Hello! Well, this idea just wouldn't leave my head so I ended up writing about 60+ more pages of this AU. It's a little longer than this vignette collection is supposed to be, so after this, I will be publishing this AU separately, under its own header as The Danse Macabre!

I hope you guys enjoy this next installment!

~Donttouchthefigs


Clarice slipped in and out of time. She knew danger was near for a moment, eyes fluttering, and throbbing pain knocking against her temple. A hand pressed something cool to the pounding and eased it slightly before the world was black again. Another time she knew danger was passed...and yet not passed. She heard a familiar voice but could not place it, simply obeyed as the rim of a cup was put to her mouth, and drank. She coughed and sputtered, the awful taste of laudanum mixed into tea made her gag. The voice commanded, gentle but firm that she drink. Clarice choked down as much as she could before falling back onto a soft pillow and sleeping. The next few times she awoke (twice to the sunrise, once in the middle of the night) she was at least relatively pain-free.

When she finally broke the surface of consciousness, she woke to the rocking of a moving carriage. She heard the clatter of horse hooves move from cobbled stone to dry pack dirt, and the carriage wheels trundle over the divide soon after. Her eyes felt heavy, but with some effort, her lids lifted. Her first sight was her own hands encased in new gloves, laying in her lap of green velvet.

She didn't own black leather gloves or green velvet.

She pressed her fingers to her face, trying to rub away the sleep, only for her fingers to brush the silk tie of a hat, bowed tightly under her chin. She took up one of the tails, peering at it. Black silk…

I don't own any hats with ribbons…

Sitting up, she caught her reflection and froze. That was her face, to be sure, and her hair simply pulled up in a bun. But the fashionably tilted hat of green felt and white silk flowers was certainly not hers! Nor the grey coat with its puffed sleeves and black lace applique up the front to mask the buttons. Where on earth had these clothes come from?

Before she could begin to truly panic, a voice called her attention. "Good afternoon. I see the laudanum has finally worn off. Forgive me, but it was a last resort. You were in so much pain."

Clarice turned-and immediately regretted the speed in which she did. Clutching her head, she waited for the world to cease spinning before focusing on the man sharing her ride.

Dr. Lecter sat across from her, legs crossed, looking very fine in his black greatcoat. He marked his page in his book and set it aside, giving her his full attention.

Clarice murmured, coughing on the dryness of her words, "the ball…"

From a pocket, Lecter pulled out a flask and opened it, handing it to her. "Simply water, I assure you. We are well passed the ball, my dear, and your birthday as well I am sorry to say. It is-" he consulted his pocket watch-"one o'clock on December the twenty-seventh."

"What happened?"

"You rather courageously infiltrated Verger's ball in an attempt to spare me a rather indecent death. Do you remember?"

Clarice rubbed her forehead again and thought back. She remembered being followed...and yes, Verger's plans. Remembered sitting in her flat, bare and empty and now messy from when the inspectors ripped it apart for the planted clues. Remembered burning with the injustice and horror of it, indignation, and the wrongness of torture. The wrongness of digging through Bella Crawford's things. The ball and the sweltering rooms. The cool servant's hall and warm hands holding her own. The bright light of the barn, Krendler's twisting, sneering face and then-

"I was shot," she murmured, taking another long draft of water.

"Yes. Luckily for us, Chief Inspector Krendler is as bad a shot as he is an officer. He grazed your temple."

"The barn?"

"All gone, happily enough. Your aim was true, you see. Very clever, girl, exploding the oil lamp. Set the whole place ablaze."

"I was cold." The quip was out of her mouth before her sluggish good sense rose to stall it. The doctor however laughed. The sound arrested her-she'd never heard him laugh before. Chuckle, of course, but not the full-throated pleased sound he made now.

"Indeed. You very much save us, Miss Starling. I owe you my thanks."

The girl smiled slightly in return. She had done it. She had saved him from his awful death. In reality, in the back of her mind the whole time she couldn't foresee exactly how she would accomplish her goal-only that she had to try. Some part of her believed, most ardently, that she would fail or die trying. It hadn't mattered then. Well, neither outcome had occurred and here she was.

What now?

"And I owe you mine. A blow to the head can be fatal."

"It very nearly was. I despaired of you ever waking up, and when you did you were in agony."

"Then how…?"

