cocktails & cigarettes

Invitation

A certain pair of eyes besides James’ also witnessed Miss DuBerry’s exit. Even as dessert arrived at everyone’s tables, along with much-needed cups of strong coffee for those who wanted it, Hannibal touched his mother’s arm. “Mi scusi, Mamma.”

“Dove stai andando?”

Simonetta frowned as she watched her son slip away without answering. He moved around the edges of the room to avoid conversation where he could. Happily, most people were involved in their own gossip and didn’t even look up as the young host passed them. The caterers recommended by the Hagens had lived up to their reputation. No one seemed less than satisfied with their meals, and plenty of the guests now stared with undisguised hunger at their sugar-filled plates.

Outside, Hannibal breathed a little more deeply. There were fewer tables, less chatter, and fewer competing odors out here as well. The crispness of the night was sharper now and more refreshing than ever. But fresh air wasn’t his objective. 

He wandered along the edge of the patio and fished his cigarette case from an inside pocket of his coat. He removed one and held between his fingers as he walked. A pair of voices grew louder even while the sounds of the dinner party faded away. One was familiar and feminine; the other belonged to the man whom Hannibal assumed was her lover. John? James? Something dull and Biblical, he thought dismissively. In any case, he recalled that the man had been possessive earlier that evening. Several glasses of wine had probably only intensified his feelings.

“…with me, and I’ll drive you home later,” James was saying. “Come on, Rachel. We won’t even have fun with Elliott and his crowd, not when he’s more than halfway to being blitzed as it is.”

Hannibal couldn’t hear her response. He guessed by the tone, though, that it was lukewarm at best.

James tried again. “Rach…we don’t have to do anything. Gillian and Betty can come, too, if you want. I just don’t want to hang out with your brother’s so-called friends, you dig?”

His had snapped up as the flame of Hannibal’s lighter flared a few feet to their right, and he put an arm around Rachel’s waist. Though it was probably mean to be a protective gesture, Hannibal couldn’t help seeing it more as a statement of ownership. She’s with me, that arm seemed to say, as did James’ slightly narrowed eyes.

For now.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Hannibal said in a somewhat abashed tone. “I didn’t mean to intrude. Just came out for a little fresh air.”

He took a small puff of his cigarette. His eyes, which looked black in the light of the half-moon, moved from James to his companion. Cocking his head to one side, he considered her and blew out a long stream of smoke.

“That’s all right,” James replied without sounding quite like he meant it.

“You’re missing dessert. It’s supposed to be excellent.”

Rachel felt there was something deeply personal about the doctor’s eyes. When you were caught in them, there was no hiding. It was both an unsettling and hypnotic sensation. Her heartbeat was a little faster.

“I’m sure it’s divine, Dr. Lecter.”

She thought, briefly, about asking their host for a cigarette and making small talk. It would drive James nutty — he was getting overly possessive lately, and a reminder might be what the doctor ordered. Perhaps in his mind they were going steady, but she’d never committed to such a thing.

No, it would be too obvious, Rachel thought. The doctor would notice… I doubt he’d like me much for it. No, not now, not him. 

James returned a tight smile at their unexpected visitor before looking at Rachel.

“Let’s go back inside. We’ll figure out the details later.” He nodded at Hannibal. “We wouldn’t want to miss dessert.”

The idea came to Rachel as they headed indoors. James’ dismissive attitude towards her protests had put a bee in her bonnet. She knew what he had truly meant was, We’ll assume we’re doing my plan, and I’ll calm down little baby later. She stopped in her tracks and turned back, causing James’ arm to slip on her shoulder. When she spoke, her voice was intentionally smooth-tongued.

“You should meet us out front once dinner is over. Elliott’s got a lead on some afterparty. I’m sure he’d love to show the new kid around.”

Invitation

More than one face in the crowd looked less than thrilled about the prospect of listening to a long-winded speech before dinner. They were not actually there, by and large, to support a cause, though of course most people in attendance did support one or several charities–perhaps more out of social obligation than generosity.

Hannibal remained standing at his table as he gazed out over the sea of faces. Relative stranger though he was to Baltimore, he didn’t look the slightest bit anxious or intimidated by having sixty pairs of society eyes on him. He waited patiently for the rustling and chatter to die away.

“Thank you all for coming when you didn’t know my mother and I from Adam,” he said, smiling. “We both appreciate the warmth of your welcome.

“I won’t postpone your dinner with a lot of hot air, but I do want to say something about why we chose this cause for début and our annual soirée. As I’m sure you all know, we aren’t Baltimore born and bred.”

A few sheepish chuckles followed this. “I’ll say,” Mrs. Taylor, sitting between her daughter and Rachel, said with a sniff.

“But this country, and this city, have been good to us. Nevertheless…we haven’t always been so fortunate.” He could practically feel the audience’s interest piquing: This could be juicy, could reveal the secrets of the mysterious Lecter nest egg. “My family has suffered the consequences of war: we were driven out of our home by evil on all sides. My parents and I became separated for several years, and the war eventually cost my father his health.”

Hannibal paused to lend the appropriate emotional weight to this statement. Became separated, he thought, was a terribly blasé way of referring to what had seemed at the time a living nightmare. But these people neither cared about nor had a right to the full story.

“Still, we were lucky. We had relatives living on the other side of Stalin’s Iron Curtain. Many don’t share our good fortune.”

The silence, he thought, was satisfying. One lady dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief (or maybe her napkin) despite the somewhat vague, bare-bones nature of the story.

“As my mother says meglio aver poco che niente,” Hannibal concluded with another charming smile. He slid fluidly into the new language. “Buon appétit!”

He grasped Simonetta’s hand beneath the table when he took his seat. Though she was a strong woman–the speech had been her idea–Hannibal knew casual mentions of his father and what they’d all endured were difficult to bear. At least she would never have to live with the worst of the knowledge, the memories that still sometimes woke her son in a cold sweat. (Hannibal, tesoro, dov’e sua sorella? Dov’e lei?!)

“Now you’ll have their tongues wagging,” Simonetta murmured in the present. She sounded amused.

He shrugged off the memories and winked at her. “That’s the idea.”

