6So, my group of Hannibal novel-lovers and I spend far, far too much time thinking of every possible scenario and exchange the good doctor and Clarice can have, and one AU brought up was a period drama. I had for a long time had something cooking in the back of my mind of taking the gothic romance themes already in place in the novel and turning it into a good old fashion Victorian Gothic Romance, how the story would be changed and the characters places in that time, all in good fun.
So here is the climax of the novel Hannibal, the Verger barn scene from such an AU just in time for ooky spooky season.
Enjoy!
It was truly nothing like Clarice envisioned, her first ball. Firstly, she was not a young girl. Secondly, there was no bubbling anticipation welling in her belly popping and delightful like champagne. She was, however, in borrowed clothing-at least that she had predicted. She pulled the late Mrs. Crawford's cloak from her shoulders, handing to the random servant who reached for it. She ought to have felt bad, having pilfered the poor dead woman's trunk moments after hearing that Jack was in the good nurses' care for his heart. But there was a much more pressing matter to attend to.
Besides, she'd lived in Bella's shadow all her adult life. It was fitting somehow.
Clarice acted impatient when a guard inspected her invitation, as she had seen more than one fine lady do. She had poorly adjusted Jack's name on it in haste to Jaqueline, a truly uninspired move borne of haste and need. But the entrance hall was cloistered and hot and the servants ill-treated. They saw the Verger crest in its authenticity and nodded her along.
Also differing from her childhood dreams of splendor and gaiety, the actual ballroom was disgustingly hot, the press of bodies reminding her of farm animals herded in for the slaughter-and wasn't it just so?
This elaborate party was a trap, just as much a trap as the fake love trinkets tucked into her trunk in her flat, a trap like Jack's first attempt to raise her from the station in which she had been born. And they all had one prey in mind-not her, the too-clever American girl trying desperately to wedge herself into respectable London society. But one Dr. Hannibal Lecter.
And he was here. She knew it-he would not resist such a joke. To sneak into Mason Verger's annual Christmas masquerade, drink his wine, and enjoy mocking his tasteless gold trappings whilst the master lounged in his moving chair, paralyzed and ugly, hidden by a curtain.
Through her own feathered mask, pinned so tightly to her temples it ached, she saw his form up on the balcony. The bastard, sitting behind a thin veil. She also saw the matronly silhouette of Judy behind him, his eternal servant. His sister Margot stood at the edge, nodding her head to whoever caught her eye so far above the crowd, welcoming them to her brother's home. She was severe in her black gown, high collared and trimmed in lace, her face maskless and white-blonde hair in its pristine chignon high on her head. One hand rested claw-like on the banister, fingernails tapping impatiently. She reminded Clarice of a sleek corvid, deceptively intelligent, and the symbol of oncoming doom.
Even though she knew Margot was the daughter of a low noble, and Clarice was simply a child of a Texan lawman, a dead cowboy, the former nurse could not help but compare herself with the woman. Always comparing.
Though it was not much of a contest, Clarice's silks were old, and really from the presentation gown her cousin's wife had made for her, back in the time when they thought they had gained a little girl from 'the colonies' to raise into a lady to hand London's ton and perhaps a man with fortune. They had been mistaken, and the dress had sat unused in her trunk for years. When she and Ardelia graduated, they had pooled their money and tore apart the old fashioned gowns their respective families had given them for scraps and had proper gowns made up in starry-eyed hope that their new titles would give them a position in society, Clarice for the hospital, Ardelia to secretary for a barrister.
Now Clarice felt stupid in her dark maroon silk, so obviously stitched from a fashion plate with thread made in a factory. But she blended well enough, which is all she asked for this evening.
Was Margot searching as Clarice was searching? Then the hunt was on, and Clarice was going to win against the little princess. She had to.
For there was another purpose to this gala. Mason had not simply bought music and performers for entertainment. No, he planned to use the good doctor as a bear in his own personal fight.