"I took you to a safe place-a small cottage I keep for travel and safekeeping. I treated you there with the supplies I had. In the end, it was mostly about stemming the bleeding."

"Is that where we are traveling from?" Clarice leaned forward and peered out the carriage window. She saw rolling green hills and trees, and a horse trotting alongside, its rider in a chauffeur's uniform.

"No. I was not sure if we were tailed in all the chaos the fire caused. When you were stable enough we traveled to The Silver Swan so I could gather some necessary things in town. We left there this morning."

"The Silver Swan?" Clarice's eyes widened. She knew a few of the girls at that hotel. Had spoken to them in coffee shops and along the street on her way to work. Surely at least one of them had seen her, carried in by a strange man. A strange man straight into a hotel room! Alone! Starling's throat closed and she regarded herself again. Her clothes were different. Freshly washed too, and she certainly hadn't packed a bag when she took off in her shabby ball gown on a borrowed wagon to the Verger Mansion.

Her reputation, whatever it was, what ashes now. As much ashes as Mason's horrid barn. What was she to do? She was not socialite able to spin a dalliance into an anecdote. She was a nurse-not even that now. A dismissed nurse was some little fame, and more than enough rumors swirling about to pull her under the tide of societal suspicion. She had not known what she was going to do the morning of the ball-things had happened in such quick succession, the planted evidence in her trunk, the search, the following, and the decision to go save the doctor all in the span of one day-that her future had merely been the next moment. The next choice to make, not the many years of her life stretching before her.

There were very few roads left to her, and the only viable one was some kind of marriage-the one thing she had hoped to keep to herself. Though her chances had always been slim, rejecting Mr. Brigham when she was already on her way to being an old maid, it was the only logical choice. After all, who would want a nanny or lady's companion who'd been an asylum nurse, an Inspector's go-for, and murderess of a serial killer?

And now…

Your reputation? Ha! What about you? What need you a reputation if you're not even free. Clarice glanced back at the doctor. He sat, still fully focused on her, neither worried nor glib. Merely that serene calm that the best physicians carried.

She was no blushing shy flower-having been raised in a dirty Texan territory, then a cramped orphanage and finally living in a tiny London flat she knew the particulars-even seen them performed once or twice while passing a door or dirty alley while running errands for Mr. Crawford, gathering clues he could not. And there had been the odd stable boy in her youth, a beau here and there that had pawed with a little too much familiarity.

But she wasn't a fool. Despite the absurdity of boiling her worth down to her body rather than her brain, she knew to keep some things intact. It was obvious Lecter had dressed her, yet while her muscles ached, and her head still swam, she seemed unmolested. There was no pain in sitting or moving.

Was he simply waiting for her to be awake before claiming his own 'thank you'? Was she not even going to be allowed the dignity of fighting for her life with the monster, instead to be kept as his pet?

Absurdly, even as she thought it, shame kicked at her ribs. That she should feel shame in merely thinking ill of an escaped convict was absurd, but here it was.

He had never made any undo overtures. Oh, he had been a shameless flirt in the asylum at times to throw her off-kilter, and more often than not his flirt was merely a tip cover on whatever rapier he thrust into her ego. But when they had become partners of a sort, that had ended. He had become a mentor, asking more of her than anyone had-he had asked for her honesty and for her to think-really think rather than going through the paces merely to stop at an acceptable answer written in a book. He had forced her mind to work again when so many taught her to keep it hidden.

Beyond that, there had been nothing inappropriate in their dealings, not even in his two letters to her. Clarice had found no such manners among the police and inspectors. Hannibal Lecter had only ever told her the truth, even truths it had taken years to see. He'd only ever been polite.

"Where are we going," she asked plainly and knew she would get a plain answer. If he meant her for a mistress he would make no game of it. When he wished something of her, Lecter had always asked outright, never wrapping it in a cyanide compliment or interesting errand.

"To Gretna Green." The doctor folded his hands over his knee and let her take that in. Perhaps he knew where her mind had tended. "We are almost there. We will stop to rest, and have an early supper. From there I have a manor in the next village over."