Elliott finished off his glass despite the look he received from his own mother. She shouldn’t worry. Some food would sober him right up before he had the opportunity to blacken the family name. Still, why not have a little fun…

“Speak any other languages, Beatrice?” he asked in a sing-song voice. “My beautiful sister speaks French. Close, but no cigar, Rach! Though that wasn’t Lithuanian, so maybe Doctor Wonderboy is a regular polyglot.”

If looks could kill, Madeleine DuBerry would have arrived that evening with two children and departed with one. True, the Lecters weren’t yet an established family in Baltimore society, but the eyes and ears surrounding Elliott all belonged to those that were. For his part, he didn’t seem to care one iota. His mother feared her son was relishing the attention, and his sister was sure of it.

“So you know ‘polyglot’ but you can’t spot Italian?” 

Beatrice’s neck was as tight as her delivery. Mrs. Taylor, no more pleased than her daughter but at least more civil, reached a subtle hand under the table to pacify the girl, but it was slapped away. Rachel leaned forward, her voice as smoothly cosmopolitan as the politicians from which she descended.

“What my brother means to say is that Dr. Lecter is more mysterious than we know.”

And that he, himself, is a complete dolt, she added to herself.

“Elliott’s always wanting to play matchmaker with me, as tiresome as it is, but I personally think our new friend’s dark looks would better suit your tastes, Betty.”

Rachel’s words were only meant to soothe tensions, but the girl’s eyes brightened nonetheless. The white lie did not so much as tickle the blonde’s conscience. Proper society would collapse if it weren’t for lines like those, after all. If given the chance, she would absolutely encourage the doctor accompany her over Betty, but admitting as much wouldn’t make for easy chatting over cocktails. 

“And I think an American’s looks would better suit us all around,” joked Mrs. Taylor in a low voice with a tight smile as her husband finished writing their donation check. “That Iron Curtain business… Let’s hope nothing red came across the Atlantic with them.”

“Hear hear,” agreed Mr. DuBerry with a nod.

Elliott licked his lips, eyes moving about the table. To the mother’s relief and the son’s salvation, the first dinner course arrived at the conversation’s pause. A waiter detailed the evening’s salad offering before backing away with a bow.

“An elderflower vinaigrette sounds absolutely divine, doesn’t it?” prompted Rachel before her brother could speak. His discourse manifesto could wait until the after party, and she would make sure of it. 

From there, topics wandered to more palatable dinner talk. It was still as biting and catty, but the difference was that those topics involved nobody within earshot. Madeleine relaxed, Richard warmed himself with a few drinks, and Elliott came around as the usual Baltimore scandals were brought up. Rachel kept to herself, although she did indulge to cast a few flirtatious looks across the room at James, who was seated a few tables over and opposite her. Just before the dessert course was due to be served, she folded her napkin and neatly placed it next to her plate.

Invitation

Hannibal actually looked more interested in Rachel upon being told about her modeling career. Of course, a single glance at his crisply-tailored silk suit and its pocket square that matched his mother’s gown was enough to reveal his interest in fashion.

“Maybe I’ve seen some of your work, then,” he suggested.

Something happened when the subject of Rachel’s sister was raised, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of thing. Hannibal’s smile, a warm expression which was currently crinkling the skin around his eyes just a little, seemed to freeze. It didn’t slide off of his face or disappear. He just went utterly still as though he was an image captured in a photograph rather than a living one.

After a few seconds, he wet his smiling lips and said, “What a shame she couldn’t be here tonight.” 

Except this time, the way he spoke was just a little off, and it wasn’t an accent. His voice had a very faint rough, almost metallic sound. He heard it and cleared his throat. 

“Maybe next time.” There, that sounded better.

“Please forgive me for cutting the conversation short. I couldn’t resist the chance to meet you without a crowd before dinner, Miss DuBerry.”

Since fortune was said to favor the bold, Hannibal reached out and grasped her hand. He bent over it like he meant to kiss it–only to step away, letting her fingers slide out of his. He liked her hand cream but thought better of mentioning it just now.

“I hope you’re both hungry.” He finally glanced at Andrew and grinned. “And that Andrew’s parents have good taste in catering.”

The strange young doctor left the scents of cinnamon and cedar in his wake as he left them. He moved with graceful fluidity through the crowd, like a cat or a trained dancer, stopping here and there to return a greeting on his way to the head table. Andrew shook his head once.

“He’s something else, isn’t he?”

Elliott was clearly thinking along the same lines as they all headed to their assigned tables. The DuBerrys had been seated with the Taylors (Mrs. Taylor and Beatrice were, fortunately, between the lecherous Senator and Rachel). While their father helped their mother into her seat, he leaned close to Rachel.

“So tell me, sis, what do you think of the Good Doctor? Going to snatch him from underneath old Bea’s nose?”

Beatrice kept sneaking somewhat doe-eyed peeks at the front of the room, where Hannibal stood with his head bent, listening intently to Simonetta.

“He’s a classic man for sure. I doubt his arm will be empty for long, if his mother has anything to say about it. I can see where the Bela Lugosi rumors come from, but you’re right, Dracula’s quite a stretch.” Rachel politely nodded as a waiter offered to refill her drink, to which Elliott also obliged. Fragrant silver cloches waited off to the sides of the room, ready to serve the evening’s guests once given cue. The alcohol was making Rachel quite warm, and she looked forward to the clarity something to eat would give her.

“Should I invite our new friend to the after party?”

“I didn’t realize you were even inviting me to the after party.”

“To be fair,” he started, sipping his glass, “I never said I was.”

Rachel slanted her eyes at him before moving on.

“I think it’s far too soon to throw the hen in with the foxes.”

“You think far too negatively of my circle. Half of them aren’t cunning enough for the title, anyways. Perhaps you’re right… We’ll see how the evening goes and leave it to chance, hm?”

Their parents’ attention returned to the table (the Sainsbury’s had paused on the way to their table), and the DuBerry children silently agreed to conclude their plotting. Madeleine leaned in, her voice lowering for her conspirators.