When she had been sent packing from the hospital, shamed and primed for the constable to come knocking at her door to take her to the jailhouse, she had been followed. Mr. Brigham, bless his soul, had taught her how to divine these things. One of the same turn was a coincidence, three or more was a tail. He had used her for such things, taught her to take side streets to remain undetected, back in the days when she had hoped to become an assistant to the detectives, though Mr. Crawford had never shown a sign of actually helping her. Oh, he had secured her a kindly landlord when she first graduated nursing school and often sent her on interesting errands (though none as interesting as the first), but never truly brought her under his wing. Never even so gallant as to offer for her hand, as Mr. Brigham had, though the familiarity in which he spoke down to her would have been an indication of a future proposal to most women.
And Clarice knew how to doublecross a tail. Dr. Lecter, damn his lily-white hide, had given her such a tip as well as other interesting things during their talks in the asylum. He, as poised and patient as a gentleman in his ragged clothes, sitting in his bolted down desk and chair, a heavy chain about his ankle. Clarice had slipped through several crowded stores until her pursuers were confused about which wool-clad brunette was their quarry, and doubled back, sneaking upon them in a deserted alley. She was glad then she had never spent the pounds for heeled boots that surely would have made a sound.
Her followers were brutish men, stinking, and rough. Professional kidnappers, she recognized. Sometimes the police used them to capture the more elusive thieves and petty criminals. They had talked of her, but moreover what her use was. To lure out the doctor. They spat whenever his name was mentioned (and when it was not) and talked with glee about the tortures waiting for him at Mason's hands for the elite guests at the ball-and if they used boxes and peepholes through the wall, did they think they could catch a glimpse?
Tortured like an animal-less than an animal. Even animals deserved clean deaths. It was not the killing that rankled Starling, however. She'd seen enough duels allowed by her father and the sheriff. He had a grievance, he should be allowed to see the man who harmed him dead, no matter how disgusting Mason was. But torture-and the kind her would-be kidnappers had described had turned her stomach. There was no honor in it. She had almost been sick when she returned home.
Instead, she had turned resolute. Clarice did not know exactly what she was going to do when she found him, but despite his supposed insanity, Lecter was at least intelligent. Could be reasoned with; bargained with. And Clarice had an ace in her reticule-her father's LeMat. That should at least be reason enough if she needed to resort to it.
If she ever did. The ballroom, massive as it was, was a crushed ring around an almost as crushed dancefloor. The dancers weaved in and around each other, probably glad for the little wind there was when they moved to help from the stinking heat. Candles were stuffed everywhere to give light and only managed to heat the place more. Was not Mason rich enough to begin installing electricity? But it was better for her, Clarice acknowledged, even as she despaired of moving, let alone searching.
Dr. Lecter's eyes had been almost brown in the stark sickly electrical light of the asylum. But when Lady Martin had swung her weight and tried to have him moved to Scotland, the room in which they kept him only had candles. That, more than her confession, had stuck with her from that last meeting. The burning flames, hot as hell, had danced across his skin and hair but were entirely lost in his claret eyes. They had flickered and danced like the flames, but never brightly, never shone. And in this ball of fake faces, eyes were all she had to go on.
Clarice elbowed her way through the crowds, first to the punch table, and then to the gardens with no luck. Oh, she found plenty of drunken men about, trying to capture her hand, and introduce themselves for a dance of one kind or another, whether in the ballroom or in the dirt of the flower beds. She had deliberately dug her heel into the foot of a few who, when 'admiring' the flowers stitched into her collar, brushed her bare shoulders.
She found a place to breathe against the wall, sweating, head reeling from lack of oxygen, and already tired. Clarice tugged her white gloves higher on her upper arms and fortified herself. Even if the sun rose, she would not stop until Lecter was found and saved from his gruesome fate.
Back into the fray went she, already lashing out with an elbow to a man who took her waist from behind, missing his side by a hair's breadth.
"Ah-careful now."