She repeated the name slowly, a little stunned. Clarice...well she really wasn't sure what she had expected. The obvious answer was a place to romp and then escape as fast as possible. Perhaps even skip the romp all together and head straight for a boat under concealed names where he could resume his stolen freedom, perhaps keep her as a safety net. After all, it was only through her work of pouring over shopping lists and store ledgers that had gotten them anywhere near finding him in London when he returned from Italy. Keeping such a keen hound fixed on his sent close by was the greatest safeguard.

But Gretna Green was a town neither near the sea nor big enough to conceal someone wishing to disappear. It was meant for only one thing. The memory passed before her eyes like a figure outside a curtained window: the shadowy image of him in his ball clothes, standing in the servant's hall, gloved hand extended. Come. Come with me.

"Why that place in particular? What does it matter? Your name in society is no longer your own." Why go through the motions?

The doctor inclined his head. "Of course. But I'm afraid association with me has taken everything from you, except your name. I thought you might like to keep it. Any other place, buying the license would require false papers and take time, and I'm afraid we've little enough of that. Winter is already underway and the roads will be intolerable soon."

Clarice put it more plainly, attempting to keep the incredulity from her voice. "You mean to marry me outright. Properly, or as proper as you can."

"I do." The doctor lifted his chin. He hardly ever held his head upright, always regarding the world with tilted curiosity or lax boredom. But now he looked at her head-on. "I would not ask you to come with me as anything else than my wife. I'll admit our courtship had been of a peculiar nature, but none can match the longevity. Seven years."

"You call our discussions a courtship? Sending me into a warehouse to find a severed head was a token?"

"Did you not like it?"

She had. She'd loved it because it had made her important. She had figured out his clues and gotten a vital piece of evidence. She had helped. It had raised her importance in the world from mere nurse to...well, Clarice didn't know what. But he had been right. She'd loved his gift of advancement. "Is that why you spoke to me?"

Now the doctor sighed, looking away from her. His disappointment in that simple action was as palpable as a hand slammed against the wall. "I've answered that question already."

"Do you think I like to look at you, Miss Starling, and imagine how you would taste?"

"I don't know, sir. Do you?"

"No."

Clarice however, wasn't a girl of twenty anymore. She did not back away: "You yourself called it part of our courtship."

"Both ideas can be held at the same time. Just as I can treat you as a doctor when I need, blind to all I see, yet see you now as a man to his intended."

They rode on in silence for a long time after that, Clarice attempting to reconcile it in her head. When the carriage stopped, she believed she understood in some part. She had some experience in it herself: She had treated John Brigham's wounds more often than not-a stab to the stomach or thigh needed certain areas uncovered to be treated. She had been efficient and clinical, seeing his body without it being handsome winsome John Brigham's body. It was merely a thing of flesh and muscle to be treated, sewn, and cleaned as she had been taught. Even after, she had not reflected on what she had seen in those moments with carnal interest, despite her attraction to him. They were locked away in her brain, the same way the dissected cats were from their friendly living counterparts.

Their work together had been real. Lecter had treated her as an equal and demanded she match his wit and understanding. And separate from that had been their attraction. She ought to name it now what it was, despite the scorn and rumors of lesser men.

Attraction. She had felt it in their first touch, and in their second moments before Verger sprung his trap. Clarice viewed the doctor now as something different, as she looked upon him. Insanely (all of this was absolutely mad) she saw him and knew safety. Knew a sort of peace. He was the storm, bringing chaos always in his wake, but being so near was like sitting in the eye. Serene and deceptively calm.

Whatever her was, (and he was so many vile things) he was no liar. His word was good, and she had traded it against it many times. He told her the locations of Bill's clues, and they were there. He had told her that continuing her association with Jack Crawford would risk her life, and it had. He had told her so many truths about the police-the institution-that she, in that time, had loathed to hear. And one by one they had come true. They would hate her for being a woman and clever, hate her for being a woman and braver, and most of all, they would loathe her worse than the devil himself for being true to her morals, unwavering like a compass not turned by wealth or prospects or help in society.

And Lecter now made to vow to her, something even stronger than a promise or the truth. A vow of fidelity only to her. Was this another of his jokes-wed the little would-be constable in a corset? Surely there was some of that in there-but the clarity in which they held each other's stare...

As they rolled to a stop, Lecter pulled something from his coat pocket and held it out. Her reticule swung from his fingers, heavy with her revolver. She took it, the patched velvet looking sad and miserable on top of her fine grey wool coat and kid gloves. She took out the gun and counted the bullets. All but one.

