Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It is difficult to imagine the pain of losing one’s parents, most particularly during a traumatic event such as a fire. It can feel as if the world has ended, as if someone particularly unkind has reached in and used a dull scalpel to slice your heart unevenly in two. Such an act is impossible of course, but the pain is very real and very terrible. The emotion is only rivaled by few things in the world: watching your husband be eaten by leeches, for instance, or the venom of a poisonous snake flooding your body, perhaps even stubbing your toe on the corner of the coffee table in the dark, or being separated from your three children whom you love most of all in this world.

The world itself, however, is quiet, in mourning as the rain coats the city. I could hear it above, feel the dampness in the air along the stone corridors. Familiar paths twisted away like branches of a great tree, leading toward a variety of destinations – none are safe. None lead to where I need to be so I go where I want to be. An address inked on my hand still feels tattooed despite the pen being washed away hours ago; the skin still stings raw from rough scrubbing. My nails dig harder into my palm until it turns numb.

Right. Left. Straight. Left. Up.

The trapdoor was and is still there, and I climbed up into a disused alleyway behind two innocent looking dumpsters that have been empty for years. I haven’t been followed (a word that can mean stalked, dogged, hounded, or tailed). I studied the rusted fire escape above for a long moment, in silent thought as I debated and rather lamented my choice of footwear. Heels are not for climbing in truth, but their use as a weapon will always be handy when things inevitably go sour (terrible and unfortunate). Muscles ache from disuse as I grabbed the rusted rungs and hauled myself up onto the first platform, arms burning in a familiar and welcome way. It reminded me that I am alive. Being away had softened me physically despite my best efforts to maintain myself for such purposes as stealing up the fire escape of a boring apartment building at two in the morning.

The hall of the sparse apartment building is empty as I entered through a window I knew to be unlatched. I cringed at the trail of water I left on the floor, but it can’t be helped. Besides, all the residents of the building are likely asleep at the abnormally late hour like the very boring people they are, so I had no need to worry about prying eyes through peepholes embedded into the doorways. It’s instinct I glanced about, to insure my safety. Old habits are hard to break.

111. 112. 113.

I knocked – hard. No pattern. No rhythm. Three short, loud knocks that signify I meant business. The sort of knock a delivery person might give when trying to bring a parcel.

I wanted to be heard. I wanted to – the door swung open.

“Hello.”

“Beatrice.”

It’d been so long since I’d heard my name properly, not as some jumbled code or misnomer in an attempt to disguise my true identity. It sounded like music to my ears in that very moment, and I hadn’t realized how very much I had missed his voice saying my name.

“Lemony.” My smile was tight lipped and I knew I must look a mess standing in the doorway to Lemony Snicket’s flat at this early hour, dripping water on the floor below. I hadn’t slept in the time since I’d left R’s the night before, and the borrowed clothes were starting to weight heavy against my frame. Even I could only put up with disguises for so long. He stared, silently blinking, and I waited politely for his brain to catch up with his gaze.

“Not dead, Lemony.” I prodded gently. “Do try and keep up.”

Brushing past him into the apartment, my feet carried me through the familiar routine of hanging my coat up to dry near the doorway. This was the part I usually made myself a cup of tea (raspberry with lemon, much like the kind I’m drinking as I type this incredibly strange tale), but instead I went to the window, staring out at the city below. Facing Lemony had suddenly become difficult, but I heard him close the door and his own heavy footfalls cross toward me. Stop. Another step. A sigh.

It’s an incredibly difficult thing, my dear readers, to face the past. To admit to a lie you’ve lived for much of your life and are still clinging to in the desperate hope it might protect those you love. Let this be your lesson that it does not help, and is causes far, far too much trouble in the end. I speak, of course, entirely of experience.

“Beatrice.”

My gaze snapped to Lemony, standing helpless in the center of the cold prison of a flat. The look on his face was something I’ll never forget – as anguished and pained as if I’d delivered a poisoned dart straight to his upper left thigh.

“Is that the only thing you can say?” I replied, for all attempts to lighten the mood. It didn’t work, of course, he was always better at that sort of thing. He seemed afraid, so I took the liberty of closing the distance between us and lifting a hand to touch his shoulder. He flinched, as if believing me to be unreal (as in not part of reality). I couldn’t blame him, though the more cynical part of me agreed it was his fault.

For the years I had spent mourning his supposed death, I imagined he had too mourned mine.

“I’m here.” I offered kindly, and his hand lifted to touch my face. Warmth seeped from his skin – always so warm, Lemony – and I could feel his short breaths on my face as he neared again. The other hand joined the second to frame my face and he pressed his forehead to mine. The gesture was familiar, intimate, and I felt myself yield immediately in the embrace at the sudden shock of it. My time spent away had robbed me of even such small affections and while dear R had been pleasant company and somewhat jailor of my self imprisonment, I had craved much more than she had been able to offer. Lemony seemed to be doing quite well to remedy that.

I don’t know how long we stood like that in the middle of his terribly grey flat in the midst of the terribly grey rain outside, but as far as I had been concerned in those moments the world beyond did not exist. When he pulled away I blinked, startled, and cool green irises met my own. His stare was piercing, it always had been, as if committing me to memory in that very moment. Certainly I could not have changed that much in our time apart; my hair had gotten quite long, a few more lines of age here or there, another scar with a story or two. But I felt him stare as if I were a stranger to him, not the Beatrice he had once known.

He, however, hadn’t changed in the slightest. Unsurprised, I found myself.

“I need to borrow your typewriter.” Since Lemony seemed unable to conjure more than a few words at the moment, conversation with him seemed useless until at such a time he gathered his thoughts. Finding one to be alive whom you thought previously deceased is quite the trauma, truthfully – I’ve seen it a few times in my lifetime.

Without waiting on his response and still quite soaking wet, I sat down at his machine. He’d left it halfway through a page of writing, which I delicately pulled from it’s housing and put in a fresh sheet to type out my note.

J,

Baticeer viles

L.

Simple. Effective. No handwriting to trace, always for the better. Ripping it free with less care, I folded it and stuffed it in a pocket until I could send it.

“You should change.”

I looked up. Lemony had managed more words, though he hadn’t moved from the spot I’d left him.

“Too right. I’m rather chilled.”

Tip toing around the veritable elephant in the room, it seemed.

“Some of your things are still in the bedroom.”

I didn’t need to ask why, but nodded and went to the small door and through to change. The bed didn’t look slept in, the drawers haphazardly pulled out here or there with clothing sticking out the tops. My brows furrowed; it wasn’t like Lemony to be untidy to the point of distraction. Nevertheless, I put aside cleaning instincts to rummage through a bottom drawer, pleased to find some of my clothing had indeed survived my absence. Anything to get out of my damp clothes at the time seemed a blessing; I was careful to transfer my typed note to my new pocket until I sorted out a way to get it where it needed to be. I used a questionably clean towel to dry myself and when I returned to the narrow sitting room, a cup of steaming tea awaited on a cardboard coaster on the coffee table.

Raspberry with lemon.

“I would say I would have been here sooner, but I think we both know that’d be a lie.” I interrupted the silence; Lemony was staring out the window, brooding. A familiar sight. Some things certainly never changed.

“You could have sent a note.”

“I really couldn’t.”

“R could have.”

“She really couldn’t.”

“Who else knows?”

“No one couldn’t. Just R, and now you. We felt it best, her and I. After the incident after the ball with the second fire, I made her swear to me I’d be dead. Of course everyone thought I was after the manor, but there were others . . . it was safest, Lemony, you must understand that.” I will share, readers, discussing the circumstances of one’s death with someone is never comfortable, especially at half past two in the morning.

Lemony gave a noise of non commitment, and I used the quiet to take a sip of my tea. Perfectly pleasant, just as I still favored. Part sweet, part sour, a lovely blend.

“Why now?”

“Esme Squalor.” The name instinctively brought a grimace to my face. The vile woman. How close we had been, once. How all of us had. It seems strange to reflect upon it now, after everything, but even the best of enemies once started as the best of friends.

“She’s too busy with what’s in.”

“What’s ‘in’ are my children.” I snapped, because his plain tone told me everything in an instant. “You broke your promise to me, Lemony. You swore to me that they’d be safe, that you would help them, and somehow I know where they are before you?”

He looked somewhat affronted. Good. When no excuse came, I turned back to my tea. No, of course not. Lemony would have far more important matters to attend to. My children came first in my eyes. I came first in his. An endearing sentiment, but it had cost me information, and time. Pushing aside the silent anger that had been stewing beneath my skin since the night before, I plowed onward.

“Esme has the children. Olaf is nearby. R showed me the newspaper clippings. I couldn’t do anything before, but I will not be idly any longer for the sake of my safety when theirs is at stake. I want them home.”

“And if I told you it was already being taken care of?”

I felt myself stiffen, breath catching beneath my lungs. Taken care of? Lemony finally looked over and seemed to register my confusion.

“J sent a note this morning. She says she, L, and the others are already trying to rescue your children and the Quagmires.”

I mulled this information over. So much for plans of going in, kicking down doors. Pity. I’d been looking forward to destroying as many doors in Esme’s ridiculous penthouse as possible. Then again, I’d done as much damage as possible to her already, hadn’t I? Started the entire mess. I felt the guilt to fix it, but as always Lemony seemed the step ahead and step behind – aware of further information, and cleaning up my messes behind me.

Silence reigned again, and without looking up I felt the small loveseat dip beside me.

“I missed you.”

His admittance was quiet, so soft I nearly missed it. I looked up, met his gaze, surprised to see the sheer anguish written across those features. In the dim light I could still see time had taken it’s toll on him, those eyes duller and framed by a few more lines. Time had taken it’s toll on us all, as time is want to do. There are three certain facts about life, including time, or death. The other two? Birth, and taxes.

“I’ve missed you.” Because, in all honesty in that moment, I had. After the manor fire I had been forced to flee, to try and get to my children before events had been set in motion. I’d failed, and even in the rare moments I saw Lemony at R’s place before the second fire it had been brief, too brief. A brush of a hand. A smile.

I will impart to you a truth with which I had never told anyone up until this point, because I feel the need to commit it to this paper in my hand.

I love Lemony Snicket.

It was for that love I’d broken our engagement; the dangers our life created had put us in such a place it could not happen. Our focus needed to be V.F.D., not each other, and I thought perhaps at the time if I broke his heart it might force him to pay attention. Instead he seemed to only drive himself into recklessness, and then withdrawal until I married Bertrand. I saw him once, just after we were married and then he’d ‘died’. For real, I had imagined at the time. I mourned. I withdrew. V.F.D. became second in my life because there after that, dear Violet entered my life. I swore to protect her, her siblings, and while my love for Bertrand was true, it was not permanent. It was not etched upon the very essence of myself, did not linger in the edges of my waking thoughts and memories because those spaces were already filled by an infuriating writer and his charming smile.

Love is such a strangle and fickle thing, something I hadn’t understood for a very long time. I like to think I do now.

At the time I had never admitted any of this to Lemony, or to anyone. A weakness to be used against me should something ever occur. Perhaps we would have been happy, Lemony and I. I liked to think so. The alternative is the current reality, which was doing no well at all. Everything had gone spectacularly downhill since that day.

“I need you to send this.”

My earlier note pressed into his hand, I watched him shuffle toward his briefcase to look for something. I drained the rest of my now tepid tea, tongue darting out to wet my lips. I felt torn into pieces, like some fraction of the woman I’d once been. V.F.D. had been a way of life, I’d known nothing else when I’d been foolish and young. How careless, how stupid I had been. All of us had, really. Some still were (no pointing fingers, I’m afraid). In the end it had been our downfall; vaguely I wondered what would be left of the organization afterward? I didn’t care. I wanted no part of it. I wanted my children, I wanted to be somewhere safe in a home with no fireplaces, and I wanted Lemony.

Instinctively I looked up when he rejoined me on the sofa.

I’m not certain if it was love that urged me forward, or longing, or something else entirely as I leaned forward to kiss the one and only Lemony Snicket. Something seemed to snap within him as he caught himself immediately burying hands in my hair that had grown well past my shoulders, grounding me to him as if I might float away the moment he broke contact. I could tell him I wouldn’t, promise and swear – but I had learned a very long time ago not to promise things I couldn’t keep.

We kissed, I let the world fall away. Somewhere Esme Squalor had my children, and soon would not. Things would be right soon, I told myself. Things would be better. I would have them, I would have Lemony – even if his presence was only fleeting. The thought made my heart clench until it was difficult to breathe (though I admit is was likely also due to Mr. Snicket’s impeccable affectionate abilities).

For the first time in a very long time, I felt safe. The feeling was fleeting, there and gone in a flash, but I held tight to it, held tight to the hope it provided. Between it and the warmth of the man with his hands dancing across my flesh, I began to feel some fraction of a whole Beatrice once more.

Chapter Text

Three days we waited.

The sparse apartment became a cell, despite Lemony’s efforts. He didn’t ask, despite the look on his face that so very clearly said otherwise. I knew he wanted to ask everything, it was his nature. He deserved more than the cobbled together explanations I had offered in pieces the past few days confined to the place. I hardly remembered much of the time spent with R for the sheer devotion I'd held in trying to lend a hand from behind the scenes, to put all my efforts into finding my children. I had been obsessed, R had put it lightly. Unable to eat or sleep until exhaustion had taken over. A bare existence, and some days I thought it would have been better had I perished. But the anguish the idea brought forth, of the further suffering the children would endure, I couldn't stand it. I painted. I wrote. I redecorated the bedroom seventeen times. What little else I remembered was a blur of harsh memories, raw emotions, and the garlic roasted potatoes and asparagus I ate for dinner on Fridays. 

I’d left one cell for another it seemed, while we waited. Cramped in the tiny flat had done nothing to improve my temper either, which boiled over in the third night – much like the pot of water I’d been boiling for a bit of pasta.

“I hate this!”

The clicking of the typewriter stopped, my hands pressed so hard against the countertop the knuckles had gone white. Patient had been one virtue I had never possessed; I was far more the sort of work on the fly, sort out the problems as they came with something clever on the spot. Waiting is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, in any fashion, and quite frankly at the time it was taking every ounce of my self control to keep myself bound to the apartment. Lemony had been surprised to wake that first morning with me still in his bed, he’d been so convinced I’d disappear again. How blissful that moment had been; I'd awakened before him, watching the rise and fall of his chest beneath the blanket. He looked as if he needed the sleep as much as I had. Those eyes meeting mine when he did wake, and the warmth that flooded my emotions at the look he bestowed. I sound foolish, don't I? Rest assured, readers, you will find such a glorious moment in your time. Then, the only foolish one here is Lemony (when in doubt, it is always Lemony).

The quiet bliss of the past days had been clouded over by my worry for my children, and the damage Esme or Olaf or both or any of their ridiculous brethren could do to them. Breathing hard, I closed my eyes and tried to straighten my spine in a familiar gesture of movement. I stuck with familiarity. It gave me grounding, so to speak. A rational step toward rational thought and rational actions. 

Do not let them see, Beatrice, darling. Never let them know.

But I had no one to hide from in this tiny prison; Lemony knew me as well as he knew the books he spent his days devoted to. Still, I tried to quell myself from the sudden outburst and found the emotion only held tighter to my heart until I could hardly breathe. Twisting and clutching and grabbing until I could hear myself hyperventilating in the small room, unable to stop. The children. Esme. Olaf. V.F.D. A whirlwind of veritable thoughts and memories stormed through my mind with such a fierceness I could nearly feel it like a slap across my face with each new thought that presented itself. Violet. Klaus. Sunny. I've let them down. I've broken my promise as their mother. I'm the worst mother in the world. I abandoned them. They are suffering. I am suffering. I am unfit to be a parent, I never was meant to be a parent.

I should mention, dear ones, emotion can be both a terrible and unfortunate thing. Be cautious how you let it govern you. The same of wayward thoughts that threaten to overwhelm your mind. It can feel as if one is drowning, unable to come up for air among the turmoil of your own mind. Find an anchor. Dig it in, hold tight, and do not let go. 

I find physical anchors are best. Not perhaps the physical anchor of a ship, but something in reality to latch onto, remind yourself that there is a reality beyond your own thoughts and emotions. 

“Beatrice.”

My anchor's name is Lemony. What's yours?

I whirled, eyelids snapping open and a wooden spoon in my hand brandished like a weapon. Lemony blinked, startled, and I lowered my hand. Being lost in one’s thoughts is dangerous too – he’d learned that some time ago when he’d startled me out of deep brainstorm and I’d swung a golf club rather harshly into his ribs. Entirely accidental, of course.

“Sorry.” The water hissed and I turned back to the tiny stovetop and the weathered pot, removing it from the burner just before it boiled over completely. Silence settled once more, though Lemony remained my quiet companion in the cramped kitchenette as I busied myself snapping long pieces of dry pasta in half one by one for the sheer monotone task of it. A distraction. Always handy. Snap. One. Snap. Two. Snap. Three. Snap. Four.

“Beatrice.”

“Really, Lemony, if you continue to interrupt me I’ll never get this finished.”

Snap. Five. Snap. Six.

“You’re hurting.”

Snap. Seven.

“An unfortunate emotion, and one that I am handling most ardently at the current moment.”

“Not well enough.”

Snap. Ten. Hm. I’d lost count. 

“You’re safer here, you and I both know that.” Ah, Lemony. Ever the voice of attempted reason. It was uncharacteristic, really – usually he came up with plots and ploys just as insane as I did; one of the many reasons we’d meshed so well in training. Absolute loons, the pair of us. Even as my anchor into reality, sometimes he bounded out of that reality with me and into an adventure so rife with ridiculous situations that all we could do was hold tight to one another and weather the storm. 

“But they aren’t.” I replied quietly, glaring into the pot of pasta as if it were the root of all my problems. Pity. How easy it would be to throw it from a window, and problem solved. It’s unfortunate that pots of boiling pasta aren’t the size of all our problems – then again, we’d all have shattered windows, no pots, and an abundance of pastas in the streets.

“And I’m stuck here, waiting, when I could be out there helping them. I’ve failed them this far, haven’t been able to protect them! It’s my fault, my doing they’re in this mess. If I’d never stolen away that stupid sugar bowl, if I’d just -!”

Lemony, bless him, had the thought to silence me with a kiss. Nothing perverse, just enough to shut up my rant apparently. I blinked back at him expectantly when he pulled away.

“The past is the past, and unless you’re hiding a time traveling secret you cannot hope to change it.” He reasoned quietly. “We all make mistakes that put the ones we love in danger. You couldn’t have expected them to retaliate as they did, but you’re still standing. You’re still here, Beatrice, and you’re alive to protect them now. And you will. And hell rain fire on anyone who tries to take those children from you again. You’ll see them soon. I promise.”

“You don’t make promises, Mr. Snicket.”

“Exceptions can be made.”

You’ll be glad to know I didn’t burn the pasta that evening, and served it with a lovely sauce that had been so lovingly crafted by pouring it from a jar. Not one of my best, but one works with the resources given and even with my adoration for adventures, I wasn’t about to embark on one labeled ‘cheese’ with green fuzz on it growing in the back of the icebox.

Conversation between us lulled into something quieter, happier, though the exact details are difficult to remember. Mostly because of the extremely important event that happened next.

A tap at the window.

All brilliant writers include taps at the window in their novels for the sheer strangeness it can lead to. A monster, perhaps, someone trying to break in. A lover throwing a pebble to catch the attention of his lady love, but instead accidentally shatters the glass and wakes up said lady’s parents at three in the morning. I am happy to report the window did not shatter at our intruder.

Nevertheless, a tap at the window came. Then another.

It had stopped raining the day before so the night was clear, the streetlamps dim and casting long shadows down the length of the road. I moved to investigate the window before Lemony could think of the sense to stop me, curious. Intrigued. The latch to the window had never quite worked right, so it was easy to pry the window open to further satisfy my curiosity. Imagine my delight at the dark creature that fluttered in through the open window, circled the room once, and crashed inelegantly into the cushions of the sofa.

“Lemon! You still haven’t mastered those proper landings, have you?”

The bat gave a tiny noise of acknowledgement and I smiled brighter than I had in weeks at the sight of it trying to pluck itself up from the cushions. I snatched up a tiny piece of pasta from my plate and offered it out – not the usual diet, but it would do. Lemon, after all, was entirely vegetarian. My little rebel, the runt of the group of bats I had spent ages working with before things had gone drastically down the drain.

“It’s carrying something.” Lemony pointed out, who had also abandoned his half eaten dinner to shut the window and peer over the back of the sofa (judging by the look upon his face, I could have judged he still was not quite over me naming one of my trainees after him; it had been a joke that had stuck, and little Lemon remained unaware he had such an annoyance of a namesake). I looked down and indeed Lemon had a small piece of paper attached to his leg, rolled and tight. As he munched happily on the length of pasta I was careful to untie it and roll it out.

L,

We have them. J is injured. Come at once.

O.

My breath felt stolen from my lungs. Them. Them. My children. My loves.

Already Lemony had taken the note from me, removing his spyglass from an inner pocket. Fiddling with the settings, I felt my entire body buzzing with energy and relief, and an eagerness to go, go, GO. Precautions needed to be taken of course, but I couldn’t think past that at the moment as Lemony went about shining a light through the paper for an address inked in invisible inks. On the sofa, Lemon gave a small little noise and I scooped him up in a free hand to tuck him into the pocket at my breast. He squirmed, seemed to decide he was quite content with the situation, and settled in happily. I was certain the frantic beating of my heart would knock him about, but he did not stir again.