Her stomach lurched, but before she could gasp, or even register what was happening, the man beside her bent and picked up the end of her dress' train, placing the loop over her hand, and led her onto the floor.
Dr. Lecter spun her to face him, and with one hand respectfully at her back, the other gently grasped her fingers and led her into the swirling tide of bodies that lapped in time to the orchestra. And his eyes indeed danced as well in the candlelight.
Her feet dumbly moved in time, more instinct than actual motion, born of all those lessons from books, and practiced secretly in her bedchamber. Her mind, however, was fixed on the man before her. Though not tall, still a head above her, all she could see of the face she remembered so well was the sleek, strong jaw, now clean-shaven, and the slightly straight nose. She had wanted, in their discussions, to ask how and who broke it once upon a time. But it had been too informal a question, and would give evidence that she had been starring at his face for pleasure rather than a necessity, something she only did in her memory rather than at the time-and rather guiltily at that. He wore a black domino mask, and a lovely suit of black silk, neither flashy nor drab. Simply finely made and sleek.
"For shame, Clarice, you have stolen my role."
"What," she asked dumbly.
His eyes narrowed in censure but continued, "I am the bird they seek to hunt, you are the thief, ready to steal their prey. We have on each other's costumes." He nodded to the feathers adorning her mask.
"Doctor, you know you're in danger and yet..." Clarice swallowed and glanced up at the balcony. Margot was no longer looking at the crowd but had her head turned to Barnabas, her own suspiciously new servant. Starling's eyes narrowed. Traitor.
"Oh, do not feel unkindly towards our friend. He has neither your looks nor your pedigree to move him ahead in society. And yes, to him even your paltry list of relatives in respectable places is better. Surely Miss Mapp has informed you of such?"
"I didn't come to discuss the machinations of London's society," she hissed. "We have to move towards the garden or somewhere we can sneak-"
"Sneak? In the middle of a ball? Alone, the two of us?" He grinned as red infused her neck-not a maidenly blush but a flush of rage at his flippant attitude. "You've been indulging in Miss Radcliffe's works, I think."
Clarice had a great desire to stamp on his foot but controlled it. "This isn't a game! Or a joke! They mean to kill you, and not cleanly." Perhaps sensing her intent to trample his shoes he spun her to the swell of music. When they had resumed the proper hold, it did not escape her that she was closer to him now. Close enough to smell the leather, smoke, and orange blossom off his jacket, no doubt from the garden where he had watched her move "Doctor, please, believe me, men like him do not like to have what they want slip through their fingers! I know!"
"Men like Cheif Inspector Krendler, I presume? Oh yes, I have followed with great interest his hand in your public disgrace. Shameful. Not of you, of course. Do not mistake my meaning."
"I've never mistaken you, doctor," Clarice stated.
"I know," was his reply, now suddenly without artifice or humor. "Perhaps you are right."
As quickly as he had swept her on, they exited the dance floor smoothly. He led her through the sandbar of bodies that encased the dancers and led her to a wall with a fresco of a farmer herding sheep and pigs. Pressing a place on the wall, a sliver swung open revealing a servant's passage.
Clarice was pulled in, and the light and noise of the ball were shut out, muffled by the wall. She backed up, trying to give herself room, trying to see in the sudden darkness. There was a place on the wall, the farmer's eyes, that was merely painted paper-a place for a servant to see through to decipher if anyone was standing before the door as they exited. The peephole only gave her slants of light to work with as she found her footing and the wall to lean against.
Dr. Lecter had removed his mask and tossed it somewhere. He now held her reticule, which Clarice only then realized had been slipped off her hand. Pulling out the revolver, Lecter smirked. "Never a dull evening with the Lady Starling. Was this silver meant for me or a monster more grotesque?"
"It depended."
"On?"
"Who was more disagreeable at the given moment."
Lecter tucked the gun back in her bag. "And this one?"