"Inside is a sort of wedding present."

That was all he said before sliding out of the carriage. One of the chauffeurs hopped down from his seat and pulled down the steps for her. Clarice, staring at the gun, was not sure what to think. A weapon, a loaded weapon, and from a quick inspection, untampered. Stuffing it back into the bag, she peered out at the afternoon sky, shockingly clear for a winter morning in Scotland.

Lecter held out his hand. "Come."

And for the second time, Clarice took his fingers, still blocked by both of their gloves, yet feeling the warmth. He helped her down the steps, as she was still unsteady on her feet. The road was well packed and worn, and a small two-story inn faced them. The sign that swung above the door had no adornments but the letters THE IRON LAMB burned into the cedar. Other than that the road was clear. South down the road, there was the distant scene of a small village and north a tiny chapel. She wondered if it even had a bell in its spindly little steeple.

Clarice finally got a good look at their cab. Not overly flashy, but nothing like the buggies she and Ardelia spoiled themselves with from time to time, trading the discomfort from the patched roofs and moth-eaten seats for the excitement of riding and sparing their feet the labor. Three trunks were strapped to the back, and the driver only took one into the inn.

Following the servant, Miss Starling caught the tail end of the conversation between the plump, cheerful innkeeper's brogue, and Dr. Lecter's velvet tones.

"...be needing a room then, sir?"

"Yes ma'am, and a meal."

"Do you mean to stay the night then?" The innkeeper was smiling knowingly but did not leer with undo humor at their obvious situation.

"I am unsure at the moment." Here the doctor glanced over the woman's head to his companion. "For now, just a place for my lady to freshen up and rest."

"Of course." The woman snapped her fingers at a girl who was wiping down glasses and spoke in quick Gaelic. The fiery-haired child hurried out from behind the bar, straightening her kerchief about her head. Clarice looked down at the young thing, remembering the cloth she had used to keep back her hair as she bent over the decaying corpse of a farmer's daughter, her flesh flayed and the corpse bloated from water. At one time Clarice would have pitied this girl for her small existence in this town, forever doomed to buss and clean until she was married and did the same in some cottage with a babe on her hip. Now...now she was not so proud. She rather envied the way the child glanced at her, in awe of her fine city clothes. The innocence in that look of inspiration.

The girl led her up the small flight of steps to the paid room, directing the chauffeur following to place the trunk at the end of the small bed. "Will you need a maid, miss? Me sister has some experience."

"Oh no, please. I am quite fine on my own." Clarice removed her gloves and hat, wincing as a handkerchief fell onto her cheek, still stuck to her temple by dried blood where the ribbon had kept it in place. She carefully pulled the cloth free as not to reopen the healing wound. The girl's eyes widened before she left, and Clarice despaired somewhat. In even this small way, this child had gotten her first bit of knowing, seeing the gore under the finery. Just like Clarice had when Chief Inspector Krendler had looked at her in that pawing way while dressing down Crawford and his fake offer to the mad doctor.

Glad to be alone, Clarice pulled off her coat and tossed it on the narrow bed, seating herself on top of the trunk. Opening her reticule, she fished inside and brought out the package Lecter had left. Juggling revolver and gift, she dumped the gun carefully into her lap. Inside the brown paper was a compact tin with the Smith & Wesson symbol stamped into the top. Cleaner for her revolver-good stuff too, more expensive than what she had at home, and that was something she made sure to splurge on. No half-witted whippersnapper was going to catch her with a backfiring weapon. Not like…

A wedding present, the doctor said. And he hadn't bought this room for the night. He'd given her back her gun, even the means to make it work perfectly, and left her alone. He never outright asked to marry her, but neither had he demanded it.

Standing, Clarice went to the window. She saw the doctor speaking to their riders, holding the spare horse's reins, and patting its flank. It must have been a steed whisked away from the ball, judging by the fine gold fringe along the bridle. She wondered what crest the saddle bore under the horse blanket.

Of course, he couldn't simply let her go. Have her run back to the city, and throw herself on the mercy of the inspectors, giving them a fresh trail to follow. Even if he left now and rode to the nearest port, she could make it back to London by tea tomorrow and already have the hounds racing to the sea before he even booked passage.