“Grab your coat.”

I did. We ran. 

Sirens wailed in the distance, and when I chanced a glance out between the buildings as we descended the fire escape I spotted a fire truck twist by in a flash of red and lights and noise. The faint smell of acrid smoke was in the air, looming across the city as much as the rains had earlier. Dropping to the ground, I darted to the mouth of the alleyway as Lemony lowered himself behind me. The night was cool, and as some of the late night party-goers moved down the sidewalk in alarmed tones, I pulled the collar of my jacket up and around my face to hide as much as I could. Not that I would be immediately recognized, but I was distrustful that I wouldn't wake up to a front page article with a photo caption of my untimely return from the dead.

Looking toward downtown around the corner of the old brick building, I could see the few high rise buildings glimmering in the night like beacons lit up across the skyline, though one stood out among the rest. Brighter. Oranger. Redder, too. Some yellow. Grey smoke. 

The entire roof of the building and what I assumed the floor below was on fire.

I didn’t need to be there to know; I simply knew. 667 Dark Avenue.

Esme. Olaf.

Violet. Klaus. Sunny.

“We need to hurry.”

Chapter Text

The safe house was on the other side of the city, but it didn’t take us long to get there. It was in a rundown part of town that few tread even during the day, less so by the night. We forwent the use of tunnels in fear we might have run into an unwanted enemy, and chanced taking the surface streets to our destination. I could think of nothing else but my children, and the tight hold Lemony’s hand had on mine. Our footsteps synced together as we twisted and turned down several smaller alleys to make certain we were not followed. Thankfully, the city had an abundance of alleyways for uses such as that, to evade and elude and to hide – alleys can be just as useful as they are sinister if one knows how to use them just right.

Among the slightly older buildings and their crumbling facades we stopped at a townhouse in a row of identical ones. The curtains were drawn but the faintest touches of light fell between cracks in the fabric. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. Another house on another street.

Unless, of course, you were V.F.D.

Something rooted me to the spot on the sidewalk; Lemony didn’t notice until he tried to take the steps and I let go of his hand.

Fear is another great emotion in this world we live, and no one is immune. One might boast about their adventures, their courage, their bravery, but I can promise you somewhere beyond that was a fear. Or a few. Some people even fear everything. Most of us lie on the scale of fear somewhere in between. Many fear spiders, heights, clowns, or the dark. All rational, really, and all with complicated names that simply mean to be afraid. I myself fear only few things – being buried alive, peanut butter sticking to the roof of my mouth, fire, and dentists.

Though I admit it seemed I’d come up with a temporary one to add to that list, staring up at the building with hesitation.

What if they hated me?

I suddenly grew very worried my children would hate me for the trouble I had caused, the suffering I had put them through, and for having not come to them sooner. I could explain, yes, but sometimes even the most rational things cannot get through to children, or even past a wall of emotion that I knew would drive a wedge. Suddenly I feared very much about being rejected by them.

“It’ll be fine.”

The slight edge to Lemony’s tone told me he too, was afraid. I recalled the last we’d spoken he had broken out of contact with his siblings, cutting ties and disappearing from their lives. His tone told me they’d never quite made up, so it was as much of a reunion for him as it was for me. How could he be so calm? It was a trait I both admired and was annoyed by in Lemony, his abilities to keep calm under the harshest of pressures. I had only seen him fully break five times in our lengthy friendship. How I wished I could say the same.

My attention dragged back to the present. Three steps up to the front door.

It swung open before we could even knock.

“Come in, come in!” A woman I had never seen before had been the one to answer, and we did not need to be told twice. Quite pretty, she was. A new volunteer, I assumed. She shut the door quietly behind us, latching three different locks and ensuring it was bound tightly. The drafty place hadn’t changed much since my last visit. It radiated with new energy, however, teeming with life. I knew it hadn’t seen this many people over it’s threshold in ages.

“I’m Olivia. Olivia Caliban. Jacques recruited me. You must be Mr. Snicket and Mrs. Baudelaire.”

“Just Beatrice.” I replied in kind, though my muscles were tense, coiled, ready to spring. “Where are they?”

“Oh. Just upstairs, I think. Resting. They’ve been through quite a lot today.”

One floor away. I wanted to shout for them, but Lemony’s hand on my wrist kept me pinned to the spot.

“You’ll need to fill us in. Let the children sleep. It will make more sense to them in the morning.” He rumbled. My nostrils flared, temper immediately on the rise at the sheer idea that Mr. Lemony Snicket thought he could keep me away from them, keep my children from me ---

“I need your help.” Olivia continued, brows knitted together. “I’m not exactly a nurse; I mean, I helped with some of the students before since I had so much free time with the library being closed but nothing like this and I care for him and I’d really rather not see him bleed out.”

“We’ll see what we can do.”

Jacques Snicket was lying on a sofa in the next room, pale but awake as he kept a hand pressed firmly by his side. Both he and Olivia reeked of soot and ashes, but I knew they had not been the ones to set the fire. Hopefully not. It simply was not our forte.

“Lemony.”

“Jacques.”

And it was as if no time had passed between them at all. Jacques did not look surprised to see his brother alive in the slightest, and I wondered vaguely if Kit or anyone else had let him in on the fact that Lemony was alive and well, and in hiding. It wasn’t my business at any rate – and I was far too distracted by trying to find a quiet moment to slip away, to tear apart each room upstairs until I found my three little ones.

But they had far too much trauma for one day; best to start the following day on a brighter note, I thought. There was some rationale to Lemony’s words after all.

Lemony knelt beside the sofa and was inspecting the large gash that took up part of Jacques side. Jacques grimaced as his brother prodded, yet still managed to offer me a smile when I joined the others crowded about him ready to lend a hand.

“Aren’t you lovely as ever, Beatrice.”

“I wish I could say the same, Jacques, but your condition seems to have worsened.”

He gave another crooked smile before he tilted his head back in vague agony. Olivia had taken up position at his head, fingers stroking his forehead delicately and watching Lemony’s every movement like a hawk. I hid a smile; clearly Jacques had finally found him a suitable partner. Someone I would very much like to know once we were all out of harm’s way. To thank her, and Jacques, for saving the lives of my children.

I would never be able to repay them.

“The first aid kit in the kitchen, if you please.” Lemony spoke and I rose before Olivia could; let her tend to her love while I played nurse. I’d never been skilled at anything remotely medical so Lemony had taken up that particular mantel since we both seemed to garner more injuries than any other members. The sparse kitchen was still the same as I remembered – tea cups on the counter where I had once lain sprawled out while Lemony had dug a bullet from my shoulder, the icebox that had remained fully stocked for me to ice Bertrand’s and Lemony’s injuries both. I opened a cabinet near the door and dusted the first aid kit off, before returning it to the parlor.

“Tell me what I need to do.”

Because I needed a distraction, and Lemony needed aid.

Half an hour later Jacques was resting again, talking quietly to Olivia with their heads pushed together on the sofa. Endearing, I noted from the kitchen as I washed blood from my fingers, scrubbing until my skin turned raw from the efforts. My mind still thrummed with the thought of my little ones upstairs; I still had no idea how they would react to my appearing so suddenly back into their lives. We could never reclaim what we had lost, but I had hoped to make a decent future with them.

“Is there any tea in this place?”

I looked up from the sink to find Olivia had joined me; Lemony had taken her place briefly on the sofa and was now talking quietly to his brother. About what, I could only imagine. Years were missing between them, and seeing as they hadn't decidedly started a fist fight in the parlor, I hoped their future was stronger. Together. For both of their sakes, and my sanity. And Olivia's.

“There should be. I don’t know about you, but I could use a cup. I’ll search if you put the kettle on?”

“Deal.”

My search found only plain black tea, but it would do. I set about prepping four mugs while Olivia set the kettle on to boil. We both leaned against the counter, waiting, trying to study each other out of the corner of our eyes without letting the other in on the fact we were trying to study them.

“I am sorry. About the fire. Your husband. Jacques told me some details so I knew what not to mention to the children. They really are quite lovely. Violet looks so much like you.” Olivia spoke, rather quickly, and I offered a tired but kind smile in response.

“I’m sorry too. About the fire. But I’m sure Jacques warned you it was our way of life. Very dangerous?” She nodded, and I continued. “I owe you a great deal of thanks for saving them when I couldn’t. How exactly did you get roped up in this?”

“I was their librarian. At Prufrock.” I made a face, and she laughed quietly. “I know, me too. But they were such kind children, so very sweet. Interested in a book on secret organizations that I thought I didn’t have. They disappeared before I could get it to them, so I found Mr. Poe. Jacquelyn caught me, sent me to Jacques because I wanted to help the children, and the rest is history. I never could have imagined there were such organizations, especially in a city like this.”

“It’s been around a very long time. Sometimes it’s hard to remember what side you’re on.”

“The good guys. Right?”

“Sometimes.” I murmured, and our conversation was ended abruptly by the whistle of the tea kettle. Sometimes good and bad became not so decisive opposites, and there was a moral grey pile somewhere in the middle. I liked to think I lived there, along with most of the organization. Starting and putting out fires was one thing, but there are people dead because of me. Because of Lemony. For something so small as a poison dart, it might as well have been the world in my hand.

Oh, and I’ve decided I like Olivia. Jacques Snicket, you take good care of her, do you hear me? 

Tea was distributed, Jacques fell asleep halfway through his mug. Lemony and Olivia dozed nearby in a pair of armchairs, and I had taken up the mantle of watching through the small sliver in the curtains. It was raining again, casting the rugged buildings further into shadow beyond. I couldn’t sleep, I knew I wouldn’t be able to until I had the three in my arms firmly again.

Olivia had divulged some information of that fateful evening, with Jacques filling in where needed.

“Olaf set fire to the apartment to try and kill all of us. Esme had a conniption fit.”

“You’d have loved it, Beatrice.”

“Thankfully we’d had the thought to bring parachutes so we gathered the three of them and just jumped down the massive stairwell. Olaf had beat us to the bottom, though – Jacques fought with him while I got the three into the cab outside. Safely seatbelted.”

“Olaf pulled a crowbar and knocked me into a glass table in the lobby that shattered. It’s where I got this nasty little mark. He heard the firetrucks and fled; we grabbed the kids and came here.”

“Esme’s dead. I’m certain of it. She burned. In the fire. Before we jumped.”

“Olaf is mine.”

The last words had been mine, and it had ended the conversation. I had been quite surprised at my own ferocity with how I’d said it. I hadn’t thought of Olaf much, but hearing tell of his deeds the past months had snapped whatever fraction of sympathy I had left for him. He tried to murder my children. Life for a life, he had promised once in his rage, and I would make certain he could never make good on that promise. I would end him long before that.

As soon as possible, hopefully.

He was still out there, somewhere. I vowed silently then and there to find him and end whatever ploy he had. The children were mine. The fortune was mine. His life would be mine.

Calm down, Beatrice. You’re bordering homicidal.

“If I must.” I muttered dryly to the voice in my head, draining my now tepid tea and placing the cup on a side table. The world was quiet. My head was not. Before I knew it, I went toward the stairs.

On the second floor I peered into what I knew to be a bedroom. It was dim, unlit, but by the glow of the streetlamps outside I could see two frames huddled together on the bed, clinging to each other. Violet and Klaus, sound asleep, unaware their dead mother watching from the doorway. They looked exhausted, still wearing ridiculous pinstriped suits. What a fashion catastrophe.

Despite every fiber of my being screaming, I let them sleep.

A soft noise to the right of the room caught my attention. Little Sunny was still awake, lying on a cot just to the right of the bed. Clearly wanting to be close to her elder siblings. Another noise, and those achingly familiar eyes turned their attention directly on me.

A gurgle, which I knew immediately to be ‘Mother!’, and I couldn’t stop myself. Three quiet steps over and I crouched low by the cot, reaching out a hand to card through the soft curls of my infant girl.

“Hello, my darling. I’ve missed you so very, very much.”

My voice felt thick in that moment, bile rising to the back of my throat. How emotional I had quickly become, it seemed, especially seeing them there. Alive. Barely. But alive. Physically whole.

“I have a lot to tell you, Sunny. So much. But you need rest.”

She gave a ‘hmph’, which I interpreted as ‘How can I be expected to sleep knowing my mother is alive and well and here?’

I smiled faintly, brushing my hand across her forehead in a comforting gesture. Quietly, I began to hum. Instincts, in truth. Ones that had never left. The very lullaby I had sang to her the night before the fire, the last time we had seen each other.

“Sleep.” I murmured, leaning over to kiss her forehead as she fought sleep valiantly. She quieted just after, and I continued to hum for a few moments more.

“Everything will be better in the morning. I promise.”

Chapter Text

“Mom?”

I blinked, hazily, uncertain of my surroundings. I hadn’t been called ‘mom’ in such a long time it took me a moment to realize I was even being addressed. I hadn’t slept well, if at all, but I found myself shaking off the slender fingers of exhaustion in favor of staring back at the faces of my children. Somehow I’d managed to fall asleep in the floor wedged between Sunny’s cot and the bed. Violet and Klaus had awakened with just the first tendrils of daylight peering between the musty curtains, and for a long moment we stared at one another.

“Hello.”

Well done Beatrice, simply well done.

Violet looked positively wide-eyed and Klaus stared at me as if trying to sort out any discrepancy in my person. Sitting up, I reached for their hands and held them both between my own at the edge of the bed. They looked slightly worse for wear but were for all intents and purposes whole and alive which was far more than I dared ask for.

“You don’t know how much I’ve missed you, my darlings. I owe you an explanation, I know, but I think I owe an even greater apology.”

Violet seemed to ignore this, and launched herself at me with a force that nearly knocked us both back onto the floor. I caught her and buried my face into her hair, clinging to her as if she would disappear from my arms the moment I let her go. My other arm reached out for Klaus, dragging him into the embrace firmly. My children.

I had never imagined myself as a mother, especially in the early days of the organization. Ever since the news of Violet, however, she had entirely flipped my views the moment I held her in my arms. I could want for nothing more when they were with me, and I would tear apart the universe to keep them safe from anyone who dare harm them. I imagine most mothers are the same when it comes to their children; it seems to be a universal constant across species.

“I promise to explain everything over breakfast. You both look like you need a decent meal and I think there might be just the things for pancakes downstairs.”

Olivia and Lemony had beat me to breakfast, however, as I found out while escorting the three downstairs. My eldest were still a bit starry eyed and confused at the reappearance and I used the chance to usher them down the steps to get food in them. Sunny nestled firmly against my hip, I felt another piece of myself slot into place. Another three, to be exact. I was nearly whole once more.

“Baudelaires!” Olivia greeted brightly, flipping a pancake with expertise and adding it to the growing stack on the plate beside the stove. “Help yourselves! Jacques made coffee, Lemony made tea, and I think there might be some juice in the fridge.”

Jacques was already sitting at the counter, his colour returned from the night before. He grinned, already digging into a stack of pancakes on his own plate as we crowded around the narrow table.

Somehow, we made it work. The lot of us crowded around the table talking, laughing, as if it were the most normal thing in the entire world. Things seemed softer. Lighter. I couldn’t keep my eyes from my three, and Lemony kept watch over the three of us from the edge of the table. Jacques was telling some elaborate story that Olivia seemed to be hanging onto every word. Things felt right, if only for that fleeting moment. A proper breakfast, and despite the danger that still lurked in the shadows I felt somewhat at peace; at least, far more than I had been in the past few months. Closer and closer to the Beatrice I had once been, though I feared I would never be quite whole again. Losing Bertrand had taken a chunk from my heart; our marriage had been agreeable and perfect and kind and I had three loving children from the arrangement, and I had lost him.

“What about our friends?”

I’d only been half paying attention to the conversation, but honed in the moment Klaus spoke, looking between Olivia and Jacques. Both of them looked rather sorrowful.

“We didn’t find a trace of them while looking for you. But don’t give up hope, Klaus. I’m certain we will find the Quagmires in due time.” Olivia smiled softly. Quagmires. I recalled the triplets, their parents, and the horrible fire that had separated them. R had fed me news about it; another set of orphans, another horrific fire ripping apart a family.

It was never ending, the tragedies that befell our organization. I wondered vaguely how much longer we could hold on. With volunteers scattered and losing more and more ground from the fire starters, there was only so much we could push back with. Not that I should have been considering any of it; after I took care of Olaf, I very much intended to relinquish my volunteering duties. Active duties, at least. My children came first, and I had recognized my mistakes in still keeping involved with V.F.D. after their arrivals. Not again.

Jacques stood, meaning to clear away plates, but Lemony took up the duty before he could do too much damage to the injury on his side. Olivia dutifully wrapped a delicate arm around his waist to help him back to the parlor, their voices disappearing behind the door. Lemony piled the plates near the sink to do the washing up, and suddenly I was left with tree pairs of very expectant eyes.

I struggled to find a proper spot to begin.

“How much have you found out?”

Best to start there, and I would fill in the gaps as possible.

Violet and Klaus began to fill me in of details R hadn’t been able to give me, with Sunny interjecting to agree or correct as needed. She sat firmly in my lap for the entirety of her siblings’ recount of the stories since the fire in our home up until the day previous. The more they spoke, the more anger that boiled beneath my skin. The awareness that I was holding Sunny kept me firmly in check, however, forced to bide my simmering rage until the three were well out of my war path.

I was quiet after their telling for a long moment, the only noise the clinking of dishes from Lemony’s work at the sink.

“I wanted to come to you the moment I escaped the fire, you must know that.” I murmured quietly. No amount of apologies would make up for it, I knew. “Things were complicated and because of Olaf, it wasn’t safe. No one could know at the time I was still alive. I kept it that way so that I might keep track of you three, try and sort out a way to rescue you. If I’d have shown up on Olaf’s or Josephine’s doorstep, I should think it would have been disastrous for us all.”

“We don’t blame you.” Violet spoke quickly, frowning. “You did what you had to do. We did, too. To survive.”

“No more of that.” I promised, brushing a hand across her brow to dust away loose strands of hair. “No more trying to survive. I’ll protect you, I promise. You’ll be safe. Olaf will never touch you again.”

“We know you stole something.” Klaus added, quieter. “Esme said it, once.”

“I did. But I’m afraid I haven’t the faintest clue of where it’s at anymore. I tried telling her, once. She screamed at me for days.” I frowned. The sugar bowl had been long gone for months now, as I’d been unable to keep hold of it while hiding away at R’s. It was in good hands somewhere, of that I knew. Beyond that . . . well, Esme Squalor and I were both in the same amount of darkness.

“Father isn’t . . . isn’t with you?” Violet tentatively ventured, and I shook my head.

“No. I’m sorry. He wasn’t able to escape. But he loved you each very much.”

A silence fell over the four of us, dare I say almost awkward. No one knew what to say; I certainly didn’t. It’s not exactly easy to reveal all the secrets of the organization you’ve put your entire life toward.

“There’s a book. About everything. I think it might be easier for you to read it, and I can fill in any questions you might have the best I can. But you must believe me when I say you’re safe now.”

Violet nestled firmly against my shoulder and I wrapped an arm around her. Klaus seemed hesitant, but mirrored his sister on my opposite side. I held them tightly, pressed firmly to me. Committing each of them to memory. Preserving this moment in my mind as best as I could.

Looking up, I met Lemony’s gaze across the kitchen. The corner of his lips quirked at the corners softly, and I returned a smile to his half-hearted attempt at one. There would be questions about him too, I imagined, and they were ones I wasn’t certain I’d be able to answer in truth. Not fully. Lemony Snicket was a difficult one to answer questions about quite frankly. In any case. It was part of what him so infuriating to begin with, the enigma he was.

Klaus wriggled only a moment later, digging for something in his pocket. He produced an ashen half of a spyglass. A familiar spyglass.

“I think this is yours.”

Digging around in my pocket (thankfully, Lemon had taken up residence in the attic for the day) I produced the other half, discoloured around the edges from the fire. It slid together with the other half perfectly, twisting and locking together firmly.

“I never meant for any of you to be caught up in this.” I admitted, quietly, releasing the spyglass. Klaus faltered, but placed it on the table before us. “Olaf is . . . he and I have a lengthy history and I fear his revenge had become an obsession. Always the one for dramatics.”

“We’ve noticed.” Violet murmured quietly. “He’s still out there.”

“I know. And I intend to remedy that.”

“You can’t! We’ve only just gotten you back.” Klaus protested almost immediately, and I shushed him gently.

“It must be me. Nothing in this world will take me from you again, do you understand? Not anything, and certainly not Olaf.”

“I’d believe her if I were you, Baudelaires.”

Lemony had turned away from the sink and was wiping his hands on a dishtowel. Violet’s eyes narrowed, briefly, and I watched as Klaus seemed to try and place in his mind where they’d seen him before.

“Lemony Snicket.” I supplied. “He’s . . . a very good friend. He’ll protect you as much as I will. As much as Olivia or Jacques will. You’re among family now.”

“You were one of Olaf’s friends at school. Your photo – the drama club, wasn’t it?” Klaus asked, and Lemony’s lips twitched in slight acknowledgement before he nodded curtly.

“I share similar history with your mother as he did.”

I was hardly willing to admit to myself that I loved Lemony, how was I to explain that to Violet, Klaus, and Sunny? A topic for another time, I decided.