"I haven't decided yet." How easy was it to settle back into the cadence of conversation with him! They hadn't stopped dancing, after all, even these years later. "Doctor, please. I have a carriage outside. It's well hidden in a grove just down the lane from the house. They won't notice two guests leaving."
"You've planned this all out? How did you come by his plans?"
"I heard talk."
"Ah, you were tailed as well." He stepped closer to her, and gently pulled the hairpins that kept her mask in place. The cool air of the passage was a blessing on her damp face.
"Yes, now doctor please-"
"Seeing as you are here and not in some awful dungeon, my advice proved helpful?"
"...Yes."
"Though you did not heed my warning of Mr. Crawford, what of my instructions in my letter? After that horrible hostage incident with the prostitute Madam and the child?"
Clarice closed her eyes and saw again the old skillet he had told her to look into. "Yes. Yes, I always remember your advice, where ever I go. Does that please you?" He would never do anything without a pound of flesh-literally or not. Confession out in the open, she continued. "Will you now heed my advice and leave before they find us?"
She opened her eyes again and saw him gently bite his gloved finger, sliding his hand out of the encasing material. Tucking the kid leather away, she watched half agony, half hope, as his fingers moved towards her, hovering over her cheek and jaw.
Clarice had always thought Dr. Lecter cold, remote, and apart, despite the fire of his words. He was always so in control, so calm. And when their hands had touched that once, he indeed, had been cold from the Scottish winter crawling into his prison.
But now...now as fingertips brushed a tiny whisp of a lock from her temple, his fingers burned. She gasped from it when his warm palm dwarfed her cheek and held. He had held her as they danced and that had, technically, been an embrace. But this, this was truly a touch.
"Are you afraid of me," he murmured, closer now.
"No." Her voice was barely a whisper, hardly audible over the loping violins and lilting brass beyond the wall.
"Are you afraid of yourself?"
Did he mean what she was willing to do? Shoot and harm as a nurse sworn to heal? Steal a dead woman's clothes and lie to accomplish her goal? Or did he mean the emotion welling in her breast, and how keenly she noted the warmth radiating from his body so close to hers? In the end, it mattered very little. "No."
"But you are trembling."
"I can't let them hurt you."
He chuckled, his breath dancing across her face. "Am I too, a lamb? Careful Clarice-" how he dragged out the syllables of her name "-For my teeth are not only for grazing." He bent his head, and Clarice was sure she'd feel those very teeth graze across her throat-and she knew though it may stop her heart, it was not for fatal intent. But instead, he merely inhaled the scent, the dab of perfume she placed behind her ear every day.
His hand trailed down, lightly grasping her throat, his thumb brushing over her jugular. Clarice shivered when that same hand swept her hair off her shoulder, resting against her collar bone like a brand.
And then he was gone from her. Her hand was suddenly heavy with her bag again, and Dr. Lecter was leaning against the opposite wall. "You're right. His joke was a poor one, and this game is not at all as fun as I imagined. You've spoiled it all, my lady, with your superior charm."
He pulled his glove back on. "Seeing as we weren't invited in the first place, best to leave the same way we came: sneaking." He started down the hall, away from the ball. Pausing when she did not move, still rooted to her spot and un-kissed, he extended a hand.
"Come. Come with me."
She knew there was more in that than a command to follow. For a second she made to turn, to glance back at the servant's door.
"Don't do that," he chided, a smirk gracing his mouth again. "You'll turn to salt."
Clarice sucked in a breath. She hesitated a moment longer, but finally slipped her fingers into his. Lecter held fast and lifted them to his lips, pressing a kiss there through her glove. And then another to her palm, firm and warm, inhaling her scent, again to her wrist and slightly above until she was standing close to him again. She had to tilt her head back to look him in the eye as he raised his head. But his forehead simply rested against hers. "There isn't time," he said, more to himself she guessed, than for her edification. Time for what? A kiss, or what a kiss would lead to?