“It’s been a pleasant enough evening so far. Sadly no particularly interesting news to be had about our host and hostess. The husband has passed, but I’ve no idea how or when. Neither can I figure out where they made their money, as it appears they have quite a nest egg to sit on.” Their mother sipped at champagne while her eyes followed Beatrice’s path, peering at the dark-haired strangers. “It’s damned odd, really, but what else should I expect from Europeans?”

“I didn’t have a chance to speak with Mrs. Lecter, but her son’s a page from the same book. A very kind man, though, from what I can gather,” Rachel replied in a low voice. Even their father tipped his ear towards the conversation.

“You know dear, I did hear from Jeff that his wife believes she saw Mrs. Lecter helping the Sisters at Our Lady of Lourdes a few Wednesdays ago.”

“They do a nice luncheon for the orphanage on the first Wednesday of every month,” said Madeleine, nodding as if audibly consulting the notepad of her mind that kept up with all sorts of mundane societal tidbits. Her eyes turned towards Elliott, expectant. Her son chuckled and sat back in his chair.

Invitation

As soon as Rachel appeared, she had Hannibal’s fixed attention. His eyes didn’t flicker back to Andrew even once, as if the lady in their company was simply too captivating to justify looking away. In the soft mood lighting of the outdoor seating area, they could have been any color–brown or black or, maybe, really red. They looked to Andrew as if they were sizing each other up.

“I suppose you’ll have to find out, Miss DuBerry. I can’t divulge all my secrets at once, you know,” he pointed out with a small smile. “People would lose interest.”

“I’m afraid your brother and his crowd did rather quickly,” Andrew explained. 

“They were only hoping I had a fascinating illicit hobby. But I believe they decided that I was too…square?” Now the young doctor laughed, still unsure about that particular slang term. 

“Maybe so. Let’s see: I survived medical school. I do, in fact, work in the emergency room at Mercy Hospital, and I live with my mother. Should I be afraid of what else you might have heard about us? Or I guess, about me?”

Hannibal ticked off imaginary boxes on his fingers as he spoke. Then he reached over and stubbed out his own cigarette in the ashtray. One step closed some of the distance between himself and Rachel without totally excluding Andrew, though the other man could have at that moment been on a different planet for all that he was being acknowledged by either of them. 

From here, he caught a distinct whiff of her Chanel No. 5 with its distinctive bergamot, jasmine, and sandalwood. As lovely as she was.

“Now…what do I need to know about la bella Rachel–aside from her being the darling of Baltimore society from girlhood? And her excellent taste in perfume and clothes,” he added with a smirk.

“Well, you’ve covered the bases most everyone cares to ask about,” Rachel replied with a dry smile. “Let’s see…,” she mirrored, pausing to think. “My mother’s family is in politics, my father’s in real estate. I briefly studied at university before realizing I’ve no interest in it. Hmm… I also enjoy dirty martinis and small parties.”

Andrew waited a moment before jumping in, surprised that she was truly finished.

“Why, you’ve forgotten your signature! Miss DuBerry’s been in a number of magazines as a model, and not just the American ones.”

“Mm yes, that too.”

Rachel’s eyes briefly looked downwards in humility, but there was no uncomfortable wriggling as the spotlight was brought upon her. All of the DuBerry children thrived under the lens of scrutiny, and it either made someone a fast friend or even quicker enemy. Andrew turned to Hannibal, his face incredulous.

“Don’t let her fool you, Doctor. Elliott might be the trained actor, but Rachel’s a star in her own right, too.”

“You’re too kind, Andrew, as always. I think it’s why my dear brother picks on you so much.”

“And Anna, for that matter.”

Invitation

More than one pair of eyes followed Rachel’s full black skirt as she sauntered away with the borrowed cigarette in hand. Hannibal’s was among them. He’d noticed, with a touch of amusement, that she had deliberately chosen to acknowledge no one but her brother throughout the whole encounter. Was she following in the example of the intoxicated Elliott and attempting to get a reaction? And if so, from whom?

“Anyone else fancy a smoke?” Thomas asked. He narrowly dodged Elliott’s elbow.

Hannibal felt charitable in the face of the mischief-making and engaged Ronnie in a discussion of his plays for a few minutes. It only took that long for the rest of them–possibly excepting Mamoru, but Hannibal sensed he didn’t want to rock the boat–to grow bored. This fresh meat wasn’t very interesting, didn’t have any illicit hobbies, and he didn’t bleed much when he was stuck.

“I apologize–duty calls,” Hannibal said as soon as politeness dictated. “Andrew, who is that young lady with your mother?”

The two friends wandered away. Instead of Andrew’s parents (“What young lady?” Andrew hissed once they were out of earshot), though, Hannibal moved towards the outdoor seating. As the last daylight died, the lights strung above the tables twinkled prettily.

Simonetta appeared just before they stepped out.

“Ciao, Mamma.”

“Hello, Mrs. Lecter,” Andrew said. He had to stoop rather comically to kiss her cheek. 

“Good evening, Andrew.” She smiled. Turning to her son, she inquired: “Quindici minuti, tesoro?”

“Yes, all right. I’m just going to have a cigarette before dinner.”

The early evening breeze felt like a dream. Hannibal’s sense of smell was unusually keen, so a downside of socializing in large groups like this was the pungent combination of perfumes, colognes, and all the other scents people brought with them. Despite its slight chill, the fresh air was refreshing.

Hannibal withdrew a slim case of his own. “Cigarette, Andrew?”

The paper of their cigarettes hissed when they met flame, and both of them took a few drags before Hannibal spoke again. “Elliott DuBerry said his sister and I had some common acquaintances. Are you one of them?”

“I know her well enough. Our paths cross from time to time, mostly at events like these. I knew her better when we were kids, truthfully. We attended primary school together, same class. Always a bit of a fireball, even if she holds herself together well. She was popular then, too,” Andrew replied, pausing to take a drag before continuing on. “I never made the cut into the inner DuBerry circle, but I do think she gets a worse rap than what’s deserved. Women want to be her, and men want to be with her. I think it infuriates both camps how little she cares about it.” 

He gave his friend chuckled and smudged out his cigarette in a shapely bronze ashtray. “Not that I’m accusing you of the same, of course. It’s just the way things tend to go.”