“For now, we need to regroup. Plan. Sort out a safer place than here.” I voiced, for their sake and Lemony’s, who nodded again in agreement. The safe house wouldn’t remain safe for very long, and with the manor burned to the ground I was drawing blanks as to where the lot of us would go while I put every effort into tracking down Olaf and eliminating him as a threat. A difficult feat, but certainly enough was enough.

“Why don’t you go and change, hm?” I looked to Violet and Klaus and little Sunny in those horrific pinstriped suits. Vile. “There should be something in your sizes upstairs; they kept all sorts of things here at one point.”

A kiss to each of the top of their heads before they left, and Lemony and I were alone in the kitchen.

“You look better.” He remarked, setting a fresh cup of tea in front of me. I smiled in thanks.

“My children are safe and in whole pieces. I intend to make certain it remains that way.” I replied, distracted. My mind was already running over various locations to try and find a suitable one. Most of the places I knew had been destroyed or compromised, even headquarters and the training facilities. Olaf had done a number on those, and his henchman even worse. Not to mention somewhere that previous V.F.D. members would know about. An unknown. A great unknown.

“Bring them back to the flat.” Lemony offered, suddenly, reaching a hand across the table to mine. I blinked out of my thoughts and focused on him.

“Beg pardon?”

“It’ll be a tight fit, but it’s off the grid. Outskirts of the city. They won’t think to look there and all of the information I have on Olaf is there.”

I stared at the spyglass left on the table instead of him. It lay untouched still; I feared claiming it would drag me back into a realm of V.F.D. I no longer wanted to be in. How I wished I could simply apologize.  to Olaf for the suffering I had caused him as easily as I apologized to my children. That he would give up after that. It was unfortunate not to be the case.

Mulling it over, I nodded once.

“If you’re certain. I trust you.”

An understatement in and of itself. There was no one I trusted more on this planet than Lemony Snicket, even after everything. My one confidant, my anchor to reality, the man who had lain his heart at my feet and I had stomped on it so abruptly and crushed it into pieces. Perhaps he felt as broken as I did, not quite whole. Leaning forward across the table I pressed my forehead to his, shutting my eyes. Our gesture. Our brief moment of intimacy.

“Keep them safe, Lemony.”

“I promise.”

“You don’t make promises.”

“Exceptions can be made.”

Punctuated by his lips claiming my own, I agreed wholeheartedly. Despite everything, perhaps Lemony knew I loved him.

That I still did love him.

That I wanted to make a future together with him on one side, my children on the other.

While I intended to cut ties to volunteering, there were no rules on lending a brief assistance, perhaps. Or having other volunteers over for tea. Olivia and Jacques were to be staples in my life now, I’d decided. Whatever fate had planned I intended to protect their futures too.

Everyone deserves the smallest bit of happiness. If I can aid in that endeavor, I certainly will.

The hand in mine brushed along my fingers, stopping at the ring on my left fourth finger. He glanced down, studying, admiring it for a moment. I silently removed it, placing it next to the spyglass on the table. My wedding ring. The ring Bertrand had proposed with. The ring Lemony had proposed with. He frowned, and I tugged lightly on his collar to return his gaze to me. The past was difficult to consider. The future even more so. I had spent many years mulling my decisions with my marriage, how I had sacrificed my own happiness for his safety. He was reckless enough to throw caution to the wind and marry me anyway, and I had been the one to step in to keep him safe, to rationalize it was not possible. Beatrice Baudelaire. Beatrice Snicket. Both were far cries from the Beatrice Antwhistle I had once been, and still I can only wonder - 'what if?'.

“We should go. Strategize with your brother and future sister in law.” I murmured softly, and he hummed faintly.

“That confident?”

“Jacques seems to be.” I gave a small grin of my own, stole another brief kiss, before drawing away. He seemed momentarily lost without the contact, but remedied it by a hand on my lower back guiding me into the parlor to meet with the others. There would be plenty of planning to be done; despite my instincts to run headlong into any danger, draw Olaf out, there were lives far too precious relying on me to stay alive and well. I would not make orphans of my children. Not again. They deserved better in this harsh world, and if I could make it just a spot brighter I would do everything in my power to do so.

“Send a message.” I ordered Lemony, perching on an overstuffed armchair by the unlit fire. “Several, if you must. Jacqulyn. Romana. Larry. Anyone and everyone who’s left. We’ll meet . . . somewhere. I haven’t decided.”

Kneeling down on the sofa’s edge, I reached under and grabbed the edge of a rather large box. Dragging it out, I was pleased to find it still entirely together despite it’s time spent hiding away under a sofa. Wiping the dust off the cover of the box with my sleeve, I untapped the edges with a quick slice of a nail. V.F.D. disguise kit, perfectly intact and perfect for disguises.

If I may, at this point, I would recommend everyone put together their own disguise kits if you are not part of an organization that so readily supplies them. It’s simple, really. A box, a boring box, to be put together and filled with as many items you could think of that might be handy in a quick pinch. A cane that turns into a sword, perhaps. Various coats, scarves, and wigs. Glasses. It may seem like a jumbled array, but I assure you it can come in quite handy to have a disguise ready and prepared at a moment’s notice.

Olivia seemed intrigued as I began to pull items out, sorting through them with a critical eye.

“The vineyard, perhaps?” Jacques piped up from the conversation he seemed to be having with Lemony about locations. My head snapped up, staring at the other Snicket brother to decipher his true meaning, but he seemed entirely innocent.

I knew what he was talking about. The Vineyard of Fragrant Grapes. Or Drapes, depending on what mood one was in. The vineyard where Lemony and I were to have been married. The vineyard I had taken my children before Sunny’s birth.

“No.” Lemony and I both chimed. He continued as I busied myself with the box of items in an attempt to trample hard on the emotion that had suddenly risen it’s way into my heart. “Its on the list of locations. It’s a risk. We need somewhere new.”

“Do you have a headquarters somewhere?” Olivia inquired.

“Yes, and I’m sure it’s burnt to ash now. Olaf once tried to push me from a cliff there. Thankfully, I had sense enough to wear a dragonfly costume with functioning wings.” I mused quietly, glancing up to Lemony who caught my gaze in silence.

“Right now, we need to sort out how we’re going to lure Olaf out. He’s in hiding, I’m certain of it.” Jacques prompted, frowning. “We need a safe but effective solution.”

“We need the others. As many of us as there are left.” I replied. “If we’re to make a stand, it’s only fair we invite them all. But Olaf is mine to deal with. I will see to him.”

“Beatrice –“ Lemony began. I cut across him.

“Don’t.” I warned quietly. “You know I have to do this.”

“I wish you didn’t.”

“But I do. With or without your help.”

Olivia knelt beside the box, picking up a blonde wig with a mixed expression.

“What do you need me to do?”

Chapter Text

 “We need to tread carefully. The Quagmires are likely still in his hands. He’ll be planning on that from the beginning, keeping them hidden. Those weird troupe members of his guarding them, I’m sure.”

“Or he’ll be confident that he has them hidden too well and will bring the troupe with him. Then it’s an outnumbered situation.”

“After snatching up the Baudelaires from his grasp one would assume him to be more cautious.”

“Well, he’s always been one for dramatics.”

I was getting nowhere with any ploys in my efforts to get to Olaf. The Quagmires made the situation all the more difficult, and Olaf himself was certainly not reliable by any means, even as a villain. Absolute mediocre at best, but never reliable. There were too many variables to be accounted for which put the plot-that-didn’t-yet-exist at a high risk of being very, very dangerous. He still had no idea of my return, which gave me the slight advantage of surprise – but it would do no good unless I could surprise him with some perfectly elaborate plan to destroy him for good.

“You haven’t touched your food.”

Glancing up, I saw it was Violet who had disturbed my thoughts. We were alone in the kitchen; the others were out doing recon and I had remained behind with the children for their protection, and their sanities. I was sorting through messages sent back from the other members, decoding them in a stack across the kitchen table. Beside those was a plate of breakfast food that had long gone cold.

“I wasn’t hungry. I suppose I got a little carried away.” I sighed, dismayed to find my tea had also gone cold. I wondered, vaguely, how long Violet had been standing there as she seemed to produce a hot kettle and refilled it and another mug quite rapidly. She seemed determined to remain in my company, so I slid the chair across from me out with a foot beneath the table and she sat.

“Can I ask you something?” She spoke, quieter, and my undivided attention went to her immediately.

“Of course. Anything.”

“What did you take from Esme?”

“A sugar bowl.”

“Why?”

That was the more difficult question to answer. Why? Why had I taken the stupid little thing, and had caused so much fury from the opposite side of volunteers? It had been a joke at first, a simple thing to set Esme off. Beyond that it had become so much more, held far too much meaning to simply let it get away from our hands. Of that I had been certain, when the manor burned. In fact, that had merely confirmed it.

“Because I was very young and very naïve.” I answered after another moment’s pause. I could tell by the furrow of her brow that the answer didn’t sit well, but she seemed to accept it for the time being. “I’d take it back, if I could. Unfortunately I’m not nearly as clever to have invented a means of time travel thus far, but I imagine you could if you put your mind to it.”

Violet ducked her head, but I had earned a smile. How long it had been since I’d seen my lovely girl smile. I endeavored to bring it forth more often.

“Mom, uh, I think you have another letter.”

We both looked up as Klaus entered, cradling a bat in his hands. I warmed at the sight, offering out my hands to take it from him gently.

“Thank you, dear. Where did you find this one?”

“He crashed into a window.”

“Ah. Still haven’t managed the landings, then.” I mused, unrolling the paper from his leg and skimming it. Another missive, another to be decoded. “That should be nearly everyone reported back.”

“There are this many of you in the organization?” Klaus asked, staring at the notes on the table.

“We’re all that’s left, I’m afraid. A handful out of what was once a rather large crowd.” I replied, brows knitting together. It was depressing to consider, really. How many had been killed, all for devoting their lives to fighting fires.

“But never mind any of that.” I added, as an afterthought. “I intend to stop once Olaf is gone from the face of the planet. My devotion is to you three.”

“If you’re doing good in the world, why stop?”

I eyed my son for a moment. Of course he saw it that way. Doing good in the world. In some ways, we were. In some, we were not. From every perspective we couldn’t be the same.

“Because I’m not willing to risk your lives, or mine. Not anymore.”

“What will you do?”

“I’d rather like to take up poetry again.” I smiled, warmly. A much better devotion of my time.

“What about acting?”

The three of us jumped, twisting to spot Lemony by the counter.

“I didn’t even hear you come in.” Violet said, and I threw him an irritated look without any real meaning behind it.

“He’s good at that. Coming and going when you least expect it. Absolutely infuriating.” I muttered over the rim of my teacup, taking a long drink. The bat from before made a small noise from the tabletop, and Violet reached forward to scoop him up fondly.

“Pot, kettle, Beatrice. And you didn’t answer my question.”

Whilst neither of my children were looking, I stuck my tongue out at him. He laughed.

“After everything, you think I really want to consider being on stage again?” I replied. I wanted nowhere near it, in truth. It had been fun and pleasant until it had turned into a literal nightmare with everyone involved. I wanted nothing to do with it. I had money, I had my children, and I had Lemony. There wasn’t much else I needed in the world except perhaps a library full of books. I’d need to talk to Olivia about that one, when we began to rebuild a home for ourselves. Certainly she’d have good suggestions (spoiler alert: she definitely did).

“What did you find out?” I inquired aloud, sitting up a bit straighter. Jacques and Olivia still weren’t back, though I expected it to be very late when they arrived back. They’d taken most of the disguises with them that morning for safety (and I hadn’t missed the look on Jacques face when Olivia had held up a flattering red dress to her frame).

“Witnesses saw Olaf flee the building before the firemen arrived to put it out. Not much more than that.”

“A dead end, then?”

“Currently. Though I did have a thought as to how to lure him out of hiding, wherever the weasel is.” He paused, as if trying to find proper wordage. I knew the struggle with increasingly familiarity. “The theatre.”

“Plausible, but I doubt we can get Gustav to write something so quickly. And I’ve just said I refuse to take the stage again.”

“Fake it. Let it slip accidentally-on-purpose about something and he’ll show. He wouldn’t resist.”

It would be a blow to him, I’m certain. And there was something quite poetic in the idea of my meeting him in the very place I had aided in the killing of his parents. Several ideas sprang to mind at once, and I furiously began to scribble them down on the back of the messages I was in the middle of decoding.

Luring him to the theatre was the harder part – if he got word that perhaps the children were being taken there for safety, even just being transferred no doubt he’d come for them. Whether he brought his friends, however, was simply another variable. The Quagmires were still in very real danger.

At least it was a vague plot. Something at least concrete enough to work from.

Several hours later, and the safe house had been abandoned. Pity, but staying any longer would have been too dangerous, we all knew. Olivia and Jacques would not be back that evening as planned; they were following a lead. Which left Lemony and I, and the three children back to his flat as he had offered the morning previous. A bit tight, but I’d promised it’d only be temporary.

Another pasta dinner, and I could see the weariness on the children’s faces. Clearly they hadn’t been getting enough sleep either, and who could blame them? I shuffled them off to bed – of which there was only one. Lemony and I were far too used to nights on sofas and floors, so we remained as watchful guardians in the main room.

“You’ve never told me what you’re writing.” I commented, in a break between the soft clacks of his typewriter. He continued on for another few keystrokes, pausing to reply.

“A book.”

“Just a book?”

“Always just a book. Just books are the greatest thing the mind can create. I only wish to share a fraction of mine.” His brows furrowed neatly in the middle and he plucked the page he was writing from the machine. Crumbling it, the wad found it’s way into the bin at his feet.

“Can I read it?”

“When it’s finished. I’ll advance you a copy. Signed, if you’d like.”

“Advance?” I was feeling brave that evening. “You’re implying you intend me to be somewhere?”

“Away. I can’t imagine you’d want to stay in this city after . . . after everything.”

“And if I do?”

No response, only the more clacking of keys. I slipped from the sofa, taking the three steps over to him jammed at his little writing desk. He didn’t flinch, to his credit, even as I rolled my fingers into the tension of his shoulder muscles and pressed a lingering kiss to the top of his head.

“What if I want to stay here, with you?”

The typing ceased, and silence reigned in the apartment. Nothing but the faint and distance noise of traffic beyond the windows. For a moment I wondered if I’d stolen away his tongue for the length of silence that awaited me. It wasn’t helping the anxiousness I felt the moment I’d let it slip, the moment I’d dared give life to the idea by speaking it aloud.

“I’m a wanted man.” He said, finally, and I bit my tongue.

“And I’m dead. Shall we continue to list things that are unimportant?” He twisted in his chair as I spoke, staring up at me for another few beats. His hands settled at my waist, rooting me to the spot as he continued his rigorous study of my being. Perhaps to see if I’d lost my mind. Or worse – to see if I was very much serious.

“Why?”

Not the response I was expecting.

“Why did you leave, then?”

Definitely not the response I wanted. I faltered.

“The two hundred pages weren’t enough of a reason?”

“Two hundred pages of you lying, no. I think after everything I deserve truth, Beatrice.” The seriousness with which he spoke made me still. Lemony was a very serious person most of the time, but this was another layer which I had seen only few times. I was not ready to have this conversation, although it was made slightly easier with him knowing my book to him had been a load of rubbish at the time.

“I wanted to protect you.” I admitted, quietly, not looking at him. Yes, I considered myself very brave, but when it came to serious discussions with Lemony I retracted almost immediately. Afraid the discussion would cause hurt to one or both of us. But once I’d started, I found myself unable to stop.

“Things were getting dangerous and I knew we were both too reckless with one another. I didn’t want to lose you, so I tried to push you away. Bertrand asked me out and then to marry him and I accepted because I knew it would keep you safe. And then you mucked it up by faking your death and things went to hell all over again.”

He was quiet, seemingly mulling over this new information.

“Is that all?” He asked, and I wanted to slap him. I nearly did. My nails instead dug sharply into his shoulders. His hands tightened on my waist in return. “You wanted to protect me, and didn’t think to ask me how I felt about it?”

“Because I knew you would fight me on it.”

“Of course I would have!”

I shushed him, glancing at the closed bedroom door. I didn’t want to wake the children.

“After this, after everything is settled, I’d like to make it up to you.” I tried again, and Lemony gave me a blank expression. “Once things have calmed down . . . I’d like you to marry me, Lemony.”

At that very moment, there came a knock at the door. Both Lemony and I looked over, frowning. Not only because whoever it was had interrupted clearly what was a very important moment, but also because we were expecting no guests. Unfortunate interruptions always seemed to occur, so I simply tried to grin and bear it.

He stood, and went to the door. Naturally, I followed, reaching the peephole before he did. I balked at the figure on the other side of the door.

Chaos seemed to follow me, it seemed. Or at the very least, excitement. Even after everything, I wondered if I would deserve a quiet break then? Just one. Just for a moment, where no one was threatening my life or my children, where I could read and write and paint. Just for a moment.

Where no one was on my doorstep, clutching porcelain sugar bowls.

Fate had a sense of humor, of that I knew for certain. If I could sit down and have a talk with fate, however, I would very much like to have told them to, and I quote, ‘lay off my back’. Alas, such discussion is not possible. Even by fervent shouting at the skies; you just look a bit ridiculous while doing so. Though I will say it is a very good exercise in good stress relief. Which after you finish this story, I might suggest.

Unlocking the door without even a word to Lemony, I swung it inward.

“Where the hell have you been?”

I winced, faintly, and stepped aside to let our guest enter.

“It’s good to see you too, Kit.”

Chapter Text

“You’re a liar and I could throttle you, Lemony Snicket.”

“Good try, Kit, but I threatened the same and he barely flinched.”

Still, I watched as Kit shoved Lemony’s arm, hard. The three of us were wedged out onto the fire escape with cups of tea clutched between our fingers. It offered a quiet place to talk without waking the children, with the noise of the highway covering our dialogue so suspicious ears wouldn’t hear.

I hid a smile in my teacup, still riding the adrenaline high from earlier; it used to take a good adventures and slice of danger to make my veins thrum, but now? One discussion (granted, a very important one) with Lemony and I felt as if I’d jumped from the roof of a building. Rather, that I was hovering in mid-air after my jump from the building, as I still had no response from him to my very important question. I wasn’t certain what his answer would be, still a bit afraid he would reject me out of spite of our former engagement. But Lemony wasn’t that harsh. Or hadn’t been. Hopefully it still remained true.

“I can’t believe you didn’t contact me, you horrible man. At least Beatrice had the decency to write a message!” Another jab to his arm, and Lemony frowned.

“If I apologize will you stop hitting me?”

“I might.”

“Fine. I’m sorry for not contacting you. You have my upmost apologies.”

She seemed satisfied, settling back against the iron steps. I’d rather missed Kit.

“How are you feeling?” I changed the subject, directing my question to Kit. “Is the tea helping?”

“I’m hardly nauseous anymore, so it’s doing the trick. Thank you. I’ll be very glad to be rid of that particular symptom.” She frowned, sipping at the peppermint tea I had offered when she’d expressed her disgust at some offers of food.

“Of course. Ginger tea should help as well. The ginger was all I could keep down with Klaus.”

Lemony cleared his throat and we looked over; judging by the look on his face, I imagine he was already quite tired of hearing of his impending future as an uncle. Kit and I shared a secret smile.

“Yes, Lem?” Kit arched a brow. “You were saying? If it’s to discourage me from being here in this condition, I’ll hit you again.”

Lemony’s mouth promptly snapped shut. Kit smiled brightly.

“For the record, I don’t intend to go flinging myself into the line of fire, figuratively or literally. But I am here to help. I know you’re going after Olaf.” Her voice quieted at the end and I knew why; her previous relationship with Olaf was known to most of the volunteers, especially because of the explosive way it had ended. I had been a confidant for her at that time and she’d suffered terribly, but now she seemed to have found happiness with Dewey. Another librarian to be added to the family, it seemed – Snickets seemed to be fond of people who were fond of books.

“I can’t let him get away with everything he’s done. To the children, to everyone else he’s dragged into this insanity. They deserved better.”

“I could talk to him. Meet him somewhere public.” Kit offered, and Lemony frowned so loudly I could practically hear the expression.

“How is that not putting yourself in the line of fire?”

“Olaf wouldn’t hurt me.”

“And if he did?”

“But he won’t.”

“But he might.”

“Children.” My voice carried over theirs, interrupting the fight before it could truly begin. “Kit, I appreciate the offer, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving you with him. I was hoping you might stay behind, protect the children until I can send word that Olaf is gone permanently.”

“You plan on going alone?” Her brows knitted together. “That’s not very clever at all, Beatrice.”

“You’re also the one that has the sugar bowl, so putting you even close is a danger we cannot risk. You do still have it?” I asked, and Kit nodded sharply.

“Of course. It’s well hidden, I promise you.”

“I believe you. And I trust you to keep my children safe. Plus, there’s all the peppermint and ginger tea you can drink?”

“Well, when you put it that way . . . but don’t think I’m still not going to help you now.”

“I’d be offended if you didn’t.” I grinned, drumming fingers silently against the cup of tea in my hands. I adored Kit, in truth. Brilliant, clever, and twice as dangerous; heaven help anyone who stood in her path. I knew she’d be a brilliant mother, too. Hopefully better than I had been in the beginning.

