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The only adornment in the room is a half-consumed glass of red wine on the standard issue coffee table.
Bedelia produces the bottle from the kitchen counter. “Care for some?”
"Thank you," says Alana, even though she never much liked red wine. But she has learned to appreciate it after many months of being offered almost nothing else.
As Bedelia pours her a glass, Alana turns away and looks around the dorm room, which is unremarkable as Quantico dorm rooms go. None of Bedelia’s possessions are visible. Perhaps Jack hadn’t let her bring anything along with her, removing Bedelia from her comfort zone in an attempt to make her more malleable. But Alana doubts the effectiveness of this manipulation tactic. The room may be grim and spare, washed out by the overhead fluorescents, but the institutional light doesn’t seem to touch Bedelia du Maurier. She has a permanent Technicolor glow.
She sits down on the low couch and indicates for Alana to take the seat across from her.
“I’m sorry you have to stay here,” Alana says as she sits. “I know the accommodations aren’t what you’re used to.”
"It’s for my own protection," Bedelia replies. "Or so I’m told." She takes a swift gulp of wine as if swallowing a tonic.
"You’re not a prisoner here," Alana assures her. "You’ll be able to leave as soon as Hannibal is caught."
"Ah." The faintest curve of a smile from Bedelia. "That soon?"
”I’m sorry,” Alana says again. She often falls back on blanket apologies these days, even though she isn't even sure for what, or to whom, she’s apologizing.
"Are you staying here, too?" Bedelia asks her.
Alana shakes her head.
"You’re in as much danger from him as I am."
"No, I have to go home." Alana worries at the coffee table’s edge. "I have to live my life as if I don’t know what he is."
She thinks of the advice Will gave her that first time they talked after she found out the truth: “You can’t lie to him, Alana. He will know. You have to be steady inside yourself, convince yourself the lie is true. It’s the only way.”
This conversation had chilled Alana. Now that they had been revealed to be on the same side, she had expected warmth and honesty from Will. Instead he barely looked at her, all animation leeched from his face and voice—a shadow of himself. Is this what happens when the lie becomes true? Alana isn’t sure she is capable of wreaking that kind of damage on herself. Judging from Will, it might be irreversible.
Her thoughts are interrupted by Bedelia, who reaches out and places her palm over Alana’s twitching hand.
"I thought I was in a difficult position," Bedelia says, "but at least I had the luxury of running from him, and of hiding from him now. I couldn’t have a higher respect for you, going back out there to face him. It can’t be easy."
"Easy," says Alana, and she almost laughs. "No."
"You are used to dealing plainly with yourself, dealing plainly with your feelings."
Alana nods.
"Think of it this way," says Bedelia. "You won’t be lying about not knowing what Hannibal is. After all, who among us knows what he really is? What he’s capable of?"
It is beginning to feel strange, having Bedelia’s skin against her own. Lately Alana hasn’t been touched by anyone with such simple gentleness. "Will knows," she says, quietly.
Bedelia shakes her head. “He can’t know Hannibal when he doesn’t know himself.”
This makes Alana hold her breath, the same way she did when she first stepped inside Notre Dame Cathedral or when she visited the Grand Canyon with her high school boyfriend; it is how she always reacts when confronted by a great wonder. Bedelia has just summed up the entire painful situation in a simple clear sentence.
“He’s not alone,” Alana whispers, when her breath comes back. “I’ve lost sight of myself completely.”
"We all have."
Alana appreciates this, the solidarity of Bedelia’s “we.” Her hand is warm where Will’s had been cold. She looks at Bedelia, her sculpted solemn face, the eyes full of feeling.
“I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you, being his psychiatrist. Experiencing with him that level of intimacy. Of trust.”
"I think you can imagine it well enough," says Bedelia.
The note of insinuation in her voice makes Alana take her hand away.
“He never talked to me,” she says, rubbing nervously at the skin of the hand Bedelia was touching a moment ago. “He used our relationship as a means of avoiding true intimacy.”
"How like a man," says Bedelia.
It takes Alana a moment to understand that Bedelia is joking. They both smile then, heavy smiles.
"Why have you come here, Alana?"
Alana drags her feelings, looking for an easy answer to this question. "I thought you could help me understand him. Understand what it is I have to do. The idea of even being in the same room with him…"
"You’re strong," says Bedelia. "You know what you have to do. You’ve studied trauma from the outside. Managing it from the inside is not so different."
"You make it sound easy."
"Hardly.” Then, "I don’t think that was really what you wanted to ask me.”
"No," Alana admits.