Andrew turned his head. The sound of a woman’s heels on concrete approached from around the corner of Gramercy’s exterior walls. Rachel DuBerry appeared as if she’d stepped through time at the mention of her name. Elliott’s pawned cigarette was gone, and she was alone. Her green eyes passed between the two and stopped on the newcomer, whom she gave a small smile.

“My apologies for interrupting, gentlemen. I thought I heard someone else’s voice.”

“It’s no trouble at all, Miss DuBerry. Dr. Lecter and I were only chatting about mutual friends.”

Invitation

Hannibal remembered some of their names from when they had all been introduced earlier, but he smiled and nodded pleasantly to each in turn all the same. All of them must come from privileged families, he mused, because few if any of them seemed the type to spend a Saturday evening at a fundraising dinner by choice. Aside from the professional violinist, he wondered if a single one would own up to their art in front of this crowd as a hobby or otherwise.

“I’m no writer, but I dabble in drawing and piano,” he told them in a tone that said he considered himself nothing but a hobbyist in both of those areas. No need to give Charlie or Thomas the impression that he was some kind of competition. “And we’re subscribers at the opera and the symphony.”

His eyes connected with Mamoru’s again. Then he cocked his head, as if remembering something. “Bach’s Christmas concerto last December–your solo was excellent. The highlight of the evening, I must say.”

The violinist grinned and ducked his head humbly. “Gee, thank you.”

“Come on, doctor,” Elliott chided. “I don’t really believe you’re as square as Hagen here. The local music scene’s all well and good, but not to blow off steam.”

Maybe Elliott was just drunk and looking for something he could use later as the starter for more juicy gossip (it was social currency, after all), or maybe he was sizing the other man up to determine his suitability for Rachel, if she showed real interest. Maybe he just disdained the social niceties that prevented so many of the people in attendance tonight from being real human beings. 

In any case, Hannibal didn’t rise to the bait. “I don’t know about being ‘square’ exactly,” he admitted with a self-deprecating laugh. His knowledge of current English slang didn’t yet match his elocution. “But sure: I cook.”

Thomas shook his head slowly, as if in disbelief, and let out a low whistle. “You clean up damn well for somebody who’s always getting his hands dirty.”

Hannibal flashed his teeth in something like a grin–though he wasn’t certain that comment was either complimentary or in good taste. “‘Clothes make the man,’ as they say.”

“Especially around these parts,” agreed Andrew, clapping a chummy hand on Hannibal’s shoulder. Elliott straightened up, looking over the pair’s shoulders. A smile appeared as he addressed the group’s newcomer.

“And here we have someone with an equal appreciation of clothing but a rather dreadful lack of culinary talent, I’m afraid.”

“I like to believe some of us aren’t born with the need to work. It leaves far more life to enjoy.”

Rachel passed by the doctor’s right shoulder, taking care to not brush his shoulder or cast a glance. Elliott made room for her in the circle and tucked his hand into his suit pocket, preemptively withdrawing a silver-plated cigarette case. 

“I suppose you’ve come to rob me of a smoke?”

“That,” she agreed, holding out her long fingers, “And to see what trouble you all plan on getting up to later. I’m sure there’s something.”

“Perhaps there is, perhaps there isn’t.” He held the cigarette just above her hand. He glanced at the doctor, and his eyebrows raised. “My memory might be aided if you told me the name of your date tonight.”

“I don’t have a date tonight.”

“Oh really?”

“Mhm.”

“Is that so?”

“Quite so.”

Rachel took the cigarette from his hand before it could pull away, working to make the straightest face she could. She knew he wanted to get a rise from her in front of a fresh face. He was slippery like that.

“Well if your memory does improve, I’d love to know.”

“You’ll be the first on my list to find out, dear sister.”

Invitation

Hannibal had finally escaped the receiving line in order to mingle with their guests before the dinner began. He’d been introduced to them all, the redheaded Miss Quinn and the brunette Miss Taylor and many other women both young and not so young alike. In that sea of faces and names, a particular blonde head still lingered in the back of his mind.

Beside him now was Laurence Johnston, who sat on the Johns Hopkins Board of Trustees. He was a distinguished-looking older gentleman who was responsible, in a roundabout way, for the entire evening, because it was thanks to him that the Lecters had come to Baltimore in the first place. He had invited–though recruited was possibly the better, if less flattering, term–Hannibal to attend the university he represented while Hannibal had been a promising and very young student in Paris. A generous scholarship had been forthcoming. The rest was history.

“It all looks really wonderful, Hannibal. Quite a crowd,” Dr. Johnston observed.

“Thank you. I had to leave most of the work to my mother, I’m afraid. But she’s fond of that kind of thing.” 

Not much opportunity for throwing grand parties in a Lithuanian village–or afterwards, he thought, before pushing it aside with a drink of champagne.

“She’s in her element, all right,” the other man agreed with a warm smile.

Hannibal heard the appreciation in his mentor’s voice. Laurence was married, and his sweet wife Peggy was around somewhere. Still, Hannibal wondered with something like alarm if any of the unattached men of a certain age in attendance would view his mother in a similar way. The possibility hadn’t occurred to him before. He found it unpleasant to consider now.

When he looked away, his eye caught the DuBerry girl’s eye again, standing a few yards away amongst other people their age. Quinn, Taylor, and a Mr. Clark, he recalled as if looking through a mental rolodex. The girl with dark hair and the sparkling smile had looked very interested in him earlier. Right now, though, Hannibal was more curious about James Clark, whose body language towards Rachel DuBerry was so possessive.

Before Hannibal could consider excusing himself to wander in that direction, Andrew Hagen materialized in front of him. Andrew was a lanky twenty-something with dirty blonde hair and an easy smile. He had more charm than good looks, to which his large circle of friends attested.

“Hannibal! I’d say it’s fantastic, but we haven’t eaten yet,” Andrew teased.

Hannibal looked bemused. “If I’m not mistaken, Andrew, Mother hired the caterer your parents recommended.”

Andrew smacked his forehead as if he’d forgotten, and they both laughed. 

“If I may, sir,” Andrew said, addressing Laurence, “I’m going to borrow the host.”