“We still haven’t come up with a plan.” Lemony brought up, and I felt my shoulders sag against the railing.

“Unfortunately. My ideas haven’t exactly panned out and without knowing his next step, it’s hard to plan to be another two steps ahead. We have people trying to get a follow on him, but it’s a hit or miss.” I explained to Kit, who looked deep in thought. “Plus the Quagmire children – we don’t know where they’re being held.”

“If they’re even alive.” Lemony added, and Kit scowled.

“Your pessimism is really dragging me down, Lem. Beatrice and I are capable of coming up with something if you want to go back to your depressive writings.”

I couldn’t help it, and snorted rather indelicately into my tea. Kit laughed, and Lemony shot withering looks at the both of us. But that had been our relationship from the very beginning, in truth. Ever since the fateful day Kit Snicket had boldly stepped up to me in school, offered out a hand, and declared we were to be the best of friends from then on out. We’d had a very close knit group at school that had included both Romana and Esme. Then there had been Lemony and Jacques, Olaf, and a scant few others and there had been nothing in the world able to stop us those years ago. We were powerful, clever, dramatic – everything we needed to be on top of our game as volunteers. Then the schism had come and ripped a dreadful line down the center of us.

Idly, I pressed my fingers to the tattoo on inside of my wrist. I kept it covered, most days, but the edges of it peeked out from beneath the sweater I’d borrowed from Lemony. Once upon a time, V.F.D. had required all its members to get tattoos, and I hadn’t been an exception. Neither had the Snickets, or Bertrand or any of the others – we were all branded forever with the decisions of our youth. The same initialed eye marked us all somewhere, bonding us in a rather twisted way. Eventually I intended to have it removed. Eventually.

“Are you still with us, Beatrice?”

I blinked, glancing up at Kit who looked almost worried for a moment.

“Oh. Sorry. What were you saying?”

“I just realized how late it was. You’re exhausted, apparently. Zoning out.”

“A bit.” I admitted with a faint smile. “Will you stay here for the night?”

“If Lemony can put up with all of us.”

Lemony gestured back toward the window, offering out a hand to Kit to help her back inside. He met my gaze as she slid back through. Clearly our conversation from before was not over, but with Kit and the children and everything happening now all at once, I wasn’t certain when we’d get the next chance to talk. He seemed to understand in our silent exchange, and accepted it. His hand at the small of my back only assured that at least he didn’t hate me yet.

Hopefully he would still think so after I was through with Olaf.

For the time being, however, I took solace in sleeping between the two Snicket siblings in the middle of Lemony’s apartment floor. I felt safer than I had in a while, wedged between the pair. Tomorrow would bring more troubles, more planning, and more danger. But with my children sleeping safely in the next room and the Snickets on either side of me, I felt a sense of peace for the evening in a way I hadn’t in a very long time.

Eager to get out and stretch my legs, I offered to follow up on a lead of some of Olaf’s henchmen with Olivia and Jacques. I was satisfied I would not be recognized in my disguise from the disguise kit, and neither would my partners in crime with their current getups. We were all well hid, but ever a present watch on the street. I was simply thrumming with energy, mind focused at the task at hand; Lemony and Kit had the children safe and sound, and had all but pushed me out the door. It was a relatively safe recon of information, so I didn’t feel threatened.

Idly, I browsed through a rack of clothing outside a thrift shop. Across the street, Olivia and Jacques were sitting at an outdoor café pretending to be any other couple enjoying the afternoon over a pair of root beer floats, served by an ever-watchful Larry. Two tables from them sat the white faced women conversing quietly, though there were no signs of the others. Which was odd, given events, and given the fact that they were a troupe hardly separated. It made me uneasy, but not enough to scrap the mission. Olivia and Jacques were in earshot of everything the two women were saying, so I simply tried to keep an eye on the street itself for any sign of Olaf, the other henchmen, or any other impending danger.

I should caution you now that never should you try this at home, especially if you happen to be under a specific age. Dangerous things are for adults and even then I urge you to use caution and sense if you are ever in the need to do detective work and you are not a trained detective.

Pretending to admire a rather hideous dress, I chanced a glance back toward the café. The two women were arguing now, unaware they had eavesdroppers. I hoped it would glean worthwhile information; at any rate, it had provided the excuse for me to be out and about in a way I hadn’t been since I’d chanced traveling from Romana’s to Lemony’s. Peering through the lenses of my dark sunglasses, I studied the group across the street for a moment more before returning to my perusing of another rack of clothes.

There was a loud noise across the street, much like shattering glass. My head snapped up, heart screaming danger almost immediately. Before I could get any sort of look, however, a thin hand grabbed my wrist and jerked me backward, sending me reeling toward the alleyway. I caught myself on the cornerstones of the building, but the same hand grabbed hold of my jacket and dragged me forward into the dimly lit, narrow, little alley. The very same fingers slid up to my throat, wrapping tightly and shoving me hard against the wall. The rough brick dug into my back, my hands flying up to try and pry the fingers from my neck. I couldn’t breathe well, and the hands was only getting tighter.

Panicked, my gaze met the one of my opponent, and I felt something seize.

“Esme.”

“What a very ‘out’ disguise, Beatrice. Honestly I expected better of you.” She snarled; she looked different than I had last spotted her. She was still wearing clothing singed around the edges, and her hair looked as if it too had suffered in the fire of her penthouse.

“Get . . . off!”

My foot wedged between her own feet and knocked her leg sideways to send her off balance. Using the momentum I shoved her hard away from me, gasping for breath.

“Don’t you know when to stay dead?” She snapped, and swung for my face. I ducked, grabbed her hair, and pulled hard. Dirty tactics, but I would not lose a fight to Esme Squalor. She screeched in pain and utter horror as I muddled her hair, flinging her toward the wall. She caught herself last minute from her face impacting the brick, and I readied myself for another blow.

“The feeling’s mutual, I believe.” I panted, hard. It had been some time since I’d last been in a proper fight, and my throat felt half crushed; I’d forgotten how stupidly strong Esme was despite her small appearance.

Her nails scratched at me, catching my arm. I hissed as they drew superficial blood, twisting out of her way before she could get another swipe in. I lashed out with my other arm toward her face, but only caught her shoulder when she twisted away in a similar fashion. Unsatisfied, she ripped a heel from her foot to produce a knife where the stiletto was.

“How cheating of you. I should have expected as much.”

“Oh, shut up you insufferable fashion catastrophe!” Another attack, the edge of the blade slicing through the air toward me. It ripped a clean slice through my shirt sleeve, but I managed to avoid getting stabbed for the time being. Circling around I offered a lovely kick to her back in return, sending her off balance again (which, considering she was now only wearing one heel, was rather easy). Regaining herself, she kicked off the other shoe to wield dual shoe-knives.

How I lamented not wearing my own killer heels that afternoon, but they simply hadn’t gone with the disguise. Pity.

Esme and I were evenly matched, as we had been trained nearly at the same time as volunteers. We’d trained side by side, and drew on tactics tried and true. Blow there, parry there, scathing remarks – all typical standard violence. I knew if I could draw the fight out long enough, surely one of the others would know I had disappeared from my post and would search. One could hope, at the very least.

Another sound of shattering glass and I regret to say it made me turn my head. At that moment Esme used her advantage and my lack of response to knock me down onto my back, crawling on top. Straddling me with all her weight, wielding her dual shoes, her face came inches within my own.

“I used to like you, Beatrice. We could have been such good friends. You were always almost as talented as me as an actor.”

“Don’t blame me for your unnatural obsession with Olaf.”

Something within her seemed to snap at the quip, and she tried to drive one of the knives down into my chest. I managed to twist just enough that it struck my shoulder instead; I cried out as it wedged into my muscle, a searing pain flashing through my arm and up into my neck. She cackled with glee; I wondered when she’d gone so mad, and why now.

“I’m going to enjoy it when you die. I’m going to stay and make sure you really burn this time. Won’t that be fun? Just us girls?” Another swing as she tried to stab me with the second shoe-knife, but something stopped her mid-swipe. She jerked back suddenly, not of her own accord, and she was dragged off me by an unseen force. I sat up quickly, cradling my injured shoulder as best as I could, to see who had gotten a hold of her.

Olivia.

“How very rude and uncouth of you, Ms. Squalor. I’m quite unimpressed to find you didn’t perish in the fire that swept your home.”

Jacques.

“Always a pleasure, Esme.”

Jacquelyn.

“Beatrice, we need to go. The others are on their way. The women were a diversion. We need to get you somewhere safe.”

The other woman half dragged me to my feet before I could process what was happening, nodding blindly. I regret to say I did not see exactly what happened to Esme Squalor, but I was informed some time later she was quite dead, and there had been proof. It is unfortunate, how she met her end. I’d perhaps hoped at one point we might be able to lure her back to our side, but she’d been too wrapped up in Olaf and her fashionista ways to be tempted anywhere but to herself.

“The children.” I breathed hard, fingers clutched around the stiletto sticking out of my shoulder as Jaquelyn dragged me down a different alleyway.

“They’re still safe, I’m sure. But we can’t risk them following us back to them for now.”

I wanted to fight it, but I knew she was right. Still, the idea of being separated from my children again seemed unthinkable; I’d only just gotten them back.

But I trusted Jacqulyn. I trusted Lemony and Kit.

I trusted the ground to stay beneath my feet.

The ground broke my trust.

I felt myself falling, Jacquelyn’s voice fading desperately away. A dull murmur in the back of my head that was suddenly blazing with pain so overwhelming it made me dizzy. I could hear her calling my name, trying to pull me further and further into safety, but it was like sand was filling my body, weighing me down until it was impossible to move. The world blurred into an array of colours, sounds echoing back and forth between them. I could hardly tell up or down, much less what was happening around me. 

A scuffle, perhaps. Another fight. I wanted to defend myself, but as I tried to command my brain to focus, it made the dizziness and shattering pain all the more worse.

The ground rushed up to meet me, and I fell fighting into the inky black.

Chapter Text

Being unconscious is not my most favorite activity, especially against my will. There are thousands of other things I could be doing in that period, but instead I’d been dragged into the deepest recesses of unconsciousness that left me feeling groggy and disoriented the moment I began to pull myself out of it. The darkness’ long tendrils clung to my mind, attempting to pull me back into it’s embrace. I fought with some manner of difficulty, though as I became more aware I began to feel the first pricks of pain.

If one has ever woken after a particularly long nap after being ill, I can express the feeling is similar to that current state. Vague soreness, a throbbing head, and flushed with a heat that felt like a simmering pot of stew beneath my skin. I’m sure many of you are familiar.

I blinked once, twice, struggling to open my eyes. I managed, taking in the dimly lit room surrounding me. I felt myself frown as I tried to recall the previous series of events; panic rose in my stomach and chest, coiling around my throat until it felt like I couldn’t breathe.

No, wait, I couldn’t breathe.

Wheezing, I sat up quickly and ignored the dizziness that sent my world reeling. My fingers clawed at my neck, expecting to find some sort of hand or rope or something choking me but there was nothing. I tried to swallow and it felt as if someone had taken sandpaper to the back of my throat.

Footsteps, and a revolting substance was thrust in front of my face. The very smell of it burned my nostrils, but the container was pressed against my lips and I could do nothing but drink it. Immediately it offered relief and I drew a deeper breath, testing the feel before I drained the rest of the glass. It burned, but it had remedied my inability to breathe so I would deal with the slight uncomfortable sensation that followed. Still, it had done nothing for my aching head or shoulder, the latter of which was bandaged tightly.

“Easy. Deep breaths.”

Lemony was there, a hand at my back to help me remain upright on the bed. I gulped down another few breaths of air until my lungs stopped aching. Another safehouse – a basement apartment. Beyond that, I didn’t have the energy to sort out. I felt myself leaning hard against Lemony, my head pressed to his shoulder. Ever the anchor, his hand remained steady at my back as he seemed content in letting me get my bearings back.

“I feel like I’ve been run down by a very large car. And reversed back over.” My voice sounded harsh, so much that I hardly recognized it for a moment. I frowned.

Lemony didn’t respond, so I lifted my head. There was a muscle jumping in his jaw from the force with which he clenched he teeth. His gaze was hard but almost pained as he stared at me. I raised the hand of my uninjured arm and cupped his cheek; he thawed, but only slightly. Enough to take my hand in his silently and twist his face to kiss my palm. He looked shaken, and I wondered just what had happened during my unintended sleep.

“What’s happened?”

He swallowed, lifting my hand from his face to hold it between both of his own.

“You nearly died.”

“Oh come now, it couldn’t have been that bad. It isn’t the first time I’ve been stabbed.” I tried, but his face remained unchanged. Ever the serious one.

“You were poisoned.”

“Oh.”

“I assume it was laced in the blade. Medusoid Mycelium.”

That explained the choking, then. I inhaled sharply, testing if I could still breathe. A silly notion, but one fears about that sort of thing when faced with the thought of never doing it again.

“Thankfully, I got my hands on horseradish tea. I’ve been making you drink it for the two days you’ve been out. You should be out of the danger zone from the fungi in a few more hours.”

And that explained the vile substance I’d drained that had eased the throat issues. My interactions with the fungus had been limited to the time on the island, but Bertrand and I had formulated the hybrid fruit for that island for a reason. Thankfully, straight horseradish usually did the trick as well. Not to mention the bitter tea most of us in the organization drank was laced with the stuff, slowly building us up an immunity for it. I hadn't had such a cup of tea in a long while, not since before the fire, which explained why it had affected me in the way it had.

“I assume Esme didn’t do it herself.”

“We expect Olaf has his hands on the poison and has been using it. Esme was a casualty he was willing to lose. He’s moved to biological warfare.”

“We need to keep Kit away from him. Far, far away.” I warned, moving to get up because if Kit got even close to the fungus, her baby was at risk and ---

---Lemony’s grip clamped on my arm and pulled me back down to the sofa. I nearly fell into the cushions with the force of it, and felt my eyes swivel to stare at him sharply.

“You’re staying here.”

“I am not.”

“Beatrice-“

“Lemony-“

“I will not lose you!” He snapped sharply, loudly. I jerked, startled by the display. He cleared his throat, looking down at my hand between his own. “Not again. I can’t.”

It occurred to me how worried he must have been the past few days while I slept off my poison and injury. My shoulder still ached, throbbing with every beat of my heart (which had increased with Lemony’s sudden display of emotion). Not for the first time, I considered how awful it must have been during my ‘death’ and the time after, when he believed me gone. Romana had told me of his depressive tendencies, but I’d brushed it off. Lemony had other things to worry about.

Apparently not.

“Please.” He tried again, more steadily, and when his gaze met mine I saw pain in those eyes. Worry. Concern. “Just – rest. The children are still safe. I need you to be safe.”

I was quiet. I didn’t know what to say, not for a long while. As easy as I find it to write a plethora or words on a page or in a play, somehow voicing them as myself seemed a lot more harder all of a sudden. As much as I wanted to go out there and protect Kit, the children, and track down Olaf, I reasoned with myself I was still not fully up to snuff healthwise. A few hours, Lemony had said. Though perhaps it was just me answering to my own selfish whim prompted by his plea to stay.

I wondered how long we could last in this bubble of our own, until reality came crashing down the door.

“All right.” I relented, and I could see the immediate relief in his expression. There was still a deep tension that ran through his core, but the lines around his eyes had softened and the muscle in his jaw had stopped twitching.

“Thank you.” It sounded strained, and I tried to soothe him further with a brush of my hand in his own once more.

“You look terrible.” I added, and I cheered silently when it earned me a twitch of his lips. “Have you eaten?”

“Would you believe me even if I said yes?”

“Not in the slightest.”

I leaned against the doorway while Lemony rifled through the kitchen cabinets; the safehouse wasn’t as used as others, so stocks in it were bare minimum. Peanut butter and saltines were about the only salvageable things, so we made a dinner out of it with both of us drinking the horseradish tea – me to cure the poison, him to prevent him from catching it; I was grateful other volunteers had thought to stock it in all the safehouses after the time on the island. Especially now if Olaf had his hands on it.

As we ate, Lemony recounted events as they had been told to him. After Esme's attack and Jacquelyn had hauled me away, I'd dropped from the poison in my system. Two of Olaf's men had tried to snatch us up, but Olivia had come to the rescue while Jacques dealt with Esme. I now admired the librarian more than ever; she'd saved my life. If I'd ended up in Olaf's hands I knew I would've died. He'd have watched as I choked and suffocated from the fungus. Laughed all the while. 

It did mean, unfortunately, that he now knew I was alive. Also unfortunately, he likely knew I'd reunited with my children. But I was certain there was no possible way for him to have found them, and that settled my worries for the time being. I would contact Kit tomorrow to check in on them, before I would deal with Olaf. 

Very fortunately, he knew I was coming for him. Good. Let him be afraid.

Let him wait. And wonder. And worry. How deeply I wanted to terrorize him like he had terrorized my children. Ruin him, as he'd tried to ruin all of us. No more nice Beatrice.

Something fizzled and I looked over; Lemony was turning the knobs on an older radio. Mostly static, with the flicker of a voice or note here or there to denote a station as he tried to catch something, anything. There were specifically V.F.D. channels to transmit messages, but I honestly wasn’t certain if any of them were still operational. Swallowing another peanut butter slathered cracker, I watched him as he continued to try and source a station – though whether he was hunting in particular for anything, I wasn’t sure.

Soft music crackled to life a few moments later, a classical, elegant piece I recognized vaguely in the back of my mind. I couldn’t bring forth a title; my brain still felt slightly out of sorts and I suspected it would for a few more hours. Being poisoned had a tendency to do that.

“I’m surprised you managed to find something.” I quipped, smiling faintly at the sound. A bit crackled around certain bits, but at least it was something to listen to other than our own voices. He looked decidedly pleased with himself, and held out a hand toward me.

“What?”

“I think I owe you one.”

Quirking a brow, I placed the hand of my good arm in his. He pulled me closer, a hand at my waist and the other threading through the fingers of my hand. It took me a moment more than I would ever admit to that he had begun to lead us in a small dance in the middle of the small room. I couldn’t lift my other arm with the damage to my shoulder, so he cradled it gently with the arm at my waist and led us in small, even steps in circles to the soft strains of the music.

I had danced with Lemony many times. Almost all of them had been organization functions, of course, but I had always loved dancing with him. One of the only partners that had ever been able to keep up with me on the dance floor. Normally I would have balked at the idea of him taking lead, but I found in that very moment I was content with the idea. I smiled faintly to myself, closing the distance between us to rest my head at his chest.

The music played. We danced. The world seemed to stop.

It felt private, a moment just between us that belonged to only us, unable to be touched by anyone else. A moment I would cherish for the rest of my life, even if that was only a few days. But I knew I would best Olaf; I was confident, even if the incident with Esme had shaken me a bit. But I would recover. And I would win – for my sanity, for the sake of the children, for the sake of everyone left at V.F.D. It had gone on long enough.

Another turn about the room, and I lifted my head to admire Lemony, surprised to find him staring straight back. Romantics had been lost on me a long time ago, but I swear for a very fleeting moment my breath left my lungs (or was that the poison? Either way, it was a rather stunning moment of clarity). We stayed that way a moment, staring at one another as the song began to wind down and we stood in place, swaying to the last strains of it.

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

We’d both spoken at the same time, and I almost laughed with the absurdity of it. Lemony did, though I suspect it was also a release for him – fear I would reject him. The same fear I had felt, but it melted away in that moment and before I could point out that by all laws of jinxing he now owed me a root beer float, he kissed me.

I remembered almost every single time Lemony had kissed me, because it always had meaning. A fearful kiss goodbye before a mission, a welcome home greeting, a ‘you-looked-pretty’ kiss, among many others. I had committed them to memory after our shattered engagement, preferring to remember the happiness in our time together. This kiss, however, felt decidedly different. A kiss without meaning, a kiss ‘just because I can’. A kiss that made the world melt around me.

Even if he did taste a bit like peanut butter and horseradish. 

I kissed him feverishly back, and the world seemed right for that moment. The warmth of him against me shielding out the cold, a ward of protection – nothing could touch us in our perfect bubble, not in that moment. I committed it to memory too.

My free hand slid across his chest, tangling in the fabric of his sweater to pull him closer, anchoring him to me for fear that if I released, he might back away. He seemed to only be encouraged, the arm at my waist tightening and his lips pressed harder against my own.

“I love you.” He repeated when one of us, I’m not sure who, pulled up for air. I felt a dizziness that had nothing to do with the poison, and a lightness that felt as if a great weight had been lifted off my chest. I grinned hazily, like someone intoxicated. And I was, in a sense. Intoxicated with his very presence.

“I love you.” I said back, and I was certain that if the world exploded beyond the door to the outside, neither of us would have noticed.

In the morning, there would be dangers to face. Choices to be made, a mad villain to see to before we could even consider our own happiness. In the morning would be chaos, a snap back into actual reality.

Tonight, though, there was only Lemony and I.

Lemony, who’s arms carried me gently to bed and I, who spoke his name into his skin.

Lemony, who touched me as if I were made of glass and I, who did not in fact shatter beneath his touch.

Lemony, who loved me and I, who loved him.

Tomorrow was another day of unfortunate situations, and likely the day after. Perhaps even the day after that.

For tonight, our bubble of happiness belonged to us and no one in that unfortunate world could touch us.

