Chapter Text
NINE DAYS OF SLEEP
Clarice Starling awoke with the sensation that something important had just slipped through her fingers. A memory. A secret. The dream had dissolved the instant her eyes had opened, and for a moment, she lay there, haunted by the idea that whatever she had discovered would never reveal itself to her again.
She yawned, a little dazed.
The sheets were pressed against her, heavy and warm, immaculately kept.
The bed was georgeous, enormous, an ancient thing of dark wood, with four tall carved post that pointed at a high, painted ceiling. She looked up at it, her vision liquefying at the edges, eyes fluttering closed again.
"Hmmm."
She smiled, a small, unsteady curl of her lips.
For a moment, she almost drifted back to sleep.
Clarice.
A sudden jolt of panic stirred in her chest.
This was not her bed.
The realization came quickly.
Oh Fuck.
Suddenly everything that had been calming about the space, the faint scent of wax and old wood, even the silence itself, insisted she was somewhere she was not meant to be.
She lifted herself upright, carefully, reluctantly.
Once again her vision blurred.
Had she been drugged?
This was not her room.
Not any room she had ever known.
Everything there suggested age and wealth. A room had existed for centuries, visited by people long dead before she was even born.
It wasn’t a hotel room. Not a hospital room either.
It looked like some grand old mansion, a castle even.
She let her gaze wander, looking for a clue, a small betrayal, anything that might explain where she was or how she had come to be here.
She blinked at the windows at the far end. They began at the floor and reached the ceiling, curtains parted just enough to allow the morning sun to intrude and illuminate most of the formidable space around her.
On one wall, an iron-framed mirror loomed above a fireplace. On the other hung a painting, breathtaking in its violence, some long-forgotten battle rendered in oils.
She knew enough about architecture to recognize the painted lancet windows and ribbed, vaulted ceiling as neo-Gothic, and enough to know it was pretty useless knowing that. There were hundreds, maybe thousands of places like this scattered everywhere across Europe.
She could have been anywhere.
Her gazed drifted along the edge of a Persian carpet, a polished wardrobe, then finally settled on a ochre chaise longue that held her clothes.
They were neatly folded in a row: Jeans, blouse, brown leather jacket, shoes.
No gun.
Where the fuck was her gun?
No badge.
No bag.
No passport.
How long had she been here?
What had happened?
Like an answer to her last question, a sudden pain bloomed sharp along her ribs, quiet but unforgiving. A heartbeat later, her leg joined in, throbbing deep and insistent, a second reminder that something had gone wrong. Terribly wrong.
She groaned, pressed her eyes tight shut. The darkness didn’t bring relief. Instead, it loosened something in her mind. Fragments of memory, disjointed but sharp.
The city of Riga.
An anonymous contact.
He’d said he was a cop.
The echo of a gunshot.
Then another.
A cobbled alleyway, slick and crimson with her own blood.
Had it been a setup?
Fuck!
And then—
She closed her eyes, the room tilting around her while she collapsed back against the mattress. It was as if her mind were still deciding whether to even let her remember the rest.
There had been someone else there, hadn’t there?
A pair of arms lifting her up.
That was all.
She didn’t remember any more.
There was only the pain.
Slowly, she lifted the sheets with trembling fingers, afraid of what the fabric might reveal.
She found herself clothed in a simple linen shift, soft and pale. It reached just below her knees, unadorned, carrying a faint scent of soap and ointment. Her skin smelled similar, clean and washed, though she had no memory of how it happened.
Both her abdomen and right leg were wrapped in clean white bandages, layered with precision. Recently changed too, she reckoned. Whoever had tended her wounds had done so with great care, and knew exactly what they were doing.
A chill slipped through her despite the warmth of the bed. Someone had undressed her, removed the bullets from her body, washed her, dressed her wounds.
The thought should have been comforting.
It wasn’t.
She lay there, still for a long moment, until her gaze drifted back to the chaise longue across the room. Her clothes lay there in a row, waiting for her.
Get up Starling!
Wherever she was, she couldn’t stay there.
She drew a trembling breath, then placed her hands flat against the mattress. She knew better than to move too quickly and reignite the pain.
Still, she had to try.
Carefully, she slid her legs over the edge of the bed, jaw tightening as the pain did exactly as expected; immediately flaring beneath the bandages, so excruciating it made her scream.
The room swayed in response.
And then the door opened.
*****
The voice reached her first: “No, no, no, my darling, absolutely not.”
The figure in the doorway was small, yet her presence immediately filled the room.
The woman’s face was a map of wrinkles, though it was impossible to guess her age.
“Back into bed!”
Her left eye did not move. It stared ahead into nothingness, fixed and lifeless. Glass, perhaps. The skin around it was marred by old scar tissue, the kind left behind by violence.
She could have been as old as Methuselah.
And yet, there was a contradiction.