Again she surprised herself with the ease her thoughts led given more than sufficient evidence. It had always been a rumor about her, why the famed insane doctor would speak to a poor, pretty nursing apprentice and no one else. And nothing in their discussions had been explicitly about the connection between them. It was a thing felt, more understood than acknowledged.
But he was right. There wasn't time. "We must go," she reminded.
He nodded, and with another kiss to her knuckles, led her down the passageway. It wound and turned, but never went down, as a normal servant's hall might do. Instead, it seemed to branch off at several intervals, with staircases up and down that led nowhere, as well as too many doors to count. Lecter carried with him a pocket lighter that gave them illumination as they navigated the maze.
Clarice almost wished, however, that they moved in darkness. Room after room of torture devices, tables with chains attached, and walls hung with bizarre instruments, their uses mysterious but sinister. Some were empty, but the wood was darkly stained. Worse, however, were the chambers with mattresses lain in the corners, no chains but no windows either. These rooms had no knob on the inside but had sliding peepholes cut into the wooden doors.
There was one room Lecter peered into and immediately pulled her away, simply stating, "Do not look." She trusted him, and for the rest of her life, would remain ignorant of what laid in that room to make the monster recoil.
Finally, through the maze, they stumbled upon passageways that led to the real rooms of the manor. Sitting rooms, music rooms, even a small library. They flitted in and out of these chambers, continually attempting to find an exit. Some rooms were filled with amorous party goers. Others filled with men neither dressed for nor been invited to, a ball. Men like the kidnappers. These rooms they quietly backed away from, needing to find an alternate route.
"You would know better than I," Lecter said at one point as they traversed a particularly long hall, "But do you get the feeling of being corralled?"
"You think the exits are being blocked? They know?"
"Clarice, they knew we would be here before the first servant swept the floor this morning," he pointed out. "But yes. That they know we are on the move."
Just as he spoke the thought aloud, the hall ended in one final door. Snapping his lighter shut, Lecter tucked it back into his pocket and opened it. Air! Fresh air flooded the dark hall. Clarice could smell hay and wood and the night beyond. "Then we should-"
With a hissing buzz, she was blinded by bright electrical light. She felt Lecter's arm around her waist, pulling her against his side as his other hand shielded his own face. They blinked into the sudden light and saw that they had burst out into the barn house. But it was empty, save for the hay, and a pillory standing ominously in the middle.
"Ah! At last!"
Blinking, Clarice peered up into the loft. Eyes adjusting, she now saw into the shadows that the loft itself had been converted into some sort of balcony. Velvet cushioned chairs were placed in a semi-circle and filled with finely dressed gentlemen, already in their cups. A few were already guffawing, their glasses sloshing over, dripping from the loft onto the hay below.
And in the middle, Mason, in his hideous glory, his sister as ever by his side.
"Lady Verger," Hannibal greeted, ignoring the rest.
"Doctor Lecter," Margot replied, inclining her head.
"You are well."
"And you, and your lady. Miss Starling."
"Lady Verger," Clarice murmured. She was not trembling now, no, for she saw to Mason's right Cheif Inspector Krendler, turning off the oil lamp they had used for illumination while waiting. She would never quiver under his gaze. Instead, she felt her blood boil, her face flush with exhilaration. A showdown, then, she knew how to handle these better than a ballroom. But this wasn't Tombstone, and her name had no western glory behind it.
"I feared you had gotten lost, Doctor Lecter," Mason cut in. "Or, lost track of time. Rather cozy in those halls, is it not? You were free to use one of the rooms for your private escapades. Not as romantic, but gets the job done."
"Maybe he did, and was just quick about it," Krendler laughed.
Dr. Lecter did not dignify them with a reply, but neither did he remove his hand from Clarice's waist. Behind his back, she was able to shake loose her reticule and grasped the revolver. The velvet of the bag masked the click of the hammer.
"But now that you've had your fun, doctor, it is now our turn."