He'd given her a gun and time: a choice. Had she not been so bitter minutes before, deprived of her chance to fight for her life? She could marry him, throw herself into the power of an escaped convict, a man judged mad, her former mentor and, most recently, savior.

Or she could fight her way out. Clarice raised the revolver and aimed right at the back of Lecter's head. The sound of the hammer was loud in her ears. The shattering glass would scar her forever, but it was a clean shot. And while it might not hit him squarely in the skull, it would kill him sooner rather than later.

They were at an impasse, now that there was time for such courtly things as decisions rather than pure survival. And either the marriage bed or coffins awaited them. Death or life, they were still intertwined. Some of our stars

Clarice lowered the revolver. As if sensing her stalling, Lecter turned and looked up at the window. She did not try to hide her weapon, clear that a choice hadn't been made. His expression never changed. He tipped his hat and returned to the conversation.

Facing the room, warm and welcoming despite being barren. Even empty little inn rooms designed to be blank enough for stranger's comforts were more lived-in than her flat in London. There was a prettyish needlepoint hanging on the wall, obviously done by the aforementioned sister below stairs and there were flowers in a vase next to the bed. Two small things that indicated life-Starling had never done anything like that. Her certificate had hung on the wall in a frame above the heater, the glass growing smokey on the bottom from the steam of the machine. And by the end, it had been a mocking thing, like a portrait of who she was when it was earned growing old and sickly while she, still pretty and young, matched it only on the inside.

And who was she, Starling? She didn't even know herself and here she was on the cusp of giving that name up. What good had it done her? Clarice Starling, what did that mean to anyone? Her name was in the hands of thousands in the form of articles when she was mentioned, used as kindling or fish wrapping, perhaps to line a birdcage. Tossed away without a second glance, and still, in those cases, it got more use.

Clarice Starling of the American Starlings, daughter of a dead cowboy and a washer girl. Starling, struck out from the hospital books, a black mark Mr. Krendler had made through the name.

She and her surname had been passed from hand to hand, Clarice never able to stop the travel, only control, slightly, the way she landed from one place to the next. And here she was, smarting from the latest impact.

She could not feel the warmth of her parent's homespun wisdom-they're experience would have never gotten this far. There was no hand to guide her now. Her own tightened around the gun. Just her, just her choice. Who am I?

Clarice was a woman who had run barefoot through freezing English rain to save one lamb. A girl who had crawled through tunnels, over walls, marched through asylums and a mad man's house to save a young woman from death and flaying. She had snuck, and searched and shot on the orders of lesser men in hopes that her actions, like a ripple in a pond, might reach another soul and help them. Save them.

Clarice was a woman who had stolen a dead bride's cloak, a merchant's wagon, and her sometimes employer's invitation to save a life-no matter the quality of man that life sustained. Despite being mired and choked by death all around her, Clarice Starling had always always chosen life.

In reality, her choice had been made the moment she had taken Dr. Lecter's hand that night. Or perhaps even earlier, when she had shot up from her creaking brass-framed bed and stormed to Mr. Crawford's abode with her key and determination.

Clarice undressed and opened the trunk with purpose, rooting around in the new, lovely gowns for something suitable. She pulled out a dress that was more yellow than gold, and thought it would do for the type of venue they had secured.

She ate the dinner sent up to her room quickly, more because she knew she ought than any real hunger. The sun peaked and began its descent as she changed. Lecter had done a fine job in dressing her, no doubt at least knowledgeable about a woman's clothes and their ties. Though she did realize half her aches came from the loosely tied corset that nearly fell off when she got to it. She had slouched for hours in it and felt the ramifications in her bones.

Clarice would, as his wife (how natural the term came to her thoughts without pause), have to rob him of the delusion that it was a fabric torture device as she had seen many magazines complain. Reaching behind with a sharp tug, it straightened her spine, giving her relief and a little more resolve. She patted the silk-covered whalebone fondly before slipping on her wedding gown.

Clarice was at once herself, and not herself. She couldn't quite believe that she was here, in a Scottish inn preparing for an afternoon wedding where she was the bride. It was as if there was some other Clarice Starling here, tying a silk gown on, and fixing the pleats, admiring the lace on the sleeves, feeling clean in her clean clothes. And yet she still made the motions and made do with what she had. She had more than enough practice in that.