Chapter Text

Reality is a harsh mistress, I’d long since learned. And reality is fond of jerking your attention very roughly back to it, forcing you to face it head on without a moment to breathe. I’ve found most beings such as reality and fate and time are all very cruel indeed.

My shoulder kept giving painful, reminding throbs as I choked down a final cup of tea the next morning at breakfast, glancing over two messages from Kit and Jacques, both assuring their (and the children and Olivia’s) safety. For now. I knew Olaf would not sit idle while I lived, while the children lived. If anything it would make him rage all the more, eager to dispose of me as I had his parents, once upon a time. Perhaps I deserved it, but after surviving this long I would not go down without a fight for the sake of Violet, Klaus, and Sunny. They deserved better.

“I can’t keep doing this.” I murmured, running a hand across my face and into the hair I’d thrown back with a spare piece of ribbon in a drawer. I hadn’t slept much even in the relative safety and comfort of Lemony; combined with the stress, I could feel myself beginning to wane. It was sheer determination that drove me forward, but I knew eventually I would burn out with nothing to show for it. Of course there was no time for a vacation, a break, anything – but I couldn’t afford to not be at my best when the time came.

“Soon.” Lemony assured quietly, putting a plate of eggs in front of me. “Eat, then we’ll go.”

“Yes sir.” I gave a half-hearted salute at his back and tucked into breakfast, mulling over more thoughts and ideas that had become nothing but a jumbled mess in my mind. A raging storm of emotions fueling the chaos. I felt as if I’d never be quite sane again – even when Olaf was gone, could I really rest safely knowing my children were safe? Would there be others following in his footsteps? The thought troubled me. I knew Olaf had a myriad of friends on the fire starting side, any who were and had been willing to aid him. We would need to remove them as well, eventually, through normal fire-fighting operations.

The radio crackled to life again, and played an old tune I recognized very briefly before it disappeared into static. It was a song Bertrand had sang on numerous occasions, though I hadn’t any idea the actual title. Only lyrics, and it sounded somewhat off putting to not hear them in his voice.

I loved Bertrand.

In the beginning it had been touch and go when he had courted me, but I had fallen very deeply in love with him. My heart had found room to share after my break-up with Lemony and while I still loved Lemony, I had loved Bertrand with everything left in me. Charming, kind, a bit silly and eager to please. He’d never once questioned the organizations intentions, and when we married I had felt a sort of happiness I hadn’t been able to hold onto in some time. When I announced I was pregnant with Violet not terribly long after, the silly man had nearly shouted out the rooftops about it.

I loved Bertrand, and I saw him every time I looked into Violet’s eyes or at Klaus’ nose or Sunny’s chin. He’d given me three beautiful children that I loved with all my being, had made me realize that I very much liked being a mother despite my hesitations at the beginning. He’d been there by my side with each and every one of them, assuring me, encouraging me, and we had been happy. So very happy.

I missed him.

But I knew him enough to know he would also not want tears shed for him. I’d promised I’d throw a grand party instead, and he’d made me swear to find happiness in whatever form. He made the very same promise should I have died before him – our children came first on both instances. I liked to think he knew my happiness would lie with Lemony, despite my inabilities to admit it at the time. If he were in front of me, he’d be laughing and telling me he told me so, before wishing my happiness with Lemony.

I would cling to that happiness for as long as possible.

After a quiet breakfast, we donned our disguises and boarded the trolley. We were meeting the others in a larger, safer venue to develop our ideas into some form of a plan for Olaf and his goons. I had high hopes that by the end of the evening, we’d be ready. Quietly, I took Lemony’s hand and he squeezed it in return, a soft assurance that things would work out, that things would be fine. Ever the grounded man, I pressed into his side as the trolley rumbled along, anchoring myself to him and to reality to make certain my thoughts didn’t wander down a very dark and dangerous path.

Across town, we walked into a store called “Very Fine Duvets”. Behind the counter, Larry Your-Waiter gave a nod of acknowledgement as Lemony and I slipped through to the small staircase at the back of the store, and climbed to the second story. Through a door and it opened up into a large empty space, sparsely furnished with the beginnings of a meeting room with windows that overlooked the street – we could see out, but others could not see in. A perfect place for quiet conversations and plans to be made.

We weren’t the first to arrive; in fact, we were last. Jacques, Olivia, Kit, and the children were all there ahead of us. Violet and Klaus immediately jumped up and came toward me; despite my injury, I hugged them both tight to me, burying my face against their heads.

“It’s all right. I’m still here.” I murmured, pulling away to rest a hand against either of their faces. “Are you all right my darlings?”

“Perfectly content, aren’t we Baudelaires?” Kit grinned, offering Sunny out to me from her arms. I took my youngest and settled her onto my good side; Klaus had noticed the wince I’d gave at a pull on my shoulder and frowned.

“You’re hurt.”

“Only a scratch, I promise. I’ve had a very skilled nurse looking after me.” I met Lemony’s gaze over the children’s heads, he already deep in conversation with his brother. “I am well. I’ll be even better once this is ended and we may all sleep safer in our beds at night.”

There was a large table shoved in the corner of the room that Olivia and Kit dragged toward the center, followed by a large mis-mash of whatever chairs could be found shoved in around it. I let Violet take Sunny, gratefully swallowed the pain relievers Jacques passed to me, and set my mind to business. We all took seats around it, including the children – I had never seen the point in excluding them from anything from dinner parties to important discussions, and given their struggle so far they deserved to be involved in this particular meeting as well.

“We’ve got the place to confront him, we simply need a lure.” Jacques began. “He is aware of Beatrice’s survival and that we have the Baudelaire children, but he still has his hands on the Quagmires.”

“Jacquelyn and Dewey have taken point on their rescue.” Kit added. “They’re ready to act as soon as we do, or if something comes up before then that threatens them. Olaf is keeping them close, but I don’t think he’s willing to risk them by dragging them out of hiding to meet Beatrice.”

“He needs to be assured the meeting will be only him and I. I expect he will bring back-up anyway, as will I. But we meet alone. He won’t agree to it otherwise.” I continued.

“You’re certain?” Olivia frowned. I nodded.

“I’ve known him a very long time.” I paused. There was a tiny tidbit worth of information that I had keenly left out, information that wasn’t even listed on my files. “He’s a cousin of mine. Once removed, but a relative all the same. We grew up just down the street from one another. I know him very intimately and what he’ll expect.”

Violet looked vaguely ill at that piece of information, and I knew why – the fact that he had tried to marry her had been one straw, but still be related, it was a lot to take in. Klaus wore a similar expression of disgust; the others about the table digested the news silently and with more tactful expressions. I had long since disassociated Olaf from having anything to do with the family, a black sheep, and I felt no emotion toward him. Not anymore. Once, perhaps I would have pitied him. Sympathized. Not any longer, and certainly never again.

“He has his hands on a certain poisonous fungus that no doubt he’ll try to use.” Jacques spoke, and I nodded mutely; my shoulder seemed to throb in agreement. “We have the antidote of course, but there will be limited time to administer it should anyone be infected.” His gaze flickered to Kit, briefly, and I saw her just barely flinch. She knew her condition proved delicate and while I knew she loathed being forced to take a back seat to operations, she had accepted it for the sake of her unborn child.

“I say if Olaf wants your fortune, we give it to him.” Olivia said suddenly, and all eyes turned toward her. I felt myself arch a brow at her bold statement, and she turned just a faint shade of pink. “I don’t mean literally, of course. Perhaps we bribe him? A contract, if you will. A promise that you will sign away your fortune to him instead of your children? He wouldn’t be able to resist, surely.”

“Clever.” Jacques mused, and I agreed with a nod.

“Though I imagine it’s not just the money; he wants revenge.”

“He wants me.”

Lemony had spoken from the window, watching the streets below rather than joining the rest of us about the table. I felt my breath catch in my throat at his words; he was right, of course. Olaf sought revenge as much as he did money. He wanted the fortune, he wanted Lemony, and he wanted me. For us to suffer for our crimes; the sugar bowl seemed a lesser goal in the scheme of things, as that had always been Esme’s focus, not his.

“I won’t ask it of you, Lemony.” I said, and yet he continued to brood.

“You know I will do it anyway. Offer him the fortune. Offer him me.”

“And me.” I frowned. “You know we’re both very valuable to him.”

Jacques cleared his throat, bringing our attention back. Silence reigned. I stared across the table at my children; they had remained quiet, but I could see information turning the gears in their brilliant minds, absorbing every tidbit. I owed them more explanations of course, but they seemed content in understanding that perhaps their mother was not the saint they had always thought. I still worried they would loathe me for it, think me a monster, but their gaze reflected nothing by sympathy and concern. I reached a hand out across the table and all three latched on for comfort.

“We convince him we’ve abandoned you.” Kit broke the quiet. “That you and Lemony have caused enough trouble so we offer him the both of you and the fortune as long as he abandons his pursuit of the children. That they’ll be safe, in exchange for the money, and for you.”

“He would go for it, I think.” Olivia glanced about the table as she spoke. “Of course, we would certainly make sure you’re both protected and we haven’t really abandoned you, and that the children are safely away.”

“It’s risky, but it’s the only idea that sounds like he might respond to. We need to give the appearance of it, though. We won’t be able to meet. Give the look as if Lemony and I have been completely shut off from the organization and its resources, and everyone within. Then pen him a letter offering the compromise. It must be authentic. He’s good at disguises and ploys and schemes and will know a false one immediately.” I continued. “Kit, the children would be safest with you while this is happening. We can make certain the four of you are somewhere safe, and Jacquelyn and Dewey can come to you once they have the Quagmires.”

Offering myself as bait had been a remote idea in the back of my mind for some time, but I had realized a while ago it wouldn’t be enough for Olaf. It never would. But with Lemony and the money, perhaps he would at least agree to a meeting. That was all we needed, for him to show up, and we could take care of the rest. It was a plan, at the very least. Better than where we had started.

It seemed agreed upon, however, as it developed over the course of the early afternoon. The best plans are always carefully executed and detailed, relying on every person to perform his or her part. I hated to be parted from my children again and they seemed distressed at the idea of putting me in the clutches of Olaf, but Violet and Klaus had put on very brave faces. I was proud of them, for everything they had been through and endured with such cleverness and skill, with such courage.  I wanted a safe world for them to grow and to flourish, and I knew this would be the only way. They deserved it, and I would ensure everything I possibly could to make certain they got their chance to simply live without it being in fear.

As afternoon faded into evening, Larry came up the stairs with sandwiches and tea, returning soon after with blankets and such. A camp-out had been deemed the safest option for the evening with the adults taking turns on watch. We ate and talked and the world seemed just a touch brighter as conversations dipped easily into topics far away from Olaf. A refreshing pace, despite the exhaustion that seemed reflected in everyone. It was easy to put down blankets and pillows shortly after eating; none of us bothered pretending we were anything less than tired.

Olivia and Jacques had volunteered for first watch. I studied them silently, heads together and whispering quietly to one another. Their hands were clasped together between them, and the conversation seemed to be something akin to confessions. Good ones, by the way Olivia’s face was lit up and she happily kissed him. Good. They too deserved their happiness.

It had been ages since I’d last had children in my bed. Violet and Klaus both had come crawling in sometimes in the very early hours of the morning with Bertrand and I, usually with thunderstorms or when the power had gone out from said storms. We’d nestled the pair between us and protected them, murmuring assurances of safety until they had gone back to sleep. That evening, however, Violet and Klaus had set up their own blankets as close to me as possible, one on either side. Whether it was their attempt as protecting me, or their eagerness to be close I couldn’t sort out. Either way, I was grateful to lie in the dimly lit room between them until I heard their breathing even out and settle into sleep.

I frowned, realizing Sunny had not come to bed. I sat up quickly, cautious not to disturb the newly sleeping children, and scanned the room for my littlest one. I was surprised to spot her nestled very firmly on the chest of one Lemony Snicket, sound asleep. Said Lemony Snicket was also fast asleep, sprawled across the floor a few feet away. Neither seemed aware of anything beyond each other, and I felt my heart melt a little at the sight.

I committed it to memory for several long minutes before I lay down between my other two children, wrapped an arm around each of them, and settled into an uneasy sleep.

Chapter Text

“Keep close to Kit. She’ll keep you safe. Take care of each other, and I promise I’ll see you when this is all over.”

It was mid afternoon under the shade of another alleyway that I said goodbye to my children with firm hugs and kisses to each of them. I intended to keep every bit of my promise that I would see them again, but I was also acutely aware of the situation I would be walking into. If I never saw them again, I wanted them to know how much I loved them.

I watched them climb into the back of Kit’s taxi, feeling turmoil at being separated again. They looked as bad as I felt. Shutting the door after seeing them safely buckled, Kit offered a smile from the other side of the car.

“I’ll keep them safe, Beatrice. I swear it.”

“I know. I trust you. Just – be careful.”

“Always.”

She climbed into the driver’s seat and I watched after them until the taxi turned the corner and disappeared from my view. I felt uneasy, almost afraid knowing what I would facing in the coming hours. The children were safer as far away as possible, but I worried after them. I wouldn’t be much of a mother if I didn’t.

I ducked back into the building and upstairs, already running over the mental list I made before every important mission. A habit, a way to force my brain to focus instead of worrying. Things needed to be in place, perfected, and prepared. As much as I had my pleasure of going in guns blazing, I knew I couldn’t risk it with this particular situation. I needed everything to go right so the sake of my children, and my own unstable future.

“You look brilliant.” I offered as much of a smile as I could to Olivia, who was using the window’s reflection to loop delicate silver earrings through her ears. I’d only ever seen in her black leather or as a librarian, but for the evening she’d donned a stunning gown of green and gold. She ducked her head at the compliment, cheeks burning faintly red.

“Jacques will love it.” I added quieter as I approached, delighting at the grin that lit up her face.

“Do you think so?”

“Between you and I, he’d love you wearing a potato sack.” I offered, and she laughed. “I don’t know what it is with Snickets and their librarians.”

“Oh?”

“Kit’s engaged to Dewey Denouement – he and his brothers own the Hotel Denouement and he’s very much a librarian as well. It must be fate, I think, that Jacques met you. I’ve never seen him so happy.”

“The same way his brother looks at you.” Olivia said softer, and I felt my lips twist at the edges. “I don’t know your past with him, but – for what it’s worth, you seem to make each other very happy.”

“We always have.” I admitted, still in a quieter tone – Jacques and Lemony were only just downstairs. “Did Jacques tell you anything about us?” The other woman shook her head, so I continued. “Lemony and I were engaged, once. Before things went sour. I married Bertrand because I worried we’d get each other killed, him and I. And now we’re walking straight into the fire, figuratively.”

Olivia reached out to take my hand and I lifted my head to look at her.

“If I’ve learned anything these past few weeks, it’s to keep those you care for close as you can because you never know how much time you have to spend with them.”

Olivia Caliban was a very, very clever person. Still is.

“I hope you know how terribly right you are.” I said, and she smiled kindly. “You’re a very refreshing presence. If I come out of this alive, I should think we’d make very good friends.”

“I haven’t had one of those in a long time. You will make it out of this. Because I would much like a best friend again.”

“Olivia.”

We turned, and I almost laughed at the look on Jacques Snicket’s face, who clearly had not expected Olivia Caliban to be as dazzling as she was in the gown snagged from the disguise kit. He was wearing a dapper looking suit to compliment hers; he crossed to her like two stars in orbit, admiring her the entire four steps it took to reach her. I stepped aside, kindly letting them have their moment. I went in search of my partner in peril downstairs.

Lemony, it turned out, was fussing about in his suit as Larry attempted to properly sort out his tie. I watched the exchange unnoticed before taking pity on the both of them.

“Allow me.”

Larry, who looked relieved, disappeared into the back of the store. Lemony’s gaze finally spotted me as I approached and took the fabric in my hands; he’d always been hopeless at anything regarding formal wear.

“You look beautiful, Beatrice.” He said quietly, and I smiled. I’d chosen a dress of blue and silver out of the disguise kit, the fabric as shimmery as a mermaid’s tale. It’d always been a favorite.

“You clean up as well as I remember, Mr. Snicket.” I teased, and he chuckled before lifting his fingers to the pendant around my neck – a silver dragonfly frozen in mid-flight. Another favorite of mine. Looping his tie around once more and pulling it gently to tighten, I smoothed invisible wrinkles from it and let my hand linger against his chest. Feeling his heartbeat drum beneath my fingers, I tilted my head up to look at him. He looked pensive, brooding, and very much how Lemony Snicket always looked.

“I never answered your question. I apologise in my remiss to provide you with an answer.” He said, suddenly, quiet. I furrowed my brows in silent question. “Promise me we’ll both make it out of this alive, and I would very much say yes to marrying you, Beatrice Baudelaire.”

“You know I can’t promise that.”

“Exceptions can be made.”

He reached into the inside breast pocket of his blazer, drawing out a ring. A very familiar one, the one I’d left on the table in front of him. I stared at it, unable to tear my gaze away. Would he have offered if we weren't facing down death? Then again we were almost always facing down death. The danger our lives afforded made sure of that, and it's why I'd left him those years ago. Even if I left the organization, there would still be danger.

I recalled Olivia's wise words, and the happiness Lemony afforded me. The steady rock in my turmoil of life, the one I trusted above anyone else in the world. I took a deep breath, grounding myself.

“I promise.”

I would do everything in my power to uphold that promise. He lifted my hand from his chest to replace the ring to its home on my finger before pressing a kiss to my knuckles. It felt right.

“Third time’s the charm.” I half whispered, before Lemony silenced any other retort from my lips by covering them with his own. Warmth flooded me, grounded me, reminded me that besides the three children I had seen off just minutes before, I had a reason to live. I would not leave him with a two hundred page break up letter -- in fact, if were weren't on such a timed schedule I would've thrown everything through the window to take him to city hall right that moment. If I was going to die, I would die as Beatrice Snicket, an almost whole than I had been in many, many years. The pieces had fallen into place so delicately, so suddenly, that I could suddenly see the future laid bare before me, wrapped up in my children and the man who had carefully pieced me back together. I returned his kiss with a new vigor, his hand against my lower back to drag me impossibly closer to him. I snagged his lapels, gluing us to one another. Anchoring us together. It was familiar, kissing Lemony. Strange how I suddenly craved it, as if being denied his company and kisses and general Lemony had made it all the more of a need in my mind, in my body. 

There were no unfortunate events, no fires, nothing that could have touched us in that moment. It brought back the feeling of our youth, the world at our feet. I always felt like that with Lemony, and knew I was always would. True partners in crime, and in love.

Someone cleared their throat and I drew away, blinking his intoxicating presence from my mind. Jacques and Olivia were standing at the bottom of the staircase wearing matching grins, and I felt my face turn briefly crimson.

“If you two are done?” Jacques prodded.

“You’ve got a bit of something on your face, Jacques. Just there.” Lemony rumbled, gesturing to the corner of his own lips. Jacques frowned and used his sleeve to wipe away what Lemony had noticed – a very lovely shade of red makeup that just so happened to match the very shade Olivia was wearing. I met the librarian’s gaze and she gave a dazzling grin. I laughed.

There was silence in the taxi drive over, Lemony and I riding in the back while Olivia and Jacques rode in the front. Night had begun to fall, the city coming alive with lights across the streets. The sky was clear far above, stars scattered across the black like sequins against fabric. No one spoke because there was nothing left to say. We knew our duties, the plan, and several back ups if things went horribly, horribly wrong.

A back up plan is very handy, readers. I suggest always having one because you can never, ever rely on things going right the very first time.

The theatre was brightly lit, the marquee a beacon in the night. People were already filing in and after parking, we joined them and found seats together to watch the performance being staged that evening. Many evenings I had spent in the theatre both on stage and off that it felt somewhat strange, somewhat haunting.

No one would die tonight. Not if I could help it.

As the lights dimmed, Lemony squeezed my hand and I squeezed back.

Shakespeare’s ‘Hamlet’ began to play out before us. I could hardly focus on the production, keeping my eyes constantly scanning the room and stage for any sign of Olaf, or his goons. Nothing yet, but I was certain I had spotted one of the white faced women helping move sets during a quick scene change. A glimpse, then it was gone.

Intermission came, went, and nothing. It made me uneasy. Would he even show? He had to. We had no other options.

The play continued, but I felt even more tense than when it had began. I knew the lines by heart, it was one of my favorite shows, but even that could not force me to focus on that stage. I was ready to move at a moment’s breath, prepared to launch into and onto whatever I had to. A ridiculous notion, but one I couldn’t keep from rising all the same. I kept a tight grip on Lemony’s hand across our shared armrest, anchoring me to him. The four of us kept exchanging glances; I could tell they were all on edge too.

The curtain fell, the lights returned, and the applause began.

“Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen!” I didn’t immediately recognize the man who had parted the curtains to step forward in front of the swath of red. I knew the voice, however, and I knew we had been right in planning this evening.

Olaf.

As ridiculously awful his disguise was, I could see through it the moment he spoke. Lemony, Olivia, and Jacques all sat a bit straighter in their seats. What would be his game? What would he do?

“Tonight is a very special night, ladies and gentlemen. A very important anniversary.” He continued, and I paused. Anniversary? What anniversary? Lemony’s hand tightened on my own and I immediately felt my brain catch up. I knew the date. Oh, how stupid you are, Beatrice!

The anniversary of when I’d murdered his parents in this very theatre.