Offering Laurence a somewhat apologetic smile, Hannibal allowed himself to be steered elsewhere by the casual arm Andrew draped across his shoulders.

The elder Hagens sat on the Baltimore opera board, and their only son dutifully attended every selection. He sometimes acted put-upon, but Hannibal felt certain that he shared his parents’ appreciation and would someday take over one of their seats on the board. Mr. Hagen had been born in the Netherlands; he and his wife had been among the first to extend a genuine welcome to the Lecters once they’d become regular opera attendees.

“So, now you’ve met Baltimore’s best and brightest…how do you feel?”

“Like a specimen under glass.”

“Aw, c’mon, it isn’t that bad.”

“They’re trying to figure out if they find our international origins alluring or distasteful,” Hannibal said with a short laugh. He almost added, ask your father about that some time. He considered Andrew a friend, however. A truly decent one. Those weren’t easy to find. There was no reason to give potential offense.

“Maybe the people our parents’ age. But everybody else thinks you’re mysterious and cool, believe me. Here, look–I’ll prove it.”

They’d arrived in front of a group of five or six people, all of whom appeared to be in their twenties or very early thirties. In the middle, Elliott DuBerry was holding court. He grinned at the newly-arrived pair, even going so far as to give Hannibal a mock bow that drew a few laughs from the others. “Look–our gracious host. And the court jester!”

Elliott spoke with such good humor, such a twinkle in his eye, that the words sounded less harsh than they might actually have been. He’d also already had two glasses of champagne and was working on his third. In any case, Andrew just rolled his eyes and laughed along, used to Elliott’s brand of humor.

“Hannibal, this is Elliott DuBerry–Baltimore’s own overgrown beatnik.”

“We’re acquainted, I believe,” Hannibal said. He nodded at Elliott anyway.

“Come now, Andrew, ‘overgrown’ is quite a rude thing to say,” teased Elliott. “I consider myself in a much higher league. Zealous, perhaps.”

“Excessive? Flamboyant?” 

Andrew’s responses drew a cheeky grin and a mock toast in his honor.

“Now that’s the spirit.”

Elliott began introductions around the circle of men, none of which took offense. The blonde carried with him the natural air of a leader. The first motion was to a mousy looking man with disheveled brown hair.

“Ronnie Williams, a banker by trade but a playwright by night.”

“Nice to m-meet you,” he mumbled with a shy smile. “Afraid I’m b-better on the p-page than in talk.”

Next, Elliott motioned towards a balding man with rectangular glasses and a silvering beard.

“Charlie Harris, an artist who makes the best, weirdest shit you’ll ever see.”

The man simply nodded, though his eyes were amused.

“Thomas Young, a hell of a jazz pianist and composer.”

The red-headed musician bent towards Hannibal in greeting.

“Finally Mamoru Tanaka, lead violinist for the Baltimore Symphony.”

“You can call me Rue,” replied the dark haired man, clearly of Asian descent but with a fully American accent.

All of the men surrounding Elliott were well dressed, but none of them wore the clothes with ease, except for Mamoru. Their group was more accustomed to dark clubs and dens filled with the haze of tobacco and empty bottles of gin. None of them particularly enjoyed the fine setting of a fundraiser, save, perhaps, for the DuBerry boy. He finished his third glass of champagne, and Ronnie wet his lips to speak to their newcomer.

Invitation

The sharp-eyed young doctor had a habit of taking note of everything, and it was flatly impossible not to hear the back-and-forth between Elliott DuBerry–yes, Hannibal remembered him well enough from several weeks ago–and the lovely girl beside him. Their banter bordered on being inappropriate for the time and place. The older woman, Elliott’s mother he presumed, could obviously smell a social faux pas in the making and attempted to quash it.

Hannibal was amused rather than offended and could barely keep from chuckling. At least they had brought some energy to the event.

He fought against a smirk when the party greeted his own mother. No doubt tongues had wagged in Baltimore for some time now about the Lecters, who were as yet an unknown quantity. Most of them probably knew that they hailed from Lithuania, which meant they would struggle to place Simonetta’s lilting Milanese accent now that they came face-to-face with her. They hid their puzzlement behind polite smiles and a variety of the same tried-and-true greetings. But Hannibal could see it just the same.

As was usually the case, the insular upper crust of Baltimore society had a pecking order. The people within it liked to know just how to quantify and classify their fellows and to be firmly aware of where they stood in that hierarchy. They were surely curious about these newcomers, but also perturbed, already sensing that they wouldn’t be comfortably easy to define.

Hannibal could tell that his mother rather liked the roguish Elliott. He caught her smiling at the young man’s flattery. But his attention had been successfully diverted by Elliott’s mention of Rachel. His odd eyes lingered on her much as hers had on him moments before. He cocked his head to one side as he made his study. If he’d thought her lovely while in the background, then seeing her up close only heightened her beauty. From here he could appreciate the way her golden hair curled just so around her cheeks and the oh-so-slight slant of her eyes… His lips curled up, too.

Elliott saw that half-smile, and he didn’t bother to disguise his own knowing grin. Men fell for Rachel all the time, and it looked like even this silk-clad boy genius wasn’t immune to her charms.

The hostess inclined her head towards Rachel.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “It is a Givenchy.”

He would have been content to linger with the DuBerrys for a moment, but Hannibal could see the rest of the line.

Extending a hand, he grasped Rachel’s–he wanted to be selfish for a moment and look at her properly–and flashed her a charming, almost boyish smile. The expression revealed that Doctor Lecter, despite his fine suit and poise, really couldn’t be older than his mid-twenties.

“I hope we’ll have an opportunity to find out if your brother is right about our mutual acquaintances, Miss DuBerry,” he said. “Please enjoy your dinner.”

His accent was even lighter and more difficult to place than his mother’s, just as Elliott had said. What did someone from Lithuania sound like, anyway? Wasn’t that behind the Iron Curtain these days?

Madeleine gave her children one more dark, disapproving look as they were shown to their table. Elliott wondered why she cared about impressing a pair of foreigners, as she would surely write them off given even the slightest opportunity.