The other eye was sharp, glinting with mischief. Her back was perfectly straight, balance flawless. In motion, she looked not a day over fifty, as if age had claimed her face but had forgotten about the rest of her body.
She held a silver tray in both hands, stacked with little cardboard boxes, a teapot, and a few other things.
“Back to your rest, my darling,” she commanded. The words were almost affectionate, but the tone beneath them was firm. The voice of someone who had spent a lifetime tending to disobedient children and unruly adults alike, Clarice reckoned.
Her mouth opened, ready to protest.
Pure habit, of course.
But then the calm look in the woman’s eyes, combined with the pain still echoing through her body, made her reconsider just as quickly.
She leaned back against the pillows with a sigh that sounded a lot like surrender.
Why was she obeying a complete stranger?
The question sat there uneasily, even as her body gratefully sank into bed again.
“Good.”
The old woman came closer, then set the silver tray on the edge of the bed, and reached out to slide the covers back into place. Her touch was practiced, long accustomed to tending bodies that could not fully tend themselves.
Perhaps she was a nurse.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Clarice tried, her voice thin. “But… where am I?”
The woman did not answer.
She merely studied Clarice with an expression that made her unease deepen further. There was no impatience in her gaze, no confusion, only a fond assessment, as though Clarice were not a stranger to her at all, but a story she had known for a very long time.
“Clarice Starling,” the woman said softly, the sounds rounded by a thick Eastern European accent. “What an honour it is to meet you, my darling.”
Clarice stared at her, disoriented.
The sound of her own name landed with a strange, one-sided intimacy.
“My name is Olga Mensik,” the woman continued, her smile deepening. “Please call me Olga.”
She tilted her head slightly, the one living eye bright and attentive.
“May I call you Clarice?”
The question was polite.
It didn’t feel optional.
Clarice gave no response, and Olga didn’t wait for it.
“Good,” she said, pleased. “Now tell me, Clarice, my darling, are you in terrible pain?”
Even the small nod of her head sent a flare of agony through her.
Olga didn’t hesitate.
She turned toward the tray, her movements trained, and began opening the boxes of medication. Their labels were foreign.
Beside them stood a small porcelain teapot and a glass pitcher of water that caught the sunlight, surrounded by a careful arrangement of food: thin slices of dark bread, an assortment of cheeses, dried tomatoes, apricots, and figs.
Everything had been prepared just so.
Her belly grumbled.
It pissed her off.
Fucking Traitor stomach.
“Excuse me but, I… I would very much like to know where I am,” Clarice tried again.
Once more, the question was ignored.
“I’ll give you something for the discomfort on top of your regular medication,” Olga said instead, pouring water into a crystal glass. The sound was soft. “Nothing to fear, my darling. You are healing beautifully.”
Clarice watched her select a variety of pills from the boxes, then set them carefully beside the glass before offering both to her.
Clarice hesitated, studying Olga with careful suspicion.
The old woman smiled.
“Oh, I won’t force you, my darling,” she said, lips curling with subtle understanding. “But if you do choose to accept, then drink slowly.”
Clarice leaned back.
“Maybe later,” she muttered.
Olga simply nodded.
“Whenever you’re ready.”
The woman made her feel safe, even though there was no good reason for it. She was in a strange castle, tended by someone who refused to tell her where she was.
She wondered again whether she was a prisoner.
Again, Olga smiled as though she could read every one of Clarice’s thoughts.
“You are in Kraujo, near Vilnius,” she revealed softly. Her one living eye caught the sunlight, glinting with something almost triumphant as she regarded Clarice.
“You have been here nine days,” she continued. “Stable for five.”
The old woman shook her head, then clicked her tongue as if scolding fate itself.
“We nearly lost you. The bullet tore right next to the femoral artery… very close. There was so much blood. Two of your ribs are broken.”
Clarice felt a shiver creep along her spine.
Nine days.
Nine days had passed while she slept.
Nine days since she’d been gunned down.
Clarice stared ahead, unblinking. For a moment, none of it felt real. Was she even alive? Perhaps this place was a fevered, operatic narrative conjured by a dying brain.
Olga sighed softly, a sound that remembered nine days of tending to a broken body.
“Now,” she said, her voice smooth. “You must have many questions. That is only natural.”
Clarice nodded, rising slightly, lips parting to speak.
“But,” Olga continued, “his Lord the Count will be with you shortly. He will explain everything in proper order.”
His Lord the Count.
The words lingered in the air, heavy and ridiculous.
Clarice tilted her head.
“The Count?” she repeated, nostrils flaring with disbelief.
Olga watched her, unsure of whatthe problem was, then nodded.
Clarice bit her lip, then snorted.
“Just the Count?” she repeated, raising one brow. “Not the king?”
She pressed her lips together, trying to smother the laughter that threatened tos break free, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her.
Olga only smiled back with a strange kind of quiet amusement, as though Clarice had spoken something very clever, or something hopelessly naïve.
There was no way to tell which.
“Yes, my darling. The Count.”