“As such, we have a very special guest this evening performing. She’s been in hiding these past few months despite such rumors of her death – isn’t that what all actors do when they become far too famous? Left her poor children to fend for themselves, isn’t that awful? But she’s here tonight, ready to make up for past mistakes!” He grinned, the audience chuckled. I felt the pit in my stomach growing until I felt nearly sick.

“Please, help me in welcoming her return to the stage to sing us a song to mark this very important date – I know you might be shocked, but do try and applaud for the one and only Beatrice Baudelaire!”

Oh, no.

A flood of light bathed me instantly, as if he’d know. As if he’d planned. Clearly he had. But it was best to let him think he was in control, in charge of the situation. That was crucial for everything to work – this slight hiccup was certainly not accounted for, but I forced a tight lipped smile on my face and stood. The audience applauded both in pure shock and delight, and I tried not to meet any of their gazes. I had been well known in the city outside of the organization, and I knew my return from the dead would be on the front page of every newspaper in the city the following morning.

I reluctantly released Lemony’s hand and fisted my skirts in my hand to descend the steps. Olaf had the nerve to offer his hand to help me up the steps to the stage; I accepted, grateful I was wearing gloves so as not to feel his slimy palm against my own. He seemed only purely delighted at the impromptu performance, his shark-like grin visible even beneath the burly false mustache he was sporting. I kept the forced smile plastered on as he led me to the center of the stage beneath a spotlight.

Right above where I knew a trap door to be in the stage floor.

The applause died down, I swallowed thickly.

“I’m certain you have many questions, and I will happily answer them to Mrs. Poe for publishing in the newspaper.” I had seen her there that evening. My teeth grinded together. “For now, please. Enjoy the performance.”

Olaf, delighted with himself, stepped back behind the curtain. Music softly began, and I felt my guts twist harder. It was a recognizable song, soft and lilting and one I hadn’t sang in many, many years. The piano melody eased into an introduction.

Perhaps he thought he was being cruel, Olaf. Choosing the song. Making me perform, like a puppet on his strings.

I did what I had been expected to do. I sang.

“Some people long for a life that is simple and planned, tied with a ribbon.
Some people won't sail the sea 'cause they're safer on land
to follow what's written, but I'd follow you to the great unknown
off to a world we call our own . . . “

I let my gaze land on Lemony, who’s face remained passive. Olivia and Jacques beside my empty seat looked slightly alarmed at the deviation in plan. I tried to convey a look that said otherwise.

“Hand in my hand and we promised to never let go
We're walking the tightrope high in the sky
We can see the whole world down below, we're walking the tightrope
Never sure, never know how far we could fall
But it's all an adventure that comes with a breathtaking view,
Walking the tightrope with you. . . “

Lemony stood when I looked at him again, and quietly slipped from the back of the theatre. I found a spot on the wall to stare at. My chest felt tight, panic curling tightly in the pit of my stomach.

“Mountains and valleys, and all that will come in between, desert and ocean
You pulled me in and together we're lost in a dream, always in motion
So I risk it all just to be with you and I risk it all for this life we choose. . .”

Movement out of the corner of my eye caught my attention and as the music played a soft interlude before the next part, I stole a glance. My heart leapt into my throat. In the wings on either side of me were Olaf and his men, grinning like cats who had gotten the canary.

I would live, I told myself. I must.

“Hand in my hand, and you promised to never let go,
We're walking the tightrope, high in the sky
We can see the whole world down below
We're walking the tightrope
Never sure, will you catch me if I should fall?”

I chanced another glance in the wings. I wanted to scream.

The scene had shifted – Lemony stood restrained beside a snarling Olaf, who was holding a sharp knife to his throat. I stared until my eyes burned, unblinking. The burning turned to tears and as I continued, I could taste the salt as they rolled down my face. The audience knew nothing, and I knew everything.

I stared at Lemony, our gazes locked.

Even from the several feet separating us, I could see his eyes shining within the dimness of the wings, unshed tears. He didn’t move, rooted to the spot with the knife at his throat.

“Well, it's all an adventure, that comes with a breathtaking view
Walking the tightrope, with you. . .”

The piano faded out with the last notes of the melody, and the audience applauded the performance. I felt myself trembling with the effort of staying composed other than the tears marking harsh paths down my face. My hands clenched at my sides, nails digging into my palms until they went numb. Composure was harder and harder, the longer I stared at Lemony being held at knife point.

The lights suddenly dimmed, the entire theatre going dark.

The applause continued, roaring, deafening.

I tried to shout, to Lemony or Olivia or Jacques or anyone that would listen.

I tried to scream, and it died in the back of my throat as the floor gave way beneath my feet. My breath rushed from my lungs as the trapdoor opened and I was swallowed into the abyss beneath the stage.

Chapter Text

Slamming into a thin pad in the dark is not quite how I preferred to make an exit, but one couldn’t have been picky in the situation. Despite landing on my feet, the force of the fall sent me to my knees. It was black, and above I could hear the audience members beginning to leave the theatre, the quiet murmur of voices and footsteps muffled by carpet a tell-tale sign. My should gave a throb of protest, still not fully healed, but I pushed myself to a proper standing position and tried to get a better grip on my surroundings.

Digging into a hidden pocket in my dress, I removed the spyglass and twisted the rings with well practiced ease. Most members learned quite quickly how to perform certain functions in darkness – after the right combination slid into place, light filtered from the end like a flashlight. I swung it around the cramped space beneath the stage, finding nothing but dust and old props stored against the walls.

Using the wall and the spyglass as my guide, I felt along until I hit a doorknob. I had to get to Lemony. To Olivia, to Jacques. To Olaf.

I was surprised to find the door completely unlocked when I twisted the knob. Proper light flooded the area as I stepped through the doorway, momentarily blinded by the sudden brightness. Before I had a chance to even attempt at getting my bearings, something long and thin slammed into my chest, knocking the wind out of me. Another hit to my stomach, to the back of my knees, and a hand at the middle of my back sent me sprawling rather ungracefully onto the floor of the hallway. Hissing at the pain and stinging flesh, I caught myself before I face-planted into the worn wood. Twisting, I could see Olaf leaning against the wall just outside the door with a rather smug smile and twisting a cane in his hands.

“Stunning performance, Beatrice. I almost believed it.” He said; he’d removed the disguise in favor of a thread-bare suit and his normal façade. “Get up.”

I wanted to rip him to shreds both figuratively and literally, but I kept my mouth shut and hands to my sides and I picked myself up off the ground. He pushed away from the wall toward me. We were nearly equal in height, eyes staring into the other. He looked far thinner than when I had last seen him in person, and without heavy makeup I could see the past several months had taken their toll on him.

“Where’s Lemony?”

I had noticed we were alone in the narrow hall, neither Lemony or his henchmen in sight.

“How does it feel,” He drawled, crowding further into my space until I was backed against the wall, his snarling face inches from my own. Ignoring my question. “knowing your noble half of the organization gave you up? Dropped you and Snicket right here at my feet to save those little brats.”

“If it means they’ll live, I’ll face you any day.” I replied evenly; so the ruse had worked, and he still thought Lemony and I had been abandoned, lured into the trap by our own friends.

“And now they’ll be poor as well as orphans.” His grin disturbed me. “They even gave me all your money. Doesn’t it hurt?”

“What do you want, Olaf?” I snapped, shoving hard against him to regain my space. He chuckled rather darkly – as ridiculous as he was, I knew Olaf to be dangerous. Very dangerous. I knew what I had been walking into, and I knew it was a likely possibility I would not walk away alive. Granted, other members had been put into play to try and ensure that didn’t happen, and while I wanted ever chance to live, if my death protected my children, so be it.

Olaf lunged suddenly and I twisted before he could crowd me back against the wall again. Another snarl and he lashed out with the cane in his hand again, smacking it hard against my chest again and using the hook ended part to snag the back of my dress, dragging me back toward him. Wheezing from the blow, I moved again to spin away, unhook myself, but his free hand fisted into my hair and jerked, hard. I couldn’t help but yelp as he dragged me back against him, pulling my hair so far back it forced my head back.

“I want you to suffer.” He hissed, hot breath against my neck, in my ear, sending disgust and panic through my veins. I struggled and he only pulled harder at my hair, another hand gripping so tightly at my wrist I thought it might snap.

“You must know I never intended to hurt you, I never intended to kill your parents. I was doing as I was told, I thought I was doing the right thing!”

“That’s the problem with you and the others, always thinking they’re so noble and good and doing what’s right.” He hissed, walking forward and forcing me in front of him with his hand still fisted in my hair and the other locked around my wrist, propelling me. “You never thought to stop and consider the consequences, and now you’re only apologizing because you think it might save you. Spoiler alert, Beatrice. It won’t.”

I felt the floor shift, change, and I nearly stumbled up a short flight of steps. Olaf ever so kindly ensured I stayed on my feet by pulling hard at my hair whenever I wavered or sagged. I felt like a string of a violin, taut, being played, about to snap in half at any moment.

The theatre had emptied out, I realized when we suddenly emerged back onto the stage. He released me, but only to thwack the back of my knees again with the cane and shove me to the worn ground. The set of Hamlet sat still around us, a silent witness.

Footsteps, and the sound of a scuffle caught my attention and I lifted my head to see Lemony being forced to the stage by Olaf’s henchmen (and two women, and one questionable). There was a sharp bruise at his temple already blossoming across his face as he was forced to his knees in front of me. Instinctively I moved toward him, and Olaf stepped on the hem of my dress to root me to the spot.

“You’re not going to get away with this.” I warned sharply. This is what we trained for. Prepared for. Worst case scenarios. And I knew we had friends on our side ready to act, ready to rescue, ready to subdue the fire. I had instructed them to act only when they saw an opening; Lemony and I were distractions, pawns to be played straight into Olaf’s greedy hands.

“Do you know how stupid that sounds?” He drawled, unamused. Stepping around me, he circled us like a predator ready to strike his prey. I didn’t dare move again for the moment, still on my hands and knees. I chanced a glance at Lemony and our gazes met, communicating an entire paragraph of words in the blink of a second. We had always been good at silent communication.

Are you all right?

Not really. We need to escape.

We need to distract him.

How?

Working on it. Are you all right?

Not really.

As Olaf made another circle, he withdrew the knife from before from his waist, admiring it fondly and with great vigor. Wanting us to see it. Wanting us to react. We kept still, silent, watching, waiting. I kept holding my breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop, so to speak. Waiting for Olaf to do something irrational and angry and anything that might give us an opening.

“Where’s the sugar bowl?” He inquired suddenly, casually. I felt my brows furrow.

“I don’t know. Safe. With another member of the organization.”

Olaf snarled.

“Wrong answer.”

He grabbed Lemony by the hair and jerked his head back as he’d done to me previously, the blade of the knife pressed against the skin of Lemony’s neck.

“No!” I scrambled to get to him, but the henchmen had moved and grabbed my arms to restrain me. I still struggled, in vain, fighting with every inch of vigor I had. My shoulder ached, my skin burned from Olaf’s blows, but I could only see the monster with the blade to Lemony’s neck.

Olaf, for his part, seemed utterly delighted at the reaction I’d involuntarily given him.

“You’ve always cared far too much, Baudelaire.” He warned, unwavering with the wicked grin. “You’re easy to manipulate.”

“Leave him alone.”

“Where would be the fun in that? Don’t you remember? I want you to suffer!” The last he roared, pulling harder at Lemony and pressing the blade further to his skin until the first few drops of red began to leak. I shouted incomprehensible words at him, still fighting the hands on either of my arms to try and free myself.

I prided myself on my acting. Let Olaf play his game as long as possible without loss of life. Still, seeing Lemony in that position made my stomach bottom out and my heart leap into the back of my throat.

“I regret your parents, Olaf! I regret ever agreeing to the task, but it was only me!” I snapped. “He had nothing to do with it.”

“Stop taking me for a fool, Baudelaire. You both played your part, and I intend for you to suffer long and hard for your crimes.”

“Crimes? And you think yourself innocent?” Lemony dared, and Olaf silenced him with another warning press of the blade. A few more droplets of blood coloured his skin, making paths down onto his collar.

“I have less blood on my hands than either of you!”

He suddenly pulled away from Lemony, releasing him, and I heard Lemony release the breath he’d been holding as he pressed his fingers to his neck. I eyed Olaf, who had begun pacing like a tiger in a cage. I followed his every movement, the knife still in his hand, when he reached again for his cane.

“You will suffer, Baudelaire. How kind of your backstabbing friends to provide me with just the pressure point.”

Olaf seemed as casual as if he were walking in the park. He picked up his abandoned cane, weighing it in his hand for a moment before he suddenly lashed out at Lemony. The wood rod slammed into his chest, back, stomach, and anywhere else Olaf seemed fit in a series of blows.

“Stop it!” I screamed at him, my charade dropped immediately. I twisted, stomping hard on the foot of one of the pair of hands, I hadn’t bothered to see who. Someone yelped and I elbowed the opposite way into the chest of the other until the hands released me. Lunging forward, I put myself between Lemony and Olaf, grabbing the cane to attempt to stop the blows.

 Lemony, for his part, did nothing as he received the blows. Only grunting with the force of the pain, eyes shut fiercely tight. Olaf was breathing heavy from clearly attempting to use Lemony as a piñata, but he still seemed pleased that he was making me suffer. He was right. I did care, and far too much. It was why my heart felt ready to choke me to death as I watched him inflict harm on Lemony, clearly aiming for maximum damage without killing him. Yet.

 Still, I held my ground, knuckled white around the cane as Olaf sneered from the other side.

“Don’t make me kill you faster, Baudelaire.”

He shoved against me, forcing me to dig into my heels. While he’d appeared rather thin, he still held some amount of strength equal to my own, if not a touch more. His henchmen made moves to grab at me again, dirty hands grabbing at the fabric of my dress or at an errant limb until they could get hold. I fought against both them behind me and Olaf in front of me, trying to sort a way out of the situation.

I sidestepped suddenly, releasing the cane and jerking myself free from grabbing hands. Olaf’s momentum of pushing against me carried him forward, straight into his own men. They tumbled together in a heap, but Olaf caught himself on the thin stick of wood. I would certainly snap it in half before the night was through.

He swung before I was ready, the edge of the cane catching me in the jaw. I stumbled back, briefly stunned, blood bursting into my mouth from a busted lip. He used the momentary lapse in my senses to fist a handful of my gown and jerk me first toward him, then back several feet away from Lemony, and toward his (incompentent) henchmen.

“You’re getting slow in your old age.” Olaf said, crossing toward me as his men restrained me now with handcuffs, the metal digging into my wrists and my shoulder screaming in pain from being forced so sharply back at an angle. I could only glare at him, stealing glances at Lemony; he was still aware, still scowling at Olaf’s back.

I tried to jerk my head away as Olaf reached out suddenly toward my face, brushing a finger along my chin; it came back red, stained with the blood from my lip. He chuckled, before the same hand darted forward to grab my face far more harshly. He growled as his nails dug into my cheeks, forcing my gaze to stare at him.

Then, he smiled. I felt my stomach bottom out.

“Have you told him yet, Baudelaire?” He asked suddenly, and it was if we were at dinner conversing over drinks. “Have you told Snicket your little secret?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I did, in fact, know what he was talking about.

“Tell me, how old is Violet now?” I felt my face turn red with rage, lunging toward Olaf only to be pulled back by my arms, still restrained with handcuffs and hands. The name of my daughter from his lips only made me see more red, my vision blurred with the sudden fierceness I wanted to snap him in half like I intended to do with his unconventional weapon.

Olaf merely kept grinning, drawing away to turn to Lemony still knelt on the floor. My cheeks stung from his nails digging into my skin.

“Tell him, Beatrice.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I repeated firmly, darkly, and the knife appeared again. My heart lurched.

“Tell him.”

“No.”

“Tell him!” He roared, the blade pressed to Lemony’s neck again. I inhaled sharply, feeling tears at the edges of my eyes again.

For as long as it had taken me to admit that I loved Lemony, that my heart was still his, I hadn’t brought myself to tell him everything. It was something I had intended to take to my grave and beyond, let it die with me. No one would ever know and lives would be better, safer for it. I blinked in an effort to clear the tears, and saw the blade pressed tighter to his neck.

I felt the words tumble out of my mouth in a soft whisper.

“Louder, for all the class to hear!” Olaf snapped.

I felt sick. How cruel it was, our lives parodied on the stage. A mockery of everything we held close to us, and probably one of the few ways Olaf had in mind to make us suffer. Silently I willed Olivia and Jacques to pick up the pace with finding a way to intervene.

I could hardly look at Lemony. He met my gaze evenly, and before I even spoke it was like he knew. As if he could read my mind – some days I thought he could.

Forgive me. Please. My eyes begged.

“Violet is yours.”

Olaf’s grin returned and he pulled away from Lemony again only a second later, satisfied for the moment. I felt myself sag against the ones holding me, my gaze still holding Lemony’s. He showed no change, only a blank expression that I felt might shatter me.

For what should have been a weight lifted from my chest, I felt it drag me only deeper and deeper into despair.

“Violet Snicket. Charming, isn’t it? You’re a very good liar, Baudelaire, no wonder you stayed hidden for so long after my failed attempts at your murder. When you go for it, you go for it big.” Olaf drawled. “Little Violet isn’t your idiot husbands, but dear old Snicket’s here. Shocking, even for you.”

Rage simmered beneath my skin. I was going to rip Olaf’s tongue out of his mouth and shove it down his throat in hopes that perhaps it might finally shut him up. My eyes stung with more tears; I wasn’t sure how much longer I could do this, how much longer I would be able to play this game. I felt defeated, but there hadn’t been a proper fight at all; only Olaf dragging us to hell by toying with us, playing his twisted game.

“If you’re going to kill us, then do it and be done with it.” Lemony said quietly and when I looked back at him, he wouldn’t meet my gaze. I felt a smaller part of my heart shatter.

He had every right to be angry. I had hoped he’d never know, and I would’ve kept my secret, if it weren’t for the fire-loving loud-mouth strutting about the stage as if he owned it.

“That would be far too boring, Snicket. Not how the game works. Go on, tell the audience how Baudelaire’s lies make you feel? How you feel now that you know you have a sniveling little brat for a daughter?” Olaf held the end of the cane out like a microphone to Lemony, who pressed his lips together into a thin line.

“Go to hell, Olaf.”

The blow Olaf dealt him next echoed with a sickening crack against his temple; Lemony fell forward and I felt a scream bubble forth. Olaf twirled the cane in his hand before holding out the end to me much like he had with Lemony.

“Isn’t this fun? Now it’s just us girls.”

I couldn’t tear my gaze away from Lemony, unconscious on the floor who I prayed to every deity that would even listen that he wasn’t dead. I felt violated, physically and mentally, figuratively and literally. I wanted to kill Olaf. I wanted to scream. I wanted very many things in that moment, none of which seemed possible at all in the current situation.

“Really, Beatrice. How could you lie to him like that? Who did you think you were protecting?" Olaf mused. "I wonder what she'll think when she finds out - especially after she finds both her real parents dead in this very theatre? Perhaps I'll leave you alive long enough to to watch me take her away. You'd deserve it. You took from me, and Esme, and you just keep taking. It's about time someone returned the favor."

I fought back with the only way I could; I spat directly in his face. Unladylike, but desperate times called for desperate measures. He seethed, using a dirty sleeve to wipe at his face, and I used the moment to knee him sharply in the most sensitive of areas. He doubled almost instantly, howling, and despite being unable to current free myself, I felt a small sense of accomplishment.

Breathing hard and knelt at my feet, Olaf scowled back up at me.

“You’ll pay for that.”

As he rose, he backhanded me across the face. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from reacting, which seemed to only enrage him further. Another backhand to the opposite cheek.

I gave him a hollow, half-mad laugh and spit blood at his feet.

“You’re going to die, Olaf. Remember that.”

Chapter Text

One always expects to be rescued by a knight in shining armor. Books and films have a tendency to conjure such a dream in the minds of young, impressionable girls. Just because you are waiting for a rescue, however, does not mean one must play the role of damsel in distress.

Fight. Fight with everything you have. Let your knight wonder just precisely what he has walked into.

As Olaf straightened, I kicked him in the shin. His hand darted forward to close around my throat with a warning growl. I hated feeling so powerless, my hands bound and unable to properly fight back. We were trained to use every resource available to us – but Olaf too had attended those training modules. We were rather evenly matched in that regard. I knew anything I could try he would parry and deflect, and vice versa. I wheezed as he squeezed harder around my throat, spots dancing in my vision as I tried to catch my breath. My lungs burned, and I twisted my body in an attempt to dislodge his grip.

He leaned forward in my face, sneering. I used the moment to jerk forward and headbutt my head against his, ignoring the pain that blossomed across my forehead.

Bertrand had taught me that one.

Olaf scowled, I flinched, and he raised the knife in his hand.

A sandbag slammed into the stage floor two steps to our right, nearly taking out one of the henchmen and drawing Olaf’s attention. We all looked over (except Lemony, his unconscious form still an unmoving pile).

Without warning, Jacques Snicket descended from somewhere above along a rope, landing dashingly next to Olaf before squarely punching him in the jaw. Immediately the pair began to go at it, circling each other about the stage before withdrawing matching spyglasses.

“Snicket.”

“Olaf.”