The young daughter found her again just as she pulled out a thin evening shawl. It wasn't nearly gauzy enough to be a true veil, but it was translucent and stained a lovely cream that would complement her gown. The scalloped edges would fall pleasantly around her shoulders and the tiny gold birds would give some decorations to the rather plain ensemble. Fitting too, that her namesake adorn her whilst she was discarding it at last. After all, she would only do this once. It would do.

"The gentleman asks if you'll be coming down, miss."

Clarice, looking into the mirror, ignoring her reflection in favor of watching her hands pinning the shawl to her hat. "Yes, please tell him I will be down presently. If you could take my trunk with you? We won't be needing the room after all."

Before she left, Clarice lifted the wildflowers from the vase, dabbing at the stems with the washbasin towel to dry it. Clutching her makeshift bouquet, Clarice carefully picked her way down the staircase, the veil over her face casting the world in a haze.

Dr. Lecter was placing gold coins into the matron's hands, talking quietly with her large, gruff husband. From what she saw, the payment was more than a few hours in the room and a bowl of stew warranted and was perhaps for the silence.

"Are you sure you'd not rather stay, sir?"

"Thank you, ma'am, but no. I must get my bride home as soon as I may. For her health."

Clarice waited patiently by the door and thanked the owners quietly. The inn keeper's wife declared her very pretty, and patted her hand gently, wishing felicity and quick recovery for her head. The doctor led her out onto the road but did not touch her. "It's a small walk to the chapel. After spending the whole day in the carriage I thought it might be beneficial unless you find it too cold."

"I am well," she assured, tugging her gloves on tighter. Gathering up her gown and coat train, they started towards the church.

"I must thank you again."

"For?"

"My life. You've spared it a second time."

"Some might say I merely saved my own."

"Some people will simply state we are in love."

Clarice only paused slightly in her step at his echoed words. He'd teased her thus once before. Had she been too blind to see it then, so blind to everything…

No. She would not deceive herself that this was some clandestine romance. Such a notion cheapened their connection, she felt. It was so much more, whatever they were. More understood than acknowledged, Clarice recalled once more.

The chapel was just as small as she imagined as Lecter held open the red door for her. The pews had no separation for class, there were no such distinctions in the village below. and instead were roughly hewn and cramped. By the altar the vicar stood, helping his wife and another young man who would witness light the candles. It seemed Dr. Lecter had been busy while she decided and dressed. Or he had sent word ahead, anticipating her actions. Well, she had ample time to question him.

The introductions were made quickly, though later Clarice would never be able to recall the name of the man who bound her to the monster. She merely stood at her side of the altar, staring up at the only-slightly tarnished gold cross nailed to the back wall behind the pulpit. Clarice was herself and not herself. She knew what she was doing, knew she wanted to do it, and on some superficial levels had to do it, but it was as if her brain was catching up with the rest of her consciousness. Where was the fear? The constant self-doubt and dilemma that always plagued her when choosing a course of action? Where had it been since the inspectors upturned her flat and found the fake letter and perfume?

She was drawn out of such reveries by the vicar beginning, calling the meager five gathered to hear a dearly beloved congregation. Clarice glanced at her groom and to her surprise saw him solemn and serious. His hat and coat being held by the young man beside him, he even tilted his chin down when the vicar began to pray, though his eyes remained open. It seemed he still had some uses for God, and they were all tied to her. Or perhaps it was because of her. The only other time he had not mocked was her confession in a town not too far from here…

When he took her hand to pledge his vow, Clarice observed just how much larger his was in comparison. It could have very easily wrapped around her neck at any time, however, it simply held her fingers lightly, as if cradling a small injured animal.

"Will you, Victor Harris, have this woman to be your wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony; will you love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her, in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, keep yourself only unto her, so long as you both shall live?"

"I will." In the candlelight his eyes pinwheeled with fiery light, points of red ever fixed upon her. It had only been two days after seven years, and yet, she was already so used to them. They had stared back at her from the portraits of her memory, conjured up when she needed courage. After all, she had survived him, what need she fear? She couldn't remember when she began to conjure the doctor, no longer her mother, for strength. Only that it had been a long time...

