Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dear Reader,

I open this file in the name of another, perhaps overstepping my role: some people think an Editor should be as invisible ink, present yet undetectable except in very dire circumstances, like under the heat of a flame. If I take the liberty of making those letters, notes, cyphers and occasional threats public while Mr Snicket is still lost somewhere in the west of the Overarching Ocean, it’s due, so to speak, to a sea change that gave them a new significance.

I am told by my esteem Author (repeatedly, with an increasing amount of despair and redundant punctuation) I’m the last chance for the public to know about the Baudelaires’ story. If that’s the case, perhaps he won’t resent me for this initiative when he reaches shore (as he will soon, if the inscribed roll of dried algae I found this morning in my coffee cup is to be trusted). It is my understanding that he will have far more pressing problems, then.

The collection of items presented here retraces, for the most part, the ongoing correspondence between Mr Snicket and his sister, from the beginning of the Baudelaires’ tragic ordeal to a very recent date. You will excuse the sometimes obscure nature of the documents: written communication between two persons who know each other very well often reads like code, especially when it is, in fact, code. A few independent notes, interspersed in the file in an order I found at first quite mysterious, seem to belong, according to the ducal seal, to the Duchess R of Winnipeg. They have apparently been retrieved by Kit Snicket at a recent date, and sent at this address with her last letters. In one particular place, a fourth hand can be identified: but the least said about it, the best.

This portion of the repository, that I’ll name for clarity purposes "the First Part", was delivered to me two weeks ago by a taciturn frogman. It came in a rust-stained metal box, whose key I had to retrieve out of the biggest fish in the small pond behind the lighthouse where I live. Inside, I also found the manuscript of the eleventh installment of the Baudelaires’ account (working title: “The Caveat Cave”, but I’m told it is in fact more of a grotto) and a note in Mr Snicket’s hand. He explained he had originally intended for the letters to stay private but, I quote, “now I’m worried for my sister. I haven’t received news of her since the last letter I include here, and I fear something may have happened which would justify making her role in this affair more public.” He then adds: “My sister. I remember the shape of her L when she first learned to write. You understand.”

And, dear Reader, I do in fact understand.

I have never met Kit Snicket in person. But I have read and edited enough of her writing to know she is a remarkable woman, one I would like to meet, if only to congratulate her on her pristine use of the semi-colon. It’s a rare talent these days, becoming rarer, much like grass-whistling, firewalking, or keeping a noble heart beating. I too hope she is fine, in the way we hope, reading at night in the illicit light of a torch, that our favorite character is going to defeat evil and save the day. There is a touching vulnerability in that sort of hope.

This file’s First Part would have made a commendable book in itself, one that I would have titled The Snicket Letters or something close, and slipped into the piles of “Riding: the Horselovers Magazine” after breaking into the city’s bookshops on a cloudy night, as is customary. But a few days ago, another package came in, this time for Mr Snicket. It sometimes happens, since he gave my address to his associates in case of emergency (a wise decision considering his last known residence was a dilapidated cupboard perched on the roof of a freight train). The package was in poor shape and had clearly traveled a long way. I opened it. Inside, there were other letters.

Reader, I cannot tell you what I felt then. You must figure it out for yourself as you peruse the second part of this repository, that I will call for clarity purposes "The Other Part". Just like Mr Snicket will have to, when he finally returns. In his absence, I entrust you with the task of drawing whatever conclusion you may from this unfortunate, yet extraordinary ensemble.

Sincerely,

The Editor

Chapter Text

The first and most ancient series of notes in the repository consists in pieces of torn paper so wet they are nearly undecipherable. No trace of code here. The crumpled, smoky forms speak only of sorrow.

K. to L., 6^th of November,

In the middle of Boulevard Noir

L,

Something has happened. There’s a column of smoke rising from their neighborhood, and the smell, and I can’t catch my breath, can’t run fast enough, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.

It’s Wednesday. The children must have been out.

K

6^th of November,

Baudelaire Mansion (running away from)

L,

It’s over. I couldn’t stay, the building was collapsing and someone (who?) spotted me. We knew this would happen. They did, too. But I can’t… I saw them last month, we fixed the museum’s astronomical clock. I have to stop writing: I can’t see a damned thing.

K

6^th of November,

Safe place n°48-a

L,

Do you remember when we were little and Jacques had us in awe with his magic tricks? He would come to us without warning, shove a deck of cards under our noses and say: “Pick a card. Now look at it. Look at it well.” He collected it without a glance, shuffled with an air of finality. “You’ll never see it again.”