The dull clang of metal sounded as their spyglasses met in some mockery of a swordfight, both moving with a practiced ease and grace against one another. Before his henchmen could get involved, another sandbag dropped just to my left and a piece of scenery collapsed on the group getting ready to charge forward. Olivia Caliban descended from the catwalks above, looking quite pleased with herself at the pile of set and henchmen that did not move.

“You look like you could use a bit of help.”

I turned to give her access, and she pulled a pin from her hair to begin to pick the lock on the handcuffs. I could hear Olaf and Jacques in the background grunting, swearing, and trading insults back and forth.

“You always were a terrible aim!”

“About as terrible as your unibrow.”

“You take that back!”

“Never!”

I felt relief at their appearance, but I knew the fight was only just beginning. Olivia showed no signs of having heard our ordeal, but I knew she and Jacques must of heard at least most of it from the catwalks above the stage. For her part, she did not ask and I did not tell, only waited until I heard the satisfying sound of the handcuffs clicking and the tension ease as Olivia pulled them off. I stretched forward, rubbing my wrists before turning quickly to the scene in front of me.

“Out of breath, old man?”

“Not as much as you, Snicket. Need a nap?”

“Not in the slightest. I might recommend a pair of tweezers for you, though."

"Again with the looks! You're one to talk, Mr. Perfect-Hair."

"You think my hair is perfect? Thank you, I work on it regularly. Glad to have a fan, even in you Olaf."

“Tag out?” Olivia called toward Jacques, who seamlessly aimed the fight toward the librarian. I saw them brush hands as she moved to take his place without pause, spyglass poised and ready. Jacques looked at me for what felt like an eternity, breathing hard, and I pointed to Lemony.

“Your brother. Get him out. I have something I need to do.”

Olivia and Olaf danced around each other now, the librarian a fraction faster than the villain. He seemed to be growing more and more enraged, bordering on dangerous. Olivia held her own, twisting this way and that.

"You annoying little librarian! You should have stayed back at Prufrock!"

"Not when I'm needed here by someone who actually values my talents!"

"You're useless!"

Jacques opened his mouth as if to protest, thought better of it, and moved to scoop his brother from the floor. With Olaf’s men out of the way and Olivia holding quite her own against the man, I stumbled down the stairs back down into the backside of the theatre. Retracing steps, I found my spyglass where Olaf had left it lie after I’d dropped it resting against a wall of the hallway.

I felt as if I’d been through a blender. I ached physically and emotionally, a raw fury still simmering under my skin until I wanted to claw at my arms to make it stop. Things never seemed to go as planned, but I wanted to make certain we would never deal with Olaf again. I couldn’t bear it. I had been fighting him for so long it felt like, and it was beginning to take it’s toll. I was tired of fighting in general. As much as I had once craved adventure and dangerous situations, I had mellowed. I wanted nothing more than to have a future safe from fires where I could raise my children.

I skipped the steps two at a time as I returned to the stage; Lemony was gone, and now Jacques and Olivia were both fighting Olaf hand to hand. The count seemed far too content to hold his own against the pair, who despite still being in their formal wear moved with a grace and orbit around one another as if they’d been partners their entire lives. It would have been stunning to watch, had Olaf not been the opponent.

Olivia landed a hook to Olaf’s jaw that sent him reeling, stumbling back. I darted forward to grab his abandoned cane and swiftly swept it against his legs to cause him to trip and fall at my feet. I put the sole of my stiletto to his neck, the end of the cane pressed into his sternum to pin him in place. He looked genuinely afraid for a fleeting moment, the scare nothing more than a brief flash in his gaze that I was sure I hadn’t made up.

“Go.” I found myself saying to Olivia and Jacques. “Get to the car. I’m right behind you.”

“Beatrice,” Olivia tried, but Jacques grabbed his lady love by the arm.

“Go check on Lemony.” He said quietly, so quietly I almost didn’t hear. There was a silence followed by Olivia’s receding footsteps. Jacques stayed. As much as I wanted to tell him he needed to leave as well, I knew it would fall on deaf ears. My relationship with the other Snicket brother was strange, but a blessed one to have. He understood me without having to ask questions – I imagine he had inherited the ability to read minds like Lemony had, perhaps. Or perhaps it was because we were both far too similar for our own good.

Olaf didn’t dare even twitch beneath me, but began to put up a struggle the moment Jacques grabbed a hold of him and dragged him to his feet. The knife fell from his waistband and I had half a mind to take it to his own throat. But that was a very dark Beatrice, and I intended not to go to that level. It would do no one any good, even if it would satisfy my own emotional need to see him suffer.

Jacques used the handcuffs Olivia had broken me out of to latch around Olaf’s wrists, and used a bit of rope to tie him securely to the sandbags that had fallen onto the stage. The count’s attempts at standing, moving, or even dragging himself more than a few inches proved futile for him, and he scowled at the pair of us.

“I’ll be fine. I’m right behind you.” I said to Jacques, before he could ask. Before he could try and talk me out of where I knew my mind to be going. My fingers were already twisting on my spyglass, searching for a combination without looking. It was a rare one, but we all had been trained to know it by heart. A very important setting.

I was grateful Jacques seemed to let me to my own devices, if even for the briefest of moments. With Olaf tied down, his men unconscious, I felt no danger. Not yet. But I would create it.

By personal practice and by codes set forth by ourselves, our side of the schism had been strictly non fire starting types in order to combat the ones like Olaf. Both figurative and literal fires. Perhaps, I mused, I belonged to his side after all.

I was not perfect. I was not innocent. I had blood on my hands, a lot of it, but the organization had drained me. Somehow it felt like years had been pulled away from me when in reality the situation had only gone on for a few months. Still, in that short amount of time I had realized my mistakes. Realized that the organization I had idolized and become a part of was not the be all, end all, and even they could make mistakes. Costly ones.

“I will never forgive you.” Olaf hissed through gritted teeth. I ignored him. I didn’t need his forgiveness. His compassion. I had others for that. I needed nothing from the count except his unbearable pain and suffering, like what he’d briefly put Lemony and myself through. Or my children. Especially my children, who had deserved a far better state of life. Who had suffered through far too much in their young lives. No more, I swore. Not when I was no within my power to stop it.

The settling on the spyglass clicked into place quietly, and the front cover dropped away to reveal the telescopic lens. I had no need to enlarge an image or study something quite closely, but lenses of such caliber were excellent tools to have around, and an even more excellent use for my current plan – a fire starter.

I hadn’t started a fire in my life (barring a typical campfire).

Exceptions could be made.

The spyglass grew warm in my hand as it generated it’s own heat and light source from within. I aimed it toward the curtains hanging drably about the corners of the stage and smoke began to unfurl. A brief flash of light and the fabric caught fire. Almost immediately the flames began to devour and consume; I went to each curtain in turn, caught it ablaze before moving to the next. The air grew warm and thick with smoke and the smell of burning wood and polyester. The flames leapt across the fabric almost in a dance; parts of the set left standing were already beginning to catch the smallest of fires around the edges.

“You’d better hope the smoke inhalation gets you first.” I said, turning to Olaf after collapsing the spyglass in my hands. I did not like fire, and in fact was quite terrified of it. One didn’t survive two major fires without having some fear grounded in the flames. Olaf looked puzzled, then enraged, then utterly terrified as I let the fire glow behind me.

“You can’t do this!” He snapped, and I am only a bit sad to report that I felt nothing. Almost nothing. Guilt because his parents had been innocent. He had not. I did not need his forgiveness; he needed mine, and I was in no mood to grant it to a slime ball like him.

Once we had been friends. Once. How brilliant it had been, the whole world at our feet. The future of the organization between us, our friends. How unfortunate that it had all been dismantled.

“Tell me how you knew about Violet.” I ventured, watching the flames behind him for a moment. I pretended to be unfazed, but I felt a sick feeling of fear curling in my belly. What was I doing? I was not a fire starter. I put them out. It had been my whole life.

But I could see no other fitting end for Olaf. No way else to ensure his death that did not involve literal blood on my hands; I didn’t have the stomach for it.

“I had my suspicions after she was born a bit early in your marriage; nurses are always too happy to answer to my bribes.”

“How long have you known?”

“Long enough to know I would have my hands on the Baudelaire and the Snicket fortunes had you been dead like you were supposed to.”

“Funny how that works out, isn’t it?”

“I’ll have my hands on the Quagmire sapphires at the very least.”

“Oh, I should doubt that. Haven’t you heard? They’ve been rescued. You’re as poor as when you started, Olaf.” I replied; I had no way of knowing if the Quagmires were indeed safe now, but I internally delighted at the look on the count’s face after I spoke.

“You wouldn’t dare let me die in a fire that you started.”

I studied the wall behind him of the backstage, which had also begun to go up in flames. My eyes and throat and nose burned from the smoke beginning to fill the theatre, and I raised my glove to my mouth to try and block it out.

“Enjoy your stay, brief as it will be. You will be forgotten. Erased. And you will never haunt my children anymore, not even their nightmares. Poison was too good for you; you deserve this.”

“And you deserve hell, Baudelaire!” He roared.

“Probably. But I’ve never denied my faults, my actions, or my lapses in rational thought the way you have, Olaf. One day I might forgive myself, but at the very least I know what guilt I will live with. And I will suffer. I’d hoped it might do the same for you, but we both know you’re far too clever for that. That it’s death or rage against the light.”

Unable to stand the growing fire and flames and smoke any more, I fisted my skirts in my hand and began to exit the theatre. Olaf shouted nasty things at my back, alternating between insults and begging until I barred the doors to the theatre from the lobby-side and his noise stopped.

I stepped out into the night air, gasping sharply to take a deep breath. My body ached with the action, but there was a tension lifted from my shoulders that I could not put into words. I felt myself fall to my knees on the masonry outside the theatre, palms digging into the rough surface of concrete while my body shook.  I felt as if I’d been through a ten hour marathon, and everything seemed slightly underwater in my perspective both vision and sound wise; I didn’t hear Olivia calling my name until she was nearly right on top of me and even than she had to drag me to unsteady feet to get me to validate her presence.

Overall, I felt numb.

I couldn’t focus on her words, but I let her put me in the backseat of Jacques’ cab. Lemony was sprawled across the backseat and I took his head into my lap, tracing the discolouring around his temples of the bruises already forming. His breathing had evened out somewhat, and as Olivia drove and she and Jacques spoke in hushed tones from the front, I could only stare at Lemony’s upturned face, a blank slate. It was the most calm he had looked in years, and offered me a look at the lines around his face. When had we all gotten so haggard? So old?

Fire trucks sirened past us in the opposite direction, and a glance behind afforded me a look at the plume of smoke from the theatre, the orange glow soft against the rising ash. I did not think of Olaf. His face, his voice, nothing, afraid I might somehow feel guilt for his death. No. I would not feel guilty for doing something deserved. I would not regret it.

But then I recalled the unconscious henchmen in the theatre and felt my stomach twist uncomfortably. I had known three of them from the years before the schism. I would need to write Fiona soon. Tell her how I had killed her brother.

I saw the tears before I felt them, salty beads dropping onto Lemony’s face. I shuddered, raising a hand to wipe at my cheeks furiously but the tears only fell harder. I again felt powerless to stop them. I bent over Lemony, rested my head against his chest and cried.

I could do nothing else. Exhaustion and emotion overwhelmed me, and while I felt a weight lifted I still felt shrouded by pain and tension. Being a killer had never been my favorite role to play. I had lied to Lemony. I had failed Bertrand.

Everything came crashing down at once and I could do nothing by cry.

Please forgive me. Someone. Anyone. Forgive me.

Having a mental breakdown in the back of a taxicab is not a recommended event. But I could feel everything in me crumbling, shattering around me. I should have felt relieved that Olaf would no longer haunt us, but I knew the fight I would face when Lemony awoke. That I would face with my children, with Violet. I tried to draw a breath and found it stuck in the back of my throat. 

Hands wrapped around me from behind and I started to put up a fight, but Jacques' quiet voice in my ear stopped me. We had stopped. I hadn't noticed. I looked up at Jacques and it must have been a rather pitiful look given his reaction. I likely looked a fright. I didn't care. I glanced at the door to wherever we had been brought, suddenly daunted by the idea of walking the distance between it and the taxi. Olivia was already opening the other door to tend to Lemony; we were both worse for wear. My body felt heavy, like a lead balloon. 

Jacques seemed to take pity on me because without warning, he scooped me into his arms like I weighed nothing more than a feather. It was only twice I had allowed myself to be carried (to my knowledge) and both had been the daring Jacques Snicket. I pressed my face into his chest with a sob; he murmured again to me but I couldn't quite hear him in my shattered bubble. He smelled vaguely of Lemony. I focused on that and that only. Despite the fight I knew would be waiting when he woke, despite everything, I held onto the bit of Lemony that I could, anchoring myself back to reality.

Forgive me.

Chapter Text

Silence reigned.

The place above the shop was as empty as we’d left it. One more night of hiding away. Letting things settle. It seemed right. Olivia had made Jacques carry Lemony upstairs so she could tend to him (how quickly she’d seemed to pick up on medical skills). Jacques returned without question; I couldn’t bring myself to climb the steps just yet. I stood rooted to the shop floor until Jacques planted a hand on my shoulder, guided me into the back of the store behind the scenes; a small kitchenette was tucked away, and immediately he set about making tea. Tea fixed everything. When in doubt, I always recommend a good cup of tea. Helps one think.

There were no chairs so I leaned against the wall and sank to the ground, legs spread out in front of me. I was still in my dress, though it had been tattered and torn at the edges. I ached, could practically feel the bruises appearing as everything seemed so sensitive to touch. My head throbbed, my shoulder screamed, and I could still taste the rust of my own blood in my mouth. Emotionally, I felt much the same.

The radio crackled to life in the corner and Jacques fiddled with it for a moment. He grabbed a pen and paper and began to write down the message offered in code through the broadcast, before dimming the noise.

I said nothing. Couldn’t say anything. I didn’t trust my own words, and Jacques granted me silence as he puttered about before producing two steaming mugs. He handed one to me before sinking to the ground next to me with his own. I put my head against his shoulder.

Jacques had been a brother to me. I had never seen him as anything more than the sibling I had never had; it had been him who’d introduced me to the shy Lemony back at school. I owed my life to Jacques more than I cared to admit, and he seemed content in treating me much like he did Kit. Even after Lemony had fallen out and faked his death we had remained close through letters. I felt safe near him.

“Who was that?” I managed, finally, in reference to the radio code. A safe conversation.

“Jacqulyn. The Quagmires are safe. All three of them.”

“Quigley?”

“Survived the fire. Has been in hiding trying to reunite with his siblings. Jacqulyn made it sound like he’d jumped in on their rescue mission. Perhaps you two ought to swap fire-surviving stories.”

A rush of breath left my throat in a pitiful attempt at a laugh. The Quamires were safe. I knew my children were safe. Things seemed to be righting themselves.

“We’ll find them suitable guardians. Proper ones.” I murmured, and Jacques paused for a moment.

“Actually, I already had someone in mind.”

I regarded him over the lip of my teacup, and for a moment in the dim lighting I could have sworn he was blushing. I had never seen such a look on Jacques Snicket, nor the small hesitation in his voice.

“Olivia and I were talking. We’d like to be their guardians.” He said quietly, and I managed a soft smile.

“You’re such a softie. Do I get a wedding invitation, then?”

“Only if you send one back.” He mused, nudging my hand with his. I looked down at Lemony’s ring, unmarred by events. I curled my fingers until it dug into my knuckles, reminding me it was there and very real. Jacques seemed to sense my twist of mood.

“We were going to take yours, too.” He offered kindly. “The children. Olivia and I discussed it about the fourth day after we’d met. Protect them all. Give all six a proper home.”

“You’ll be a wonderful parent, Jacques. So will Olivia. I couldn’t imagine them with better guardians.”

We lapsed into quiet again. I drank my tea and stared at a spot on the opposite wall. I wasn’t certain how long we sat like that, but I felt myself dozing every now and again. I was exhausted, which seemed to be putting it mildly. I could have fallen asleep on a bed of nails at that point.

Footsteps down the stairs caught our attention, and Olivia crept into the small room only a moment later. She seemed startled not to see us immediately, until Jacques nudged the door shut behind her with his foot and the noise made her look down.

“I’ve done what I can.” She said, using the underside of the shirt she’d changed into to clean the lens of her glasses. “He’ll be all right, he’s awake, and we need to keep him that way. I suspect a concussion, bruising on his bones, but nothing that won’t mend in time. I don’t feel right not taking him to a proper medical facility, but I understand why it’s out of the question. I dug out something for the pain, but I can’t imagine it’s any less pleasant. Olaf did a number on him.”

Olaf.

Olaf would never touch Lemony again. Or me. Or my children. Or anyone in V.F.D. The overwhelming thought nearly brought the tears back again.

“Do you want to see him?”

Olivia’s question, innocent as it was, I could tell meant something quite else. The tone, the look she gave – I knew she’d overheard about Violet’s true parentage, and so had Jacques. Still, I was grateful neither said quite so aloud; it made it easy to pretend it hadn’t happened for just a few moments more.

“I suppose I should. Do you want to go first, Jacques?”

“No, go ahead.” He shot down my attempts at avoidance, patting his breast pocket where he’d stashed the hastily scribbled note from before. “Olivia and I have some things to discuss.”

I took the hand Olivia offered out to help me up. Groaning, it took me longer than I’d care to admit to pull myself up, the librarian frowning at me.

“I’m fine.” I said, before she could ask. “Just sore. I’ll take some of those painkillers you found.”

“They’re on the table upstairs.” She replied quietly, gentle, as if she were afraid I might snap or shatter. I felt like it. I nodded once, gripping the doorframe to steady myself before the long walk up the stairs.

One.

Maybe he’ll think it’s all a dream.

Two.

Violet will never forgive you. Klaus will never forgive you.

Three.

Maybe I’ll believe it’s all a dream.

Four.

Then Bertrand died for nothing.

I stopped, my own thought stealing away my breath. My fingers gripped the railing so tightly my knuckled turned white.

Bertrand had known, of course. He was always so clever and as much I had tried to hide it, he had forced the truth he already suspected out of me one evening. I’d cried. He’d taken it in stride, listening, accepting, and deciding to love me anyway for it. To love Violet as his own. And she was. His. In everything but name. He had raised her, taken care of her, and was half of the reason she had turned into such a clever young woman. Lemony had done nothing but provide her genetics, and I resented him for it – but then I remembered I had never told him. So ingrained I had been in my lie that in my mind, Violet was every bit of Bertrand she could be. Those dark eyes that belonged to Lemony could have very well belonged to Bertrand.

Bertrand had given me Klaus, and Sunny, and I didn’t think I could have ever been happier in my love for our family, unconventional as it may have been. They weren’t simple times, but things had been lighter. Somehow easier because we had each other, and that had been enough. No dangerous adventures or life-threatening situations; just us, and the children, and things had seemed perfect.

I craved for that time again. I desired it so much it physically hurt. I clung to the hope that I could return to a fraction of that life, but with each day I felt more and more of that chance slipping through my fingers.

I hadn’t deserved a man like Bertrand. He’d been far too good for me. Perhaps that’s why Lemony and I had been better suited; we were mutually self-destructive and dangerous past the point of no return.

I was out of breath by the time I reached the top of the stairs, pain blossoming in so many places I couldn’t pinpoint where it began and ended. The bottle of painkillers on the table caught my attention first, and I swallowed three of them dry.

Olivia had shoved several of the moth-eaten blankets together that we had all slept on the night before to form some sort of bed, or at least a softer spot for Lemony to lay near the window. He was propped up against the wall, and even from this distance I could see the discoloration and bruising to his face. I didn’t want to think of what the blanket might be hiding as far as bruising or injuries. His eyes were on me, following every move. I wanted to look away. Be brave, I had told myself.

Quietly, I joined him in the floor. Silence settled for a while.

How exactly did one broach such a topic? It was something I had thought about for years, entertaining the idea of telling him he had a daughter. So many times I had tried. Having that particular conversation, however, had never been right. The time or the place had always been off and I’d let it fade the more Violet grew, determined that the secret lie with Bertrand and myself. My eyes burned; I had been far too teary the past several hours, and had nothing left in me to give.

“I forgive you.”

Lemony spoke so quietly that I nearly missed it. I looked at him; he was still looking at a spot on the opposite wall, brooding. My breath felt stolen.

“You shouldn’t. I’d understand if you hated me forever.”

“Then the world would indeed be nightmarish.” His voice was still soft, as was his gaze when he finally tilted his head in my direction. “We may die tomorrow; I don’t want to waste it being angry. Not now.”

“I lied to you. About everything.”

“You were protecting her, for as long as possible.”

My brows furrowed; in that moment I felt very certain Lemony could in fact, read minds.

“I was.” I admitted, quietly. Truthfully. The weight on my chest lessened by a marginal inch. “No one was ever going to find out. Bertrand and I agreed it was best if she were raised as his daughter. You had too many enemies in the world. So did I. It was logical, at the time. I tried to tell you so many times, Lemony. Even to write you a letter – all my attempts at writing it out burned in the fire. I never intended you to know.”

“Why?”

“I’ve just told you.”

“You could have told me and still kept it secret. I would have made more effort to involved in her life, Beatrice. Write letters. Send gifts. Money. Whatever you needed.”

“You weren’t in any position to play father, Lemony.”

“You didn’t give me the chance.”