Clarice heard the barn doors open and knew that the thugs they had seen herding them through the halls were standing guard at the exits.
"I'm afraid Mason, you'll get no satisfaction from me. As usual, I decline your offer of 'fun'." He gave a courtly bow.
"I do not think so doctor, especially not when you've brought a playmate. Well, if you didn't have her in the hall like a normal gentleman, I don't mind giving you a little more time before you die."
Clarice's heart beat faster, but not with fear. They were about to make their move, and she needed to be on guard for an opportunity. The suggestion itself was, vulgar, but rather predictable. Of course, men like those staring down at her did not know what to do with a woman except poke.
"Again, I decline."
"It wasn't an offer."
As Mason spoke, Krenlder stood and lazily pulling his own weapon from his holster under his jacket. He leveled it at Clarice's head. "Come now. We're all here for a show. I for one would like to see what good ole Jack has been keeping to himself."
Clarice stepped forward, eyes not on the muzzle of the gun, but starring directly at Krendler. Her own was hidden in the folds of her skirt. "You know that Mr. Crawford and I were nothing to each other, Paul."
"Paul, am I? Now, Miss Starling, not so cold are you? Let's not dawdle. The doctor here can help you with your laces."
"I do not have to see this," Margot said. She signaled to Judy, who lifted her skirts and started down the stairs. The lady followed her lover, but her brother snapped,
"Oh, yes you do. Stay."
Halfway down the stairs, Margot paused. Dr. Lecter's attention was still on her. "It's not too late," he told her softly. "All it takes is someone who can copy write well."
Clarice and Krendler continued their staredown, ignoring all around them. "Why, Paul. Why do you hate me so? Because sussed out Bill before you? All it took was asking, but all of you were too proud to get your shoes a little dirty and walk into the asylum yourself!"
"And you? Seems you've more than spoiled shoes now, my girl."
"I'm not your girl," Clarice snapped. "I'm not your anything, and that is what burns you, is it not? That I told you to crawl into your wife's bed instead of pawing at mine?!"
Krendler cocked the gun. "Do you think I won't shoot a little slag like you? No one will miss you, Starling, can't you see? You're only recourse is the poor house or the whore house and I can see you never make even to there."
"That depends."
"Oh? On what?"
"Who is the quicker draw."
Two flashes of light and Clarice jerked backward, a spray of red haloing her head. A third flash as Clarice's bullet flew true, and the oil lamp exploded in tongues of fire. The wine bottles littering the floor at the elite audience's feet shattered from the sprays of glass, and the fire was quick to drink up the spilled liquor. Within a moment the loft was ablaze.
Margot still on the stairs hesitated only a moment. "Run," she screamed to the thugs in the barn's doorways. "Go, now!" Hiking up her skirts she ran towards the mansion, all the while shrieking "Fire! Fire!"
Above them, the screams of burning men as the fire yawned and stretched its fingers to the roof and walls. Mason, abandoned and trapped in his chair, his good arm flailing as he shouted, throat full of smoke and blood. Krendler, slapping at his legs where the flame crawled up, tripped over the banister, and fell onto the hay below, flailing and burning.
Lecter knelt and grabbed Clarice's fallen revolver. Lifting her into his arms, he ran, circling around the burning barn towards the darkened forest. He stopped only a moment, to ascertain Clarice's wound. Her head was intact, but her temple was bloody. A graze, then, and he was never more grateful for Krenlder's poor aim.
Chaos was in full swing as the party-goers finally heard Margot's shouts of danger. They flooded out from the mansion like blood from a gaping suck wound, running to carriages and horses, heedless of order or servants. No one would miss a horse from stables in the chaos.
Lecter swung onto a particularly powerful looking stallion, Clarice in his arms. He had used his gloves as padding, her own as makeshift bandages to hold them there in an attempt to stop the bleeding. They had to ride hard and fast if he was going to make it to a safe house to properly treat the wound. And from there, a few more days to his manor near Gretna Green.