And we never did. We would look through the deck again and it was gone. After a few months it became impossible to play anything with so many cards missing. I’ve always wondered what he did with them. I’ll ask him sometime. Perhaps one day we’ll find a half-burned mahogany bed-table in a swamp not too far away from the Valorous Farms Dairy, with a hidden drawer and a secrete compartment. And there: your King of Diamonds, your Queen of Hearts.

We all picked cards. Mom and Dad too. I wasn’t sure why, at the time. We knew they would disappear and yet we continued to choose. Now I believe it was the looking. There is nothing like a long last look.

I know you will hate me for saying this, but there was nothing we could have done. Not even you. It was all decided that night at the opera, and I fear this is a price never fully paid. I was in the middle of a bankers’ meeting, inconspicuous in my pinstriped suit and none of Esmé’s colleagues paid me any attention. We were discussing figures, investments, risk covering, and the window was ajar. There was a gush of wind. The smell descended on us. I was up before I knew what I was doing, and then I ran. I ran in my ridiculous suit, knocking down a few briefcases and a bowl of martini olives. We may very well find out I accidentally triggered a financial crisis: I think I heard someone say “Isn’t she a shareholder for Lucky Smells Lumbermill?”

I drive too fast and I run too slow, you always said, or perhaps it was Jacques, I’m not sure now and I’ve had a glass of something when I finally got in here because… the night was dark. And so, so quiet.

I love you and I’m sorry,

K

L. to K., 7^th of November,

Library of Winnipeg Castle

820.20.8 CON 141-8

842.17.4 COR 28-3

L.

Editor’s Note: After some research, those references seem to correspond to the Dewey identification code of two books in the city’s Grand Central Library catalog, along with a page and a line number.

The first belongs to Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, and reads:

“He cried in a whisper at some image, at some vision – he cried out twice, a cry that was no more than a breath – ‘The horror! The horror!’”

The second points out to The Cid, a play by 17^th century French dramatist Pierre Corneille, with the line:

“Je cherche le silence et la nuit pour pleurer”.

With the invaluable help of the Winnipegian Dictionary, 38^th Edition, I was able to translate it:

“I’m looking for silence, and the night to cry through.”

K. to L., 8^th of November,

Hotel Denouement, Dovecote

L,

I don’t know where you found a puffin so fast, but it was very well-trained and delivered your message with a limited amount of chewing and pecking at my ear. It may sound strange given the circumstances, but I was happy to hear from you.

Things have taken a complicated turn here, and I had to go into hiding for a few days: when I tried to go back to the mansion I was intercepted by a policeman whose badge I did not recognize. He had strangely solid hands. Fortunately I was able to convince him he needed to urgently buy stock from Lucky Smells Lumbermill before the market closed in order to make a fortune, and he ran off (I think one of his hands fell down as he did).

Lemony, whatever you do, stay in Winnipeg, and continue to play dead. I know it's not what you want to read, but if O or the others learn you’re alive after all this time, you won’t stay so for long. Please. It’s all ashes now, I salvaged what I could and it isn’t much. A teacup. B’s watch. A comb. Some books (including, would you believe it, The Littlest Elf). I’ll send everything to you if you want but stay put. Nothing ever burns in Winnipeg, and it’s almost winter. The waters will be too dangerous to cross.

Please, let the distance shield you. Be mad at me, focus on it, let that anger grow and occupy all the space like a thick fog, blurring the rest. You’re my little brother. I remember when the bottoms of your trousers was rolled.

Love,

K

L. to K., 8^th of November,

Winnipeg Pier

Beatrice, oh my Beatrice, I lament since for thee the toll of the dead rings!

I shake my fist at the sky in agony as I am consumed by pain,

Praying against all hope for a second coming.

The claws of destiny tear my heart and plow my back and I err,

Lost without you light, once again struck by the cruel laws that plotted against us

And made the boat of your life capsize like a leaf in the storm.

I cannot bear to think your lovely face and luminous smile have gone from this world

And won’t again light the way to brighter shores.

Will I be forever condemned to ask myself what beast or man took you away from me

This night, of all nights?

Most noble creature, you walked the earth soothing the old and the sick, singing until the laugh of charmed children rang through the woods!

But not anymore.

