morning. He was dressed in a fine dark blue suit-again strange for what seemed to be a formal dinner if Rico's menu was to be a clue.

Then she ferried the wrapped towel up to Mrs. Dickison, where she was attempting to braid her blonde locks before the mirror. On the grand bed were laid out several choices of gowns. Anya eyed them and approved of senora's taste as she laid the wrapped gift on the bedside table. There was a flowing black chiffon gown with a dropped back, a cream frock with a beaded jacket that shone gold in the low light, and white silk with an empire waist and nouveau inspired.

"Do you need anything else wrapped, ma'am?"

"No, thank you, Anya." Mrs. Dickinson said this through the pins she had clamped in her teeth. She was good at attending to her toilette, having yet to look anything but composed when the servant saw her. But Anya could see a novice's touch in her fingers when it came to more complex styles of hair. Flyaways and baby hairs, chignons dropping from lack of pinning. Things learned in time, and senora seemed like a quick study.

"Shall I steam one of the gowns?"

"Yes." Senora stuck the last pin in and looked over her attempt before shaking her head and taking the braids out, combing it with her fingers. Her hair was a little too short still to attempt the faux crown she had wanted. Wandering over to the bed, Mrs. Dickinson considered her choice. Her fingers hovered over the delicate beads of the cream gown before taking the white and handing it to Anya. "This one."

"Very pretty," Anya agreed.

"Yes. And this one-" Again she touched the beaded gown, "Please store this away."

"Yes, ma'am. Is it your wedding gown?" The way her mistress was looking at the garment, how her fingers ghosted over the fabric, as if proximity alone gave her warmth, it must have been a very special garment. And Anya had seen women run off and get married in any number of things, and certainly things far worse than the lovely cream satin. When trying to steer rich men into matrimony before they sobered up, one did not always have time to change for the ceremony. And sometimes the slinky party dresses such quick unions were decorated with were better than the monstrosity girls picked out when planning their lavish near-royal nuptials.

Again that sharp, clear look from senora. All at once Anya felt she had misspoken as Mrs. Dickinson's eyes assessed her, sweeping her up and down. What did she search for in Anya's simple question? It seemed that the mistress found it for she softened after a moment and nodded.

"Yes. Yes, it is my wedding gown. I don't believe I will bring it out again except for special circumstances. But I don't want it to be damaged hanging so long in my closet." Senora smiled to herself before taking the black gown and putting it away. "Thank you, Anya. That will be all."

Dinner was almost ready to be served when she heard the mistress enter their private dining room, with its table only big enough only for two, only a little larger than the table on the terrace. When Anya brought in the wine from where it had been chilling in the kitchen, senor was presenting his wife with the flowers. Mrs. Dickinson smiled at them, bending to inhale their scent. One hand cupped a blossom carefully, expecting there to be a stem to carefully extract from the arrangement. When it came up freely, her brow rose before her coral lips pulled back in a grin.

"Just the heads, doctor?" Her grin widened as she tucked the flower into her simple chignon. "I have to say these are better smelling, at least. Is there a butterfly tucked in there somewhere?"

Anya watched them grin at each other over the flowers for a brief second before disappearing to fetch the first course. When she returned, the master was carefully tearing the paper off his gift. The towel fell into his hands, and he lifted it to inspect the stitched animals.

Then he let out a laugh, a truly genuine laugh. When he grinned this wide, Dr. Dickinson showed the dimple in his right cheek. It seemed their bizarre gifts were a hit. "You never did return it."

"I'm afraid it was left in my closet, with the poem and your origami."

The senor wet his lips at that, and the air in the room changed. Not entirely sexual, though the look they shared was charged. But the doctor seemed genuinely moved by her words, at the act of keeping his trinket. "Anya," he addressed the girl without looking. "Tell Rico that you are both relieved for the evening."

Nodding she inquired about the rest of the meal, and the senor assured her they would see to it themselves. However, Anya had a feeling that all of Rico's hard work was about to be wasted, as well as the steaming of senora's white gown. Hurrying back down to the kitchens, the servants quickly cleaned up and covered the dishes before gathering their coats.

From above they heard the master's laugh again. Rico merely shrugged with a smile. He was glad to go home to his wife and salvage what was left of the day. Anya too was happy to be able to return home before midnight, but even as she allowed her pleasure to wash over her, she recognized the foundations of loyalty beginning to form in her mind. Iron bands, still hot from the oven, malleable but would soon cool with time and routine to strength and longevity.

That's exactly what they wanted, she mused. These private people.

She had a feeling she and Rico would be long in this house, long with this odd couple, where discipline was kept, but happily so. As she wandered down the streets towards her apartment on the other side of town, tugging her jacket closer over her black uniform, she wondered if perhaps she was the odd one.

In the great houses, sex and money were treated much the same, emotions kept locked tighter than the family jewels; the decorations and menus given more attention than the living beings that dwelt within the walls. So to work for a couple with not only a genuine affection for each other but something like friendship was almost alien to her experience. Something Anya expected in her own inner circle, but not of the people she kept house for. Perhaps it was Anya, so ingrained in the world of the wealthy, that had become strange like the rest of high society.

Maybe the doctor and his wife were truly the only sane people in the glittering madhouse of Buenos Aires.

It was an interesting thought, in any case.


The painting Hannibal buys is The Roses of Heliogabalus by Lawrence Alma Tadema