"Don’t be afraid of asking me. I assure you, I don’t shock easily."
So Alana draws herself up and asks the burning question.
“Did you ever sleep with Hannibal?”
The other woman’s answer is easy, immediate: “No.”
A moment of silence.
Bedelia smooths her skirt, though it isn’t creased. “There was a time when that option was available to me, but… I was his psychiatrist.” She sees the way Alana’s expression has crumpled. “I’m sorry.”
"You don’t have to apologize." But Alana hears the disappointment in her own voice.
Bedelia’s voice is full of painful sympathy. "I understand how hard it is to be alone. The exception to a rule."
"I feel contaminated." Alana drains her glass of wine. "And foolish."
"There’s nothing foolish about you. He thinks of himself as a perfect gentleman. What you have with him protects you, in a way."
"I don’t feel protected," Alana says. "I feel completely exposed."
Bedelia nods. “Exposure is terrifying, but not necessarily a calamity. In exposing ourselves to others we can find comfort, understanding, maybe even trust.”
Alana considers this, then gravely admits: "I don’t think I’m capable of trust any more.”
"Neither am I," says Bedelia, smiling sadly.
They keep drinking together, until Alana notices the bottle is empty. When did that happen? Time has slipped out of her counting. Bedelia beckons Alana, leads her into the shabby bedroom. None of Bedelia’s belongings are visible here either. Does she even have clothes to sleep in? A toothbrush?
"I don’t know what I’m doing," Alana says, her heart suddenly racing.
Bedelia’s voice is unperturbed. “Lie down.” She waits for Alana to teeter over on to the threadbare bedspread. Then she carefully removes both of Alana’s shoes.
"I should go home."
"Not in this state,” Bedelia whispers, voice slow, hypnotic. “Better you stay here. With me. In the safe house."
"The safe house," Alana says, with a gentle snort. "You know it isn’t really that safe?"
"I’m well aware."
Bedelia lies down next to Alana, folded hands separating her cheek from the rough pillow. She makes no move to touch Alana. Simply lies there, staring at her. It is a stare familiar to Alana: polite and calculating.
"I don’t think he would ever hurt you, Alana. Not willingly. Not unless you forced his hand."
Alana feels these words aren’t really meant for her; she is too far towards sleep for them to be anything but a blur. But she tries her best to respond. “He has… already hurt me…”
Now Bedelia reaches out, caresses Alana’s arm. “I bargained for my immunity. You earned yours.”
Alana wants to tell her she hasn’t earned anything, that she has been duped and blinded and manipulated, not only by Hannibal, but by Will and Jack as well. Alana wants to tell Bedelia that they can rely on no one for protection, because no one can be trusted. She feels an upswell of sympathy and protectiveness for this stranger as deeply under Hannibal’s influence as she is. They have been infected by the same disease.
But Alana doesn’t tell Bedelia any of these things. Instead she falls asleep.
In the night, a gentle knock on the door makes Bedelia stir. As she gets up to answer it, she is careful not to wake Alana, but nonetheless Alana is vaguely aware of low conversation in the other room. Just when she is considering embracing wakefulness and getting out of bed, Bedelia returns to the bedroom and climbs back on top of the covers.
"What was that?" Alana whispers.
Bedelia, about to lay her head on the pillow, instead tenses one leg as if to get back up again. After a moment she whispers: “Just the guard checking in.”
“All clear?” Alana asks. She can see Bedelia’s eyes gleaming in the dark.
“All clear.” Bedelia relaxes, lies down. Both she and Alana stare up at the dark unblemished ceiling.
“I forgot where I was,” Alana says. “Just now. Just for a moment when I first woke up. Does that ever happen to you?”
“No,” says Bedelia. “But I wish it did.”
They go back to sleep.
In the morning Alana packs her purse and thanks Bedelia for looking after her.
"You needed someone to talk to," says Bedelia, who seems impatient at being thanked. "So did I."
"What will you do when all of this is over?" Alana asks, as she puts on her coat.
Bedelia flips back her hair languidly. "I am loath to make any firm plans. But I hope I see you again."
This shocks Alana into a smile. “I hope I see you, too.”
She scans the room on automatic, and her eyes alight upon an elegant little bottle of perfume on the kitchen counter that she could have sworn had not been there the night before. It is the first and only personal item of Bedelia’s she has seen inside the safe house.
"Is that your perfume?"
Bedelia’s eyes widen fractionally. “Yes,” she says. “I thought I had lost it, but then I found it in the night.”
As she says this, she removes the stopper from the bottle and takes a long slow inhale of perfumed air, a strangely thankful expression on her face.