"Clarice Starling, will you have this man to be your wedded husband to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony; will you obey him," and here Dr. Lecter's countenance finally broke, lips twitching and head tilting to the side, "serve him, love, honor, and keep him, in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all others, keep yourself only unto him, so long as you both shall live?"

"I will." Try, she added quietly, her own lips twitching. He knew very well what type of bride he was getting. After all her reticule hung heavy around the hand clutching her bouquet. False name or not, Dr. Lecter knew better than anyone.

The doctor gently tugged off her glove and from a breast pocket produced a simple golden ring. She saw that there was etching on the inside, but could not make it out in the low light. He must have bought it in London. Well, perhaps her reputation was merely tarnished rather than in tatters. He slid it along her finger, vowing his unending faithfulness (unlike her mentors, guardians, and employers of his she had no doubt) and worldly goods (of which, she was sad to say she had already confiscated in searching for him, finding at least one of his false names and residences in the city).

He handed her his own band, and after giving the vicar's wife her bouquet, she performed the same service. His palm burned against hers where she held it, and almost in reply, the place on her throat and collar where he had caressed at the ball burned under her dress as well.

"What God has joined, let no man tear asunder." They haven't yet, she thought. Neither time, nor distance, nor law of God or man had pulled them apart yet. They were bound, and these words were just that. Words. The forms placed delicately atop their completed arch; more decoration than foundation. In all these seven years when she had been so utterly alone, she had carried the mark of his kindness about her like a talisman against the bitter encroaching loneliness. Always alone save for the memories. For better or for worse

"Mr. Harris…" The vicar smiled and gestured, giving the doctor leave to kiss his bride.

Clarice swallowed and waited for him to lift her makeshift veil. She had more than earned this, having paid for it in blood, surviving a house of horrors, and a bullet for want of a kiss in a darkened passage. But Dr. Lecter made no move to unmask her. Instead, he leaned down and pressed his cheek to hers, the corner of his mouth brushing the apple of her cheek. It still left an invisible brand on the flesh, despite being separated by silk netting.

But her hand he held onto, tucking it safely into the crook of his arm while their witnesses stepped forward to shake his hand in congratulations. Clarice, suddenly so very tired, smiled as much as she was able, electing to let her head rest against his arm. It was his hold that was keeping her up now.

They were directed to another room to sign the registry, Lecter going first, writing his new moniker in his elegant copperplate. He stood by her side as she bent over the large book, her veil whispering along the parchment page. Her hand was surprisingly steady as she wrote the letters Clarice Starling for the very last time. She lingered over the curling scrawl as if to bid the name and the girl who has once attached to it goodbye, straightening up and walking out of the church a different woman.

She had been passed on again, dumped from the dregs of her former life into the role of a wife. But this time she had not simply steered the motion of the fall, but had stepped over the edge and jumped. And this landing was much softer than all the others. Still, Clarice was exhausted from the drop.

Their next carriage ride was a quiet one. Now the doctor elected to sit beside her, offering his hand. She held his thumb, and after a few minutes of fighting it, leaned against his shoulder slightly as she began to nod. Every time she glanced up, she found him already staring at her. She asked him why once, and he merely replied, "It is extremely pleasant to look at you."

It was dark when they made it to their final destination. The manor house was surrounded by trees, and from what she could see by torchlight, in front there was a circular drive ringed around a stately looking evergreen and a few well-manicured bushes. The silhouette of the house looked stately against the night, wide and two-storied. Even without seeing the contours and particulars, Clarice knew it was a fine estate.

Their arrival was expected, it seemed, as a few servants waited for them in the doorway, a stable boy immediately going to the spare horse, and leading it around back, whilst a footman assisted the drivers in taking down their luggage. A woman some ten years older than Clarice strutted forward purposefully and introduced herself as the housekeeper, merely bowing to the doctor before encouraging Clarice inside with the promise of a bath and tea.

Within the house, it was clear there had been no moves to add electricity as of yet, and so Clarice and the keeper moved by candlelight illuminating only a small space before and after them, passing still-covered paintings and furniture before they were once again devoured by the darkness. The staff must have arrived only hours before them, Lecter's missive perhaps only a little faster than their coach.

Exhaustion robbed Clarice of her modesty, and despite never having a maid dress or undress her, she allowed the woman to tug at her laces and gently slide the cloth off. It also slew her curiosity, only allowing herself a quick glance around the chamber that was now hers. It was large, she gathered, as the candle's light barely reached the walls from its place in the middle of the room. But beyond that she could not see, nor did she much care. She knew there was a bed and she was eager to be in it. Her head was starting to pound again.