He linked arms with Rachel and nudged her with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. When a few paces separated them and their parents, he said, “He liked you, Rach. Maybe you should tell Biff you’ve reconsidered…” He paused. “I would, in your place. That suit must have cost as much as our folks’ mortgage payment!”

Everyone in the DuBerry house was well aware when Elliott was seeing a particular girl. His mother had in fact gotten her hopes up about several of them in the past three years or so. Only Rachel, however, knew about his other affairs, the ones of which Madeleine would definitely not approve.

While Rachel might have found him hard to read, Elliott was pretty sure that the suave young doctor had eyes for only one of the DuBerry siblings. It was probably for the best. Elliott was smart enough, just not much of an intellectual. And, rumors aside, all the current evidence pointed towards Lecter being a total square and a bookworm to boot.

“The day you see me on Biff Finnigan’s arm is the day I want you to smother me in my sleep.” Rachel helped herself and Elliott to a glass of champagne off the tray of a passing waiter. Their parents had already wandered off, as Madeleine was no doubt making her social rounds. “Now Dr. Lecter could be fun. I wonder what an ER doctor does to unwind. Clearly they have enough money to enjoy themselves.”

“Picturing yourself on a yacht in the Riviera?”

“Well I wouldn’t say no, would you?”

Elliott downed his champagne and took another as a tray passed by. He gave his sister a wink. “Not if God himself asked me not to.”

The siblings parted ways, with Rachel falling in among her usual group of friends and Elliott his. Her looks attracted a popular crowd, but they weren’t so awful as the rumors made them out to be, she thought. Who could blame the young, rich and handsome for living a bit luxuriant? Marriage awaited them all at the finish line anyways, they knew that. Until then, the world was their oyster and everyone else simply shells.

Her brother kept a more eclectic group, much to his mother’s distaste. They were artists, poets and writers living off of their parents’ money. Elliott’s natural charm let him float between crowds as he pleased, and it was that saving grace that kept him beloved by all of the women his mother rubbed elbows with.

“Look at you channeling Kim Novak tonight, Rach,” cooed Gillian Quinn, the daughter of Baltimore’s wealthiest lawyer. “You might be able to bring a bit of color to that doctor’s cheeks.”

“I considered it.” She sipped from the glass flute, a coquettish look on her face. “He seems a bit dry and serious though, doesn’t he?”

“Oh sure, but he’s got the looks,” chimed in Beatrice Taylor, the daughter of Senator Taylor. He takes bribes, you know, whispered Gil the first time they met the brunette. And I’ve heard he has a thing for us younger ladies. “And the serious types are always a lot of fun, you know,” she added with a wink. 

“What’s this talk of fun?”

James Clark, a tall man sporting a rosy brown tweed suit, appeared at Rachel’s side. His dark hair was neatly parted, and his accent was unmistakably American. He touched his lips to Rachel’s temple, and she caught the scent of cedar wood in his aftershave. Unlike Elliott, Gil and Betty knew the two were entertaining each other’s company although nothing was official. With Rachel, it rarely was. She acts like a bit of a call girl, if you ask me, Gil had whispered to Betty more than once.

“We were discussing the new man in town, that Dr. Lecter,” said the red head. “We can’t tell if he’s a bore or not.”

“Casting judgement a little early, I see. Seems like an all right guy to me, for a foreigner.” 

James handed Rachel another glass of champagne, placing her empty on a passing tray. She quietly thanked him and took a sip, only to look up and see the man in question making eye contact with her from a few feet away, where he was engaged in conversation.

miss-duberry​:

Invitation

“Mother, I’m done with school now. Settled. You could go home.”

Hannibal Lecter the younger (and now, the only) had had this conversation with his mother several times since completing his years at Johns Hopkins’ prestigious medical school. Now, as ever, she brushed him off with a look that could have frozen the blood of a more timid man. He read in that cold expression the words she’d spoken the first time he had brought up the possibility of her returning to Italy: And leave you behind? Abandon my own flesh and blood? Live alone? 

Astute enough to see she was attempting to manipulate him, Hannibal had let the subject go that evening. But not forever. He watched as his mother, still a handsome woman and not yet really past middle age, from time to time grew wistful and restless. Of course, she always refused to consider leaving these gloomy foreign shores in favor of the ancient, sun-drenched land of her birth. Not without her bambino. 

Just once, she became agitated with him. She’d taken his face between hands that trembled.

Had she not sworn to him, Simonetta had asked then with a fierce and almost wild edge in her voice, that she would never leave him again? Did he think that because he was mostly grown-up and called himself dottore that her vow was forfeit? Or that she wanted to be away from him, her only child, for whom she’d searched and fought?

It had taken a long time to soothe her again.

As he finished addressing the last of the handsome envelopes that contained invitations and RSVPs, Hannibal wondered if it wasn’t stubbornness that kept her here as much as it was maternal devotion. And now her pride, too–they were after all on the cusp of their debut in Baltimore high society. This woman, born in Milan of two ancient noble families, wed to a count and mistress of his castle and estate, was determined to take this second-rate New World town by storm.

“Settled,” she murmured. “Hmm. I want to dance at your wedding, tesoro, and to hold my grandchildren.”

Hannibal shook his dark head. He’d heard this before, too. “Mama, really.”

As interested as he was in building a social presence in Baltimore, in attending galas and dinner parties, perhaps in the company of a beautiful woman, marriage held little appeal for him. Children–an unthinkable responsibility. His uncle’s estate and the sympathy of his mother’s family had allowed them live very comfortably in Baltimore. Nevertheless, Hannibal had his goal of a private psychiatry practice to consider. His dream of a truly fine automobile…

“There’s plenty of time for that. I’m years younger than Papa was when you were married,” he pointed out.

A few beats of silence followed this mention of his father, as usual. His gaze moved from his mother to the somber figure captured in oil above the now-disused hearth in the rather grand living room beyond. The senior Hannibal had been all high cheekbones, blue eyes, and chestnut hair, though his features became gaunt and his hair greyed badly during his final illness.

“Yes, little one, I suppose you’re right.” Simonetta folded and sealed the last of the envelopes. Then she rose, and despite all she’d endured, Hannibal was struck by the way she held herself: still a countess here where titles meant nothing, where there was no one to witness her besides her son.