Editor’s Note: As an Editor, I must say I’ve always been puzzled by the style of Mr Snicket’s introductory poems (a word which here means I’ve never thought much of them aesthetically). However, after perusing his correspondence I’ve become more fluent at some of the traditional code systems, and it appears to me there must have been more to them than my untrained eye originally perceived.

Chapter Text

The documents archived in the second series of this section present a starch contrast of format: on one side, long pieces of soggy, recycled paper, white with salt in places; on the other hastily scribbled messages on what look like cheap cigarette paper along with the occasional telegram, both reeking of sulfur. Also of interest in this bundle is the uncertain role played by the Duchess R of Winnipeg in the reported events.

K. to L., 11^th of November,

Mulholland Match Manufacture’s cutting room

L,

I’m writing this in a hurry during my 3 minutes 45 seconds mandatory break. Urgent reports came in about suspicious activities at a match factory in the city’s periphery: after all these fires (the Quagmires, too) we are wondering if someone (presumably a great chemist) has come up with a flammable solution more efficient against the emerald wood we use for construction. I’m there undercover: this could take some time.

For that reason I’ll be brief (1 minute 55 seconds): be careful. I ran into R before I left. I knew she'd been in the city for a few weeks, as is often the case in that season, but I was surprised she left you all alone in the Duchy. It’s always weird to see her out of Winnipeg, as if she couldn’t really exist far from the rivers. Anyway, I told her you caught a boat (though I begged you not to). You know how particular she usually is about entering and exiting the domain. But she was in a great hurry too, and only frowned for a moment before saying: “Perhaps it’s for the best”. She had to go then: I do hope if she’s there it means that someone is taking c [interrupted]

My time is up, I must go back to chopping sticks of wood. So many splinters already.

Send an address. I don’t know where to write.

K.

L. to K., 12^th of November,

Middle of the ocean (but not halfway there)

K,

I have no idea when this will reach you, since that puffin didn’t come back (we will have to check the coastal beacons, could you write to J?). I’m training a mackerel I caught earlier this morning, and you know how our success rate with fishes goes: gulping down messages seems to be all they’re good for.

I could say I’ve sleep-walked through the past few days, but sleep-walking generally involves far less rollers and nausea. I wish I could sleep. I wish I could spit my heart into the sea.

Do your remember your time in Winnipeg? There is something about this town that just tells you to play dead. It’s an inexorable place. My memories of it are already difficult to gather, and I’ve been gone for four days. The town wrapped itself around me like a great coat of boredom and snow and left me quite numb. Now that the shore is out of sight, I’m worried my soul will begin to melt.

Nothing truly ever happens to you in Winnipeg. Reality sometimes knocks at the door, but the Duchess never opens: she doesn’t entertain on Mondays. “Time and time again,” she told me. “A second is a second is a second. There have been duchesses for hundreds of years, and we’ll be there still in another hundred. Play you round, and pass the tea.” And she smiled her mysterious smile, looked up at the sky and announced it would snow the next morning.

The strange thing is, it’s impossible not to think about death in Winnipeg. Every place, every back-alley is named after someone we used to know. Statues of ancient warriors have the face of peaceful volunteers of the past. Every book our organization ever produced over the years sits openly in the public library. The locals don’t suspect a thing. “Who was Euphemia Snicket again?” they ask, and their grand-mother shrugs, unsure. “Do you know that sestina by Rachael Sebald?” Their cousin doesn’t, but she learns the poem so she can forget it again. Every day our names are uttered. People repeat them as they go on with their morning, unconscious subjects of the Duchy. R says she’s fine with clandestinity. “Nobility revels it in. And I do reign in my own way”. Then she smiles, looks up, and forecasts more snow.

Winnipeg is our past, but perhaps also our future. I wrote a lot during my stay. R insisted on keeping everything for the Library: “Free culture,” she said. “This is a capital principle in here, each word shall be preserved by and for public memory. You will be read by thousands. Winnipegians have a taste for the dramatic.”

A few days before I received your letters, I was browsing through the shelves of said library. The building is huge and I took up to walk there because it’s the only place where there was no risk of recognizing the face of our mother in the third nymph statue of the Millenium Fountain. A young boy ran me by. He must have been close to our age when we got our tattoo. He was shouting joyfully, as if librarians weren’t terrifyingly fond of their silence: “Mom, mom! Look, I’ve found a book that teaches you to code messages for your friends! You have to count words and everything!” Do you know what his mother said? Not “Since you know about this, you’ll have to leave home for the next five years”, nor “If anything happens to me, use that on my will to know who I appointed tutor, and in which hierarchical order”. No, she only said: “Oh, that sounds fun. Borrow it if you want, we’ll use it for games on your birthday party.” It didn’t even sound like the kind of birthday party where only half the cake has been poisoned and one of your evil twin is posing as you posing as him to confuse the waiter. I had to sit for a bit by the “C” row of the Essay Section, and reflect.