He sounded so defeated, and I lowered my head, drawing my knees up to my chest. While the weight in my chest had lifted, I felt myself shattering more and more. Perhaps it would simply be easier if he hated me. Perhaps I wouldn’t feel as broken. I had kept Violet from him; but part of me still knew I had made the right decision. For her protection, my sanity, and everyone involved. I knew in my heart nothing would have changed – Lemony would still be forced to fake his death and then Violet would’ve been nearly orphaned at the start. I had wanted stability for her, a normal and safe life for her and her siblings when they joined the picture. I had held that stability for as long as I could. I wanted to give that to them again.

“Am I now?” He asked.

“Am what now?” I murmured, voice muffled, head still buried against my knees.

“In a position to play father?”

The knife that had been in my chest, figuratively, twisted so tightly I could hardly breathe. I looked up with caution and met those dark eyes of his; I could see the physical pain and emotional torment the evening had put on him, and yet something still shone in those eyes. Clinging to reality, to hope.

“Violet can’t know.” I decided after a moment. “She’ll never forgive me.”

“That’s very selfish of you, Beatrice. She shouldn’t hear it from anyone but you. Us.”

“Us?”

“I’ll only forgive you if you swear we’re to tell Violet. She and Klaus and Sunny deserve to know. No more lies, Beatrice. Please. I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to survive this figurative spider’s web of lies and falsehoods. Let Violet make her own decisions.”

I both loved and hated him, for forgiving me. Or offering it. I knew I didn’t deserve it Perhaps I didn’t deserve Lemony the way I hadn’t deserved Bertrand.

“I promise.” I said, quietly and he nodded once. I shoved my palms into my eyes until I could see stars to keep my eyes from threatening more dry tears. When I opened my eyes again, Lemony was starting to doze, his head leaning onto his shoulder.

I gave him a sharp pod.

“Olivia says you can’t sleep. Not until we’re certain you don’t have a concussion. She might dog-ear all my books if I let you.”

Lemony blinked, clearly exhausted as well. I pulled back the first few blankets across him and crawled into the nest Olivia had made. I was cautious, gentle; we were both in worse shape than either of us wouldn’t dream of admitting to the other. I tucked myself against his side, warm and inviting and somehow it eased my chest from it’s tightness. Staying angry at one another had never been something we’d been particularly good at; our arguments were explosive, or had been during our previous engagement – both of us had mellowed, it seemed.

“Tell me a story.” He requested, and I smiled softly.

“Only if you promise not to fall asleep.”

“Make it exciting, then.”

I wasn’t certain I ever fell asleep. Drifted in and out of consciousness, perhaps. I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer. Jacques and Olivia joined us upstairs at some point; during my dozing I could hear their soft tones engaging Lemony in quiet conversation. I couldn’t bring myself to stir long enough to join them. The night’s events slammed me back into reality, which at the time felt very sore.

But it reminded me I was still very much alive.

Kit sent word via carrier bat before she had joined us with my children two days later, Jacqulyn and the Quagmires right behind. Everyone seemed simply happy to see one another, unable to quite let go of the gentle reality bubble that Olaf was dead, and their safety was guaranteed. Olivia and Jacques had taken the triplets aside and judging by the way Isadora had thrown her arms around Olivia and Duncan looked near tears, I knew their offer of proper guardianship had gone well.

We celebrated with a picnic lunch at Briney Beach.

It felt somewhat surreal to be out and about without fear of being noticed or bothered or killed or anything of the sort. The children, all six of them, seemed to be reflecting the same sort of mood, though it eased the longer we sat on mismatched blankets spaced somewhat apart, chowing on peanut butter and jam sandwiches. A proper celebration would be in order soon, but the need to get out of the stuffy room and simply be had been enough to prompt that rather impromptu lunch. There were still plans to be made, loose ends to tie up, but such things were far from any minds that afternoon.

For the first time in a long time, I watched the sun peek out from behind the grey clouds, casting warm rays across the sand. Olivia and the triplets were discussing the themes of Shakespeare nearby, whilst Kit and Dewey, who had joined us the night previous walked along the shoreline. Jacques and Larry were skipping rocks, and all seemed well.

The world is quiet here.

 Lemony and I sat together; we had found a cane within the disguise kit for him to use while his body still healed, but he seemed far better than before. The bruises were starting to turn yellow, and his limp was lessening. Violet, and Klaus sat across from us, whilst Sunny ate happily on chunks of apple in my lap. My little piranha.

“There’s something we wanted to talk to you about.” Lemony said around a mouthful of peanut butter and bread, and my stomach flipped. Straight to the point, then. Entirely unfair; we hadn’t even come up with a strategy or idea on how to break the news to the children. Apparently completely blindsiding them was the tactic Lemony had gone for.

I took a breath, waiting.

“I’m your father, Violet.” It was half jumbled as he swallowed, and I refused the sudden urge to slap the back of his head or even roll my eyes. Tact was certainly not a gift Lemony had ever possessed, and never would. I watched emotions dance across Violet’s face immediately, her features shifting so rapidly I couldn’t keep up. Klaus paused mid bite, brows furrowed together. Sunny chomped louder on her apple slices.

“It’s true.” I offered, quietly. “Before Bertrand and I were married. I had no idea. Lemony had already faked his death. I thought it best to not mention it, to protect you. We’re telling you now because we agreed you and Klaus and Sunny deserved to know, to hear it from me before you found out anything else among the organizations files.”

There was silence in the group for a while. Violet looked near tears, and Klaus looked very, very hurt. I cursed my own young foolishness, regretting ever telling them. Now the words had been said, I couldn’t take them back.

“My father is Bertrand Baudelaire. He raised me.” Violet said quietly, staring at Lemony long enough for him to shift and look vaguely uncomfortable.

“I don’t intend to replace him, Violet.” Lemony replied just as softly.

“I don’t think you could. But I would like to come to know you, Mr. Snicket. If it is true, I,” She faltered, frowning. “I don’t know.”

She had spoken in a mature way I hadn’t known she possessed. How much had she been forced to grow up in my absence? I barely saw the child I had known; while it had been only months, time had taken it’s toll on her as much as it had us. I could see it clearly now.

“You make my mother happy.” Violet continued, brows knitting together. “I think my father would like that. And I think he would want me to know you.” Her voice broke suddenly on the last, and I noticed for the first time the shine to her eyes before the tears began to spill. She’d never been given the chance to mourn Bertrand, none of them had. It spilled forth like a tidal wave and before Lemony could even open his mouth to offer comfort, Violet flung herself at him and clung to him fiercely. I could only blinked, startled, and met Lemony’s gaze over her shoulder. He faltered for a fraction of a second, before his arms wrapped cautiously around Violet to console her.

Despite the aching I had to reach out to her, I did not.

When Violet’s sobs had lessened a few moments later, there was a shuffle and Lemony murmured something in her ear I couldn’t quite make out. Next thing I knew he was standing, Violet helping him up, and they were walking off together down the sands. To talk. I knew they needed it. Questions needed to be answered, and as much as I wanted to be there for the both of them, I knew it made more sense for them to be alone together, to acquaint themselves as father and daughter.

“Klaus,” I began, looking back at my son. I paused, however, seeing him staring straight into the blanket he sat on and ripping his sandwich into tiny, tiny pieces.

“Klaus, I know you’re upset. Please. Talk to me.”

“Violet gets both her parents.” He whispered, glancing up only at Sunny. There went my heart again, straight back up into my throat. “I can’t help thinking it. I know it’s selfish.”

“She isn’t any less your sister than before now, Klaus.” I said gently, reaching for his hands. He didn’t pull away, so I held them firmly between my own. “You’re allowed to have such thoughts. Bertrand loved all of you the same, as his own. You three were the greatest joy in his life and if I could bring him back right now, I would. But I can’t. And I’m sorry. But I will do everything in my power to make certain you are loved, Klaus. You and Sunny and Violet. You are loved so much and by so many.”

Klaus shifted, brooding quietly as he moved to sit instead at my side, tucking himself against me. Soon he’d been far too big for such things, but I indulged and clung to the moment by wrapping an arm around him and burying my face into his hair.

“You love Mr. Snicket.”

It wasn’t a question.

“I do.” I murmured. “Very much.”

Silence fell, and we listened to the waves and Sunny’s soft babbling. She seemed unfazed by events, content with her apple bites an watching those around us with a wider stare. I could still see Violet and Lemony further down the beach, talking, and my stomach did another three flips before they returned. I glanced between them, and saw them sharing a soft, gentle smile with one another before tucking back into their lunches.

Conversation lulled at first, but as Klaus and Lemony found a common love in writing critiques it flowed more steadily. Others drifted in and out of the conversation until eventually we were all wedged across most of the blankets sharing tales of adventure and stories from well-written novels between the lot of us.

The later into the afternoon is grew, the more tired I seemed to get. No one was still quite recovered from the events the past few days had offered, especially as far as sleep. How glad I would be to sleep in a real bed again. Once I had a real bed built. I had discussed it with Violet and Klaus; we intended to rebuild our home, just as lovely as before, on the very same spot. Take back what belonged to us.

We packed up not long after, and began to merge separate ways. Kit and Dewey were heading back to the hotel in her taxi, While Jacques and Olivia took the Quagmires to get proper new clothes; we were meeting them for dinner far later in the evening. Lemony, myself, and my three were heading back to his small flat for the time being.

“Go on, I’ll be right there.” Lemony murmured, squeezing my hand as I began to shove things back into the basket on my arm. Sunny nestled happily and asleep in my other was making it a bit difficult, but I managed, and gave Lemony a nod. I thought nothing of it until he caught Violet and Klaus as I headed back toward the trolley stop to make sure I could catch it, lest we miss it. I couldn’t hear what was being said between the three of them, and quite frankly I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

He rested a hand on either one of their shoulders, knelt to their level as they spoke. He did most of the talking. Sunny stirred briefly and I rubbed her back gently, cooing to her in efforts to lull her back asleep. It worked charmingly and by the time I looked back at the other three, they were already joining me back at the trolley stop.

“Can we walk?” Klaus asked suddenly. “It’s actually a nice day. It feels like I haven’t seen the sun in so long.”

I looked at Lemony, who still walked with his cane. He smiled.

“I can’t think of a reason not to. I can’t promise speed.”

“No need. We can enjoy it more that way.” Violet offered, before she and Klaus set out along the sidewalk. I stayed in step with Lemony as we trailed behind.

“What was that about?” I asked, the moment he children were far enough ahead to be out of earshot. He smiled, almost to himself.

“Just a question.”

“About what?”

“Permission.”

“For what?”

“Has anyone ever told you how nosey you are, Beatrice?”

“About as many times as you are infuriating, Lemony.”

He laughed, the first time I’d heard such a noise in nearly a week.

“If you must know, I as asking your children permission. To marry you.”

I paused.

“Oh. Oh.”

“It seemed only right. I won’t and can’t replace Bertrand in their lives, but I offered them stability. That I cared for you more deeply than I could ever put into words and would very much like to be part of their lives as much as yours.”

“Is that all?”

“Oh, and I promised a very, very large library when we rebuild.”

“And what was the verdict?”

“Why, yes, of course.”

Chapter Text

There is kindness and good in the world, if one only knows where to look. It doesn’t hide beneath rocks or behind trees, or even wedged between two bricks in an old building. It isn’t hiding at all, and never does. You simply must allow your eyes to only see it.

I see it now, am blinded by the sheer happiness that seems to surround everything these days. The world is a little more brighter, and I urge you to find those moments for yourself. Even fleeting ones where the world glows and you can spy a bit of kindness – if you can’t, I suggest making it yourself. It’s quite easy; I’m sure you know how.

But one must also fight for it at times. It can be daunting, relentless, and draining, but so very worth it the moment you have that first glimpse of true kindness and happiness. Cling to it. Hold it close to your heart, and don’t let go for anything in the world.

The world is quiet, but there is music and laughter and joy to be found in that gentle quiet.

“Kit, she’s absolutely precious.”

And then there is the sheer innocence of a newborn child, a fresh and new exciting happiness.

“I love her already.” Kit beamed, hair twisted back with pencils and clutching Dewey’s arm. I was far too engrossed in the snoozing infant I’d claimed immediately to hold. The new parents looked absolutely in love with each other and their daughter, who looked far too much like Kit in the sense that I knew Dewey would be beating off potential love interested left and right. The little girl yawned and snuggled closer into her soft patterned blanket decorated with books – it had been a gift from Olivia weeks before her birth.

“She’s marvelous. Truly.” I murmured, brushing a hand across her soft cheek. I was always enamored with babies; I’d been with Violet, Klaus, and Sunny each in turn. How innocent and soft they were, brand new to a wonderful world. “Have you come up with a name yet?”

Kit and Dewey glanced at each other, sharing a hidden smile.

“Bee.” Dewey said, and I looked up with an arched brow.

“It’s certainly an interesting name, to name her after such a lovely little insect.” I was certainly not in the place to judge their name choices.

“No, Bea.” He corrected, quietly. “Short for her full name. Beatrice.”

I felt my breath catch somewhere in my throat and my heart swell to near suffocation. I looked at each of them in turn, and both seemed oblivious to my internal reaction, looking quite pleased with themselves. I couldn’t fathom in a million years why on earth they would ever choose to name their daughter after me.

“Why?” I asked when I regained full conscious control of my body, mostly aided by little Beatrice (oh, how strange and wonderful it sounded in my head) shifting again, threatening to wake.

“We wanted to name her after someone important. Someone we admire. Make it a family name, too. There should always be a Beatrice Snicket.” Kit offered, and I dragged her wordlessly into a one armed hug. Dewey shortly after, before passing Bea back into their arms.

“I’m honored. More than.”

“As her aunt, we found it more than suitable that you be her namesake. We’d also like you and Lemony and Jacques and Olivia to be her godparents. Should anything happen to Kit or myself, we want her taken care of. Protected.”

“Nothing will happen to either of you.” I insisted, staring them down. “Not if I have anything to say about it. Which is quite a lot.”

“Dinner’s nearly finished!”

Olivia’s call drew our attention from our small circle in the living room. I could already smell the food and I was starving, having locked myself away most of the afternoon to get much needed writing accomplished. I wasn’t the best in terms of cooking, so others had so happily and dutifully taken up the roles of chefs for the weekly dinners.

I trailed Kit and Dewey as they followed the hall to the dining room. It was a formal room, used only for large gatherings or the dinners hosted weekly. Usually it was here at the manor I had painstakingly planned from the ground up, recently finished. As of next week, Olivia and Jacques had chose to host as they had finally finished their tidying up of the Snicket family home (a total of thirteen blocks down the street from ours). Things seemed to be settling into place, and with it I felt a sense of peace that I hadn’t even dreamed of. Not in a very, very long time.

There was much noise and chatter as the table began to fill, and quickly, everyone settling into usual seats. Jacquelyn and Larry sometimes joined us, but both had been called away on an event and had to miss this week and likely the next. Their chairs sat empty. Jacques and Duncan had taken up a conversation at one end of the table, whilst Klaus and Isadora settled a grinning Sunny into a boosted chair. Kit and Dewey joined the table, and I ducked my head into the kitchen just nearby to see if there was anything else to be done.

“Need a hand?”

“I wouldn’t say no!” Olivia smiled; I was certain there was nothing she couldn’t do, as chef seemed to be one of her recently obtained titles. She offered out a bowl of mashed potatoes; I took it gladly for something to do.

“Violet, can you and Quigley handle the vegetables?”

Violet and Quigley were already putting finishing touches of herbs across roasted vegetables at one end of the island we normally ate breakfast at every morning, and dinner every evening. They both nodded dutifully, and Olivia smiled fondly at the pair.

“Lemony, the roast?”

“Olivia Caliban, you are a slave driver.”

I couldn’t help it; I laughed at Lemony, who made quite an addition to the team of chefs that had taken over my kitchen. He was jesting, of course, but it earned him a sharp jab with a spoon from his soon-to-be sister. My life was being overrun by Snickets.

“I think the hat is a nice touch.” I offered as my only comment to a Lemony who looked lighter and lighter by the day rather than the deeply brooding man I had seen him as. Those moods still changed, still came alive on particular dreary days, but I had made it a mission to ensure they were few and far between, a mission also shared by Violet, Klaus, and Sunny.

Dinner was served and the room filled with chatter, laughter, and quiet conversation. Everything seemed right in the world, and I could only admire the room at length for a while after I had finished eating. I had obtained that sense of normalcy I had so craved, and with it earned a rather large family.

I felt Lemony take my hand beneath the table and we exchanged soft smiles. Now there were two Beatrice Snickets in the room; Lemony and I had agreed no unneeded weddings, and had simply taken a day trip to city hall and signed our names, and exchanged rings. I didn’t need a piece of paper to prove that I loved Lemony Snicket, but we had agreed it best to be put in ink should complications arise.

Violet and Quigley brought out the dessert they had worked on together shortly after, a strawberry shortcake that was divine and when such opinions was voiced, the pair of them blushed the same shade as the strawberries.

After dinner had become a ritual as well. Tea was served, and often everyone gathered in the library. I had been devastated when I’d realized all my books had burned in the fire that destroyed our home, and slowly but surely I was refilling the shelves. There were things I could never get back, of course and the bare spots still left reminded me of that, but with the help of friends I had been able to obtain a rather large amount of the ones I had lost (thank you, Dewey and Olivia; bless the Snickets and their love for librarians).

I nestled myself into a window seat next to Lemony for the time being; shortly arguments would break out about who would be team captain for charades and who would be on who’s team, so we enjoyed the closeness while it lasted. Lemony wrapped an arm around me and I curled against his side, a place I fit so well I almost believed we had been simply meant for one another.

“I take it Kit told you about her and Dewey’s name choice?” He asked quietly, and I felt a huge grin coming on.

“Yes. I’m honored. I can’t believe she would do such a thing.”

“She’ll be well looked after, little Bea. A legacy very long in the making.”

“I do believe she already has you wrapped around her finger, Mr. Snicket. You and Jacques are absolutely charming with her.”

He chuckled quietly, and I melted a bit further into his side. The setting sun had began to cast long rays across the room, reminding me of flames curling up onto the wall, the shelves, the ceiling. Destroying everything. In this light, I could see every bit of particle of floating dust and could almost imagine it as ash falling gently on the ruins of a burned out home.

“You were team captain last time!”

“And we won, so I should get to be team captain again!”

“That isn’t how it goes, and you know it.”

“Why don’t I step in and take over?”

“Isn’t that a coup?”

“The charades government needs a change!”

“Anarchy!”

Right on schedule, enough to pull me fiercely from my thoughts. I still worried some days, that all of this that I had so carefully built up around me would turn to nothing but fire and ash. Smoke in the wind. Our safety was never guaranteed and while Lemony and I took a backseat role to the organizations events, I reminded myself that we would be able to tackle anything that came our way. We would not be separated, and I would dare anyone to lay a hand on my children – or the Quagmires, especially with Jacques and Olivia their permanent guardians.

“I vote Lemony and Beatrice!”

“I accept.” Lemony said at once, and I arched a brow at him as I tugged away.

“Don’t you remember what happened last time you were team captain?”

“I broke a terribly hideous vase; I’d consider that a win-win situation, in truth.” He gave a grin, stretching as if limbering up for some long marathon running. I snorted.

“All right, Snicket. You’re on.”

“Very well, Snicket, I intend to remain undefeated.”

I cracked my knuckles, rolling my head along my shoulders in mirror with my husband. Big grinning idiot that he was some days. I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. Not the happiness I had gathered here, in this room. Would I could bottle it, I’d store it all away for the dreary grey days.

Things would never be as they were, and things were never going to be what they could have been. I was quite content with that knowledge.

The world is quite happy here.

---

"Are you finished reading it yet?" Beatrice Snicket asked, placing a delicate cup of tea on her nightstand. Lemony Snicket peered over the rim of his glasses at his wife with an amused look.

"Just finished. You're quite sentimental in this version." He commented, setting the loose ream of paper to the side. "I like it."

"I thought it needed it. It was quite a chronicle - I told you I only just finished it this morning." Beatrice replied, climbing into bed with a huff. "I worry the editors might not like it because it isn't poetry. But even if it isn't published, I thought the children might like to have a record of things. Especially Sunny and Bea - they're far too young and won't remember a thing before now."

Lemony adjusted as Beatrice settled in against him, picking up a proper paperback book from next to her cooling tea. A nightly event; tea, and reading. Sometimes they read separately, sometimes together, sometimes out loud to one another. 

"It's good. Very. With or without being published."

Beatrice grinned warmly. 

"I'm glad you like it. I was worried you wouldn't. Put too much information in it."

"Not at all. It suits the piece just fine. Far happier than the original draft you had me read weeks ago. Everyone died. Too depressing."

Beatrice gave him a flat look.

"Too depressing? This coming from the king of depressing articles and short stories? I think that's a bit of the pot calling the kettle black, Lemony." She huffed, opening her book to the page she had marked before taking a long sip of tea.

"Is that why you fell in love with me? I was too depressing?"

"No, you were too handsome. Still are. Stop making me cater to your ego."

He frowned, before wrapping her firmly in his arms. Beatrice gasped at the sudden swift movement, surprised to find herself on her back and Lemony's frame above her own. He bent his head to kiss her gently, her fingers tracing idle paths against the skin of his neck.

"Will you write a sequel?" He asked quietly between kisses. She nearly laughed.

"Of course."