What the bathroom lacked in electric light it more than made up for in the large marble tub with its copper piping. Hot water poured from the tap and filled quickly, steam hovering on the surface to buffer the bath from the cold room. Soon Clarice was left alone with nothing but the comforting lap of water and a cup of tea placed on a nearby table. She didn't even bother with the drink, instead savoring the feel of letting her limbs float in the soothing bath, her head cushioned on a plush towel.

She listened to the sounds of the housekeeper dismantling her trunk and starting a fire in the bedchamber. Vaguely she wondered if she would hear the doctor's footsteps as well, and would find his lithe figure waiting for her when she exited. Not that I'd be much use, she mused. She'd likely fall asleep the moment her head hit the pillow, and it would be a shame to miss her own consummation.

Amusement turned to wakefulness, and she turned inward, inspecting the sudden heaviness in her chest. It was not dread or fear of the relative unknown, and it was not terror of the man himself. To demand and take would be the height of discourtesy, something he found more loathsome than blood and murder. It was more familiar than that, more like...exhilaration. The same emotion that had gripped her heart when he had pulled her close and lamented about their lack of time, or when she stalked closer to the barn balcony, gun hidden in her skirts.

Now that she had identified the emotion, she was more aware of it, aware of herself and how her heartbeat heavy in her chest as she rose and dried, changed into a nightgown, and crawled into the large four-poster bed, already warmed by a heating pan under the mattress. She sat against the headboard, propped up by plump goose down pillows she was too distracted to appreciate, eyes flickering from the roar of the newly made fire to the shadowy outline of the door.

After all, it was their wedding night.

Clarice drew her knees to her chest under the covers and wrapped her arms around them. Perhaps it wasn't all exhilaration either. There was some reserve. What she had unfortunately witnessed those few times stumbling upon an occupied couple looked rough and quick. She knew what happened; all the parts and physical reactions to stimuli in a clinical sense. But common knowledge of an adult and medical education was vastly different than first-hand experience.

And how did one exactly go about telling your husband whom you almost tupped in a dark hallway that despite the unladylike, and to most unholy, amount of enthusiasm she had for want of him, you were in fact a novice in the art? She scowled at her shadowy bedroom door. She'd loathe to prove all those whelps at the precinct and hospital right when they had-loudly-assumed she'd be a cold fish in bed if anyone ever got the chance. Though the doctor probably already assumed this with the same accuracy as he had the general sum of her history when they first met.

And he wanted her if it wasn't more than obvious by now. Clarice knew when a man wanted her-Mr. Brigham had, poor good soul. And many had wanted to wed her in the beginning, to own the London Tailor's murderer, while others had simply wanted to bed her, either for the macabre air of mystery about her or because of the face that earned her both praise and hatred. And though he was nowhere near such common vulgarity, the doctor was a man. And considering the snickers and winks around his reputation before the arrest, he had experience and talent.

Talent Clarice would like to know. It wasn't that she did not have opportunity, but she was a straight-laced girl, and the risk always seemed far too great for the few moments of pleasure stolen here or there. That, however, couldn't kill her curiosity. She wanted to know what exactly was so wondrous that men dueled over others stealing it from their wives and daughters, that caused poets and composers alike to prattle on endlessly about it, giving it very polite names for polite society. She had a taste of it, between her admiration of Mr. Brigham and her undeniable attraction to the doctor, but it was a game meant for two. Exploration alone would only get her so far.

But the night dragged on, the clock chiming later and later. Soon sleep won out over the anticipation. She attempted to keep her eyes up, to fight as long as she could. At first, she attempted to calculate how many days could have passed between the ball and now. Then she set about examining her ring and the engraved nisi per mortem. But it grew harder and harder to concentrate, each time she jerked awake, she had sunk deeper and deeper into her pillows and onto the mattress proper. A few times she awoke to a sound in the hall, a thump from downstairs, or the creak of the manor settling in the night.

Once she swore someone had been in the room, stoking the fire and touching her temple, but by that time the flame was low in the hearth and it was difficult to tell which shadows surrounding her bed were dreams and which were her actual company.