I’d like to see a Baltimore socialite cross her.

She moved around and kissed his temple. “Don’t stay up too late. You can always finish up in the morning.”

“No, Mother, I won’t.” Hannibal smiled up at her. It was, even if he didn’t know it, the guileless expression of a child. “Good night.”

“Good night, mio cuore.” The bright lemon and soothing lavender of her perfume lingered around him like an embrace long after he heard her feet ascend the stairs.

—————————-

Luck was on the Lecters’ side on the night of their fundraiser. To accommodate a crowd, they had rented the ballroom and adjoining garden space at Gramercy Mansion a few minutes outside of the city. Happily, the spring evening was warm and nearly cloudless as guests began to arrive. 

Rumors about the hitherto unknown Lecter family had run rampant in Baltimore in the weeks between invitations being mailed and the event itself. Rachel’s friend Suzy–who hadn’t been invited and, though she knew absolutely nothing concrete about these Europeans, felt snubbed as a result–passed along every wild scrap to Elliott, who dismissed them out of hand, and to his disinterested sister.

Mrs. Lecter’s son was said to be an honest-to-God genius. He was also, so the story went, a bit odd. No one could agree on what his oddity was, precisely; Suzy had heard both that his mother coddled and controlled him to an absurd degree and that he was a reckless womanizer who had already discarded dozens of Baltimore girls during his wild school days. Likewise, no story could agree on whether he looked (and sounded) more like Count Dracula or Laurence Olivier.

“It’s all ridiculous,” Elliott concluded the evening before they were due to meet the mysterious young man. “He’s polite and average-looking. Barely has an accent. Now, that’s remarkable enough, since I don’t think they’ve been stateside that long.

“But Dracula? Honestly!”

The brightly-lit, sprawling Tudor façade of Gramercy welcomed the DuBerrys and their society friends as they rolled up its wooded drive. Many of the trees surrounding the house were only just beginning to bud, but a few early flowers dotted the grounds with specks of festive color. The grand building itself glowed cheerfully, and lights had been strung up above the outdoor seating as well.

Just beyond the doors stood Mrs. Lecter and her son to greet their guests. The hostess was an extraordinarily petite lady. Her thick, once-dark hair was pulled back in a simple, timeless chignon at the nape of her neck.

Her dress had come right out of a fashion plate, though. The azure silk sheath made her look taller, almost stately, with its chic bateau neckline and gathered waist, from which it tapered to the floor. Her only accessories were ivory evening gloves and a long string of pearls. 

She was still attractive at fifty. The war and widowhood had put lines around her eyes and mouth, but couldn’t diminish her arched brows or her small, straight nose. 

The most striking thing about Simonetta Lecter, however, was her eyes. Probably they were brown and reflected the light in the mansion oddly (as many later agreed), but some people went away thinking they looked positively red.  

Her son, standing opposite her, could have been her much-younger brother. Despite being somewhat slightly built and slender, Hannibal’s confident demeanor gave him the illusion of a few extra inches. Like his mother, his suit was so impeccably tailored as to make some of the guests’ attire look a bit drab. Its pocket square matched the shade of Simonetta’s dress. He had also inherited from her the same dark hair, combed back smoothly from his face, and the same odd probably-brown eyes. 

His high cheekbones and straight dark brows must have belonged to his absent father. 

The pair of them looked anything but out-of-place against the glamorous backdrop of Gramercy with its crystal chandeliers and dark wood paneling. In fact, for being virtual strangers to Baltimore social scene, they both seemed very much at ease.

“You wouldn’t know it to look at him, but he’s a doctor. Works in the ER right now, I think,” Elliott whispered to his sister as they waited outside the doors to be introduced.

“Suzy mentioned med school, but I didn’t quite picture like a doctor doctor. Not sure what I expected, honestly. I suppose I was a little more focused on all the girlfriends he’s apparently had.”

“Sounds right up your alley, then. Maybe you two can swap war stories.”

“You’re awful to me, you know that?” Rachel jabbed an elbow into her brother’s ribs, and he chuckled. “Besides, I’m meeting up with someone else this evening.”

“Who?” Elliott’s voice was genuinely surprised. Rachel usually told him all about her trysts, and he in return.

His sister pursed her lips and returned a smarmy look.

“Andrew?”

“No.”

“David?”

“Uh-uh.”

“...Biff?”

Rachel’s face distorted, and she slapped his shoulder. “Oh God no, as if.”

Madeleine’s intricately pinned up head of hair turned around, her eyes narrowed to needle pins. 

“Could you two please be a little more... restrained?” she whispered through clenched teeth. 

“Of course,” soothed Elliott, giving her a warm smile that had melted many hearts in its days. When their mother turned around, he leaned in towards Rachel: “I’m going to find out, you know.”

She didn’t get a chance to respond as it was the DuBerry family’s turn to greet their host and hostess. Rachel straightened her posture and composed her face, hoping she wouldn’t look as if she’d just been laughing. They might assume the jests were at the newcomers, and it pained her to admit her mother might have made a good point. 

The DuBerry matriarch dipped into her usual words of welcome, which all of her children could recite by memory.

“Good evening to you both. It’s such a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Lecter. I’ve heard nothing but good things about you and the work you do.”

“I assure you the pleasure is mine,” returned the dark haired woman in a delightfully smooth accent as Madeleine took her hand.  

She could pass for a foreign film star, mused Rachel. Aging but wearing her years well.

Her father greeted Mrs. Lecter, announcing that they were the DuBerry family and each of their names. Madeleine’s attention was turning to the young man next to the woman, but Rachel was already ahead of her. The son had piercing eyes, and noticing them had actually given her a start. 

Are they really red? Surely it’s a trick of the light...

Rachel felt he was a man with a face she both had and had not seen. Not as if he was from a dream, no — she couldn’t quite pin it down. His features were sharp, and she had no idea what thoughts were running through his head. Most men were very easy for Rachel to read, especially upon first meeting. Her looks had a way of eliciting reactions, and she honestly felt a little uncomfortable that she couldn’t tell how he was reacting to her or anyone in their group, for that matter. 