The way the old woman looked at her made Clarice clear her throat.
Whatever this place was, mockery felt suddenly ill-advised. Even foolish.
Behave yourself, Starling.
She adjusted her grip on the blanket, the fabric warm beneath her fingers, and drew herself into a small, careful composure.The pain and confusion, perhaps it had loosened some of the propriety she usually tried so hard to carry.
“I’m sorry,” she offered. “I didn’t mean—”
“None taken, my darling.”
Olga patted her foot , then started for the door.
“Please eat something, my darling.”
She motioned at the tray still on the bed.
“Like I said, his Lord the Count will be with you soon. He will explain.”
She bowed her head, a gesture that seemed oddly reverent.
“It’s a privilege to finally meet you, Clarice.”
Clarice stared after her, all thoughts drowning in a disoriented blur. Somehow she felt more out of it than when she had first awoken, the words lingering in her ears.
His Lord the Count will be with you soon.
*****
An hour passed.
No one came.
During that time, Clarice lay listening to the slow, distant murmur of the house, impatience growing, gnawing at her hopes and fears.
Dark, intrusive thoughts had begun to take root.
Olga had been nothing but kind.
Almost excessively so.
But kindness, Clarice knew, could be engineered. Anyone could be gentle for five minutes if it served a purpose. Hypnosis, manipulation, control… these things rarely announced themselves during first impressions.
If they did, half the Behavioral Science Unit wouldn’t exist.
Had she been lulled into compliance?
She looked back at the tray, the food.
She had eaten exactly one slice of cheese, one slice of dried apple, one fig, and had taken a single, careful sip of tea. After that, her gaze could no longer resist the chaise longue or her folded clothes.
Enoug, she decided.
To hell with this Count.
She shifted, testing her leg, immediately feeling the subtle protest of the bandages.
Slowly, carefully, she slid her legs over the edge of the bed.
This time, she stood.
Pain struck immediately, flaring up her thigh, then blooming in her ribs. It stole her breath, made the room tilt. But she bit it all back, teeth clenched, stubborn, and began to hobble across the room.
Every step was torture, an act of sheer resolve, of willpower.
Or stupidity.
When she reached the chaise longue, she collected herself, found her breath, and lifted her jeans into the light.
They were clean, freshly washed. But one leg was ruined. A jagged tear ran from hip to knee, the fabric cut open without ceremony. Torn apart to reach her wound. To stop the bleeding. To get the bullet out quickly.
To save her life.
Her hands shook.
Once again she remembered the sound of the gunshots.
Fuck.
Fuck!
She pressed the jeans to her face and shuddered.
The tears came suddenly, though she could not have said why. She suddenly felt a stranger to herself, in a body that had been destroyed by something she couldn’t quite remember. A hollow ache settled in her chest. She wanted something to hold onto, something to keep the confusion at bay. Something that was hers.
And then the air changed.
The floor did not creak, the door did not squeak.
There were no footsteps.
Or words.
And yet she knew, knew with a feeling that bypassed reason, that she was no longer alone.
Someone was behind her.
Someone she already knew.
Clarice turned.
For a fraction of a second, her mind refused to accept what her eyes were seeing. Her jeans slipped from her fingers and tumbled to the floor, their fall muted by the Persian rug under her bare feet.
There he stood, in the open doorway.
His Lord the Count.
He was dressed with immaculate restraint: perfectly tailored trousers, a white shirt with sleeves rolled to his forearms, a waistcoat that shaped his torso, and a small silver brooch at his heart.
His hair was slightly longer than she remembered, still slicked back with care, but curling just beneath his ears in a hint of wildness. The stubble along his jaw was conscious choice rather than neglect.
He looked entirely himself, even more so than she remembered him. He wasn’t sun-tanned, nor was he pale. He was somewhere in between, vital and alive… and dangerously free.
There was an almost obscene confidence in the way he occupied the space, precisely as he had the first time they met: still, unblinking, eyes sparkling with something strange and hypnotic. Something almost otherworldly, as though reality itself bent to him, obeyed him.
There was a hint of amusement, though no smile.
Only calmness.
Patience.
Everything else ceased to exist.
The castle, the room, the questions.
There was only him, the answer to all of them.
His voice, when he finally spoke, slithered through the room, exactly as she remembered it: warm and metallic.
“Good afternoon, Agent Starling.”
It sent a shiver of fear through her, as well as something darker, something worse.
“Doctor Lecter,” Clarice tried to say, her hand already moving toward a gun that wasn’t there. A gun he had taken from her… hidden, vanished. Of course he had, the fucker.
The words never made it past her lips.
She couldn’t speak.
She couldn’t think.
All she knew was one primal truth: She needed to run. Hide. Escape. Get away. The urge was raw and urgent, and yet… she couldn’t move. Once again, the room tilted, stretching and shrinking all at once.
The last thing she saw before she blacked out was his face: impossibly calm, the strangest glimmer in his eyes.