Parental introductions had passed, and it was time for the kids.

“I can already tell you’ve outdone yourself this evening, Mrs. Lecter,” greeted Elliott, bending towards her. “And it’s wonderful to see you again, Dr. Lecter. I was talking to Rachel before we arrived, and I think you two might share common acquaintances.”

You absolute ass, she thought upon seeing a playful twinge in Elliott’s lips. But I must say, an excuse to chat in private might not be so awful... 

The unexpected letter that arrived at 65 Maple Grove Circle was of considerable weight. Anna immediately spied the plum envelope while fetching the mail. It was enough to make her pause, fiddling the smooth vellum paper in her fingers. The foyer behind her was empty, and Madeleine’s things were still absent from the coat rack. Pursing her lips, the girl disappeared into her father’s study and hunted for the silver-plated letter opener her brother Elliott had gifted the old man last Christmas. Robert always kept his office a mess, which her mother detested, but the afternoon sun thankfully illuminated the silver tool to make short work of her search. 

The sharp blade slipped under the envelope’s flaps with ease. Anna knew these letters were never for her, but she liked to pretend they were for fancy galas or parties thrown in her honor. She would get to wear a lavish evening gown and have her hair all done up, just like her sister Rachel always did. It was foolish to think these things, but the ten-year-old girl enjoyed her folly.

“What are you doing in papa’s study?”

The letter opener’s edge slipped at the sound of a woman’s voice, and a drop of scarlet blood darkened the rich paper underneath Anna’s fingers.

“Shit!”

The study reverberated with the sharp clacks of heels echoing off of wooden floors, and the girl knew she’d been found out. Rachel had a sixth sense for when the youngest sibling was up to something, no matter how small. It made Anna wish her older sister spent more time at her own flat versus crowding in with them. That thought wasn’t helped when two fingers pinched the girl’s earlobe, which she swatted away.

“You wouldn’t want Mama to hear that kind of language, would you?” 

Rachel was more than twice her sister’s age, and it wasn’t the first time she’d caught Anna getting into trouble. The latter was sure she enjoyed playing missus of the house when their parents were out. 

“You say way worse!”

“I’m an adult. I can say what I like.”

The girl stuck out her tongue.

“Now really, Anna.” Rachel’s long, slim fingers slipped the envelope away from her sister, turning it over. “I don’t know why you bother being so secretive. She always knows when you open her mail. You never seal it back up properly.”

Her green eyes scanned the addresser’s fine calligraphy on the face of the envelope, reading and then re-reading.

“I haven’t a clue who the Lecters are, do you?”

Anna shook her head, not that it mattered. Rachel had already laid the envelope down on the desk and wedged a manicured nail into the gap left by the letter opener. She made short time finishing her sister’s work. Inside, she removed a thick piece of paper followed by another, smaller envelope already bearing a stamp. 

Anna sucked at the cut on her finger while her sister unfolded the letter and read.

“The Lecters graciously request your family’s presence at their first annual fundraiser benefiting the Refugee Crisis Center of Greater Baltimore. All proceeds from the event will go towards those in need, blah blah blah,” trailed Rachel, losing interest and feeling no more illuminated as to who these Lecter people actually were.

“What’s a fundraiser?”

Rachel peered through the other pages, seeing an order form for food preferences and instructions on how to send payment. Bored, she tossed the letter on the desk. 

“It’s an event of some sort, usually a dinner, and everyone pays for a seat. The money goes towards some cause, but people really only care about upstaging each other. I’m sure Mama will take the opportunity to pitch Elliott and me to every eligible bachelor and bachelorette that shows.”

Her small frame bent to open a desk drawer. She held out a hand for Anna, and the girl obediently laid her finger on the open palm without asking. A bandaid was wrapped snug around the cut, and Anna tapped her thumbnail against the padding, testing its protection.

“That sounds boring.”

“It is boring. Hopefully there will be at least one or two people who liven the room so it isn’t all serious talk. You’ll likely luck out of this one and get to stay home with Marguerite, though. These things aren’t really for kids.”

Anna’s eyes brightened. She loved the Spanish nanny Madeleine hired on nights the rest of the family would be away. She always learned some new phrase and got to try fun foods she never ate at home.

Rachel repackaged the envelope and handed it to Anna. 

“Mama will be so upset when she finds out you’ve opened her mail again.”

“You’re the one who opened it!”

“But you’re the one with a cut on your finger.”

Rachel paused at the office door, turning to give Anna one last look. She stuck her own tongue out, and Anna blew a raspberry in return. 

---------------------------- ----------------------------

Thankfully for the youngest, Madeleine’s annoyance over the opened letter lasted only until she read who it was from.

“The Lecters? I don’t believe I’ve met them. Are they your acquaintances, Rachel?”

“I don’t believe so,” she responded, flipping through the latest copy of Vogue and barely paying the conversation any mind. 

“Robert? Have you met the Lecters?” Madeleine’s voice carried down the hallway to where her husband was sitting.

“I don’t believe so,” he called back. “Maybe Elliott?”

Her mother nodded at Anna. “Fetch your brother, will you?”

The girl rolled her eyes but hopped up to do as she was told. It didn’t matter, however, as the man in question walked into the kitchen a few seconds later.

“What’s with all the yelling? Were you caught going through the mail again?”

“It wasn’t me, it was Rachel!”

“Oh not that again,” sighed their mother. “Do you know who the Lecters are?”

“Yes, I met Mrs. Lecter a couple of weeks ago at the Johns Hopkins banquet. We ended up seated next to each other, her and her son. Very smart duo, I’ll say. You two were ill with food poisoning and couldn’t attend.”

“Don’t remind me,” Rachel grimaced, thinking of the new Chinese place she’d never visit again.

“Are they from around here?”

“Lithuania, actually. I noticed an accent and couldn’t help but ask.”

“Lithuania? Is that European?”

“Western Europe.”

“So they’re not American? Interesting. Explains the charity, then.”

Elliott gave a cheeky grin and began peeling an orange. “Wasn’t it our great, great grandfather who crossed over from England?” He winked at Anna, and she giggled.

His mother leveled a look at him before moving on.