I’ve lived through many tragedies, but I think the biggest one to date is that I have now forgotten what I understood in that moment.

“My dear,” R said. “You know how much I like you. But sometimes you torture yourself too much. I’ll put you up at L, for Lamentations. It will be all the rage.” She smiled. Then she went out to cut another ribbon for the bronze of a 19^th century doctor who looked just like Josephine’s father.

I’m feeling a bit sea-sick now. I’m realizing I’ve forgotten the children’s age. How old is Violet again? Won’t that be a concern? And why aren’t you writing about it?

Please let me know as soon as you can,

Your devoted brother,

L.

The Duchess’s Journal, Entry 1

November 12^th: Two ships, passing each other in the night. And I must stay silent.

Editor’s note: Contrary to what I originally thought, this is not a haiku.

Telegram send on the 15^th of November from Mulholland Tourist Information Center. /!\ 4 words remained to be paid for, please call 098-989-977-11.

WE MESSED UP STOP. THE CHILDREN ARE WITH O STOP. THEY'RE SAFE FOR NOW STOP. WE'VE GOT A PLAN TO STOP HIM STOP.

K

K. to L., November 15^th,

Mulholland Match Manufacture Dormitory

L,

Sorry I didn’t go into details earlier, I could only negotiate a 10 minutes 35 seconds extraordinary leave of absence to run to the tourist station, and while I think I must have established a record that would make old Ms Tench at Prufrock proud, it wasn’t really enough to explain. I’m writing this letter on the nightly 5 hours sleep-break though, so we should be good. Pardon any mistake: I’m very tired.

As I understand it, we were too slow on the legal front (something to do with all the lawyers defecting to the other side sooner or later, J’s words not mine). Poe got to them almost immediately, if you can believe it: “death, taxes and pulmonary banker” (again, quoting J). Mr Poe! I remember thinking he was probably dying when he collected us all those years ago: I’m afraid he will bury everyone. The bank, of course, hasn’t been safe for a long time, and somewhere in the process the wills were falsified. Now Olaf has them. Violet is fourteen, L, only fourteen.

All my matches are crooked and break before I can finish sanding them. I suspected J learned about this before I did and chose to send me here so I couldn’t do anything stupid. It’s infire infurious maddening (and awfully patronizing, a word which here means I’ve never done anything so peremptory to either of you). I, of all people, should have known exactly what O’s like.

Fourteen. And Sunny only three. I thought of them as soon as I smelled the smoke, you know. And then, I think I forgot.

I could kill him. J doesn’t believe me, but I’ve thought about it before. I think I could. It’s not a particularly noble thought.

Don’t go there when you arrive: if all goes according to plan they’ll be with one of us by then – W was able to access the Baudelaire’s safe, don’t ask how in this weather, and retrieved copies of the wills, so we’ll use that.

I’m realizing I don’t even know when you’ll see this: your mackerel did swim up to here amazingly, gave me quite a fright when I tried to brush my teeth, but I’m still not sure about your address. If you must know, I indeed had to cook it to get to your letter (thanks for a great meal by the way: we’re paid in cigarettes and no one would trade me any food).

Be safe,

K

L. to K., November 16^th,

Somewhere along the coast with very low water level

K,

I’ve reached the shore (a word which here means at some point when we were nearing the coast, the skipper cried “Iceberg!”–when really there was no need to be so dramatic if I do say so myself– and after a moment of confused stirring I was ejected from the boat and had to swim the rest of the way). I feel like a fish out of water now– but it must be the time difference, or the latitude difference, or the Beatrice difference. Either way, I wouldn’t say no to one of Ishmael’s grogs.

It occurred to me, as I fought the coastal currents and avoided the (very minor) ice blocks, that given my “presumed dead” status and since all of our main residences are being watched, I don’t have a place to stay. It would be fine if it were spring and I could find one of Monty’s tree houses in the Emerson Forest, but the weather is a bit too chill for that, no matter what R would say.

And then, as I continued to swim, I began to notice the water level was receding unexpectedly, and I found myself on a long depression of white sand. It seemed to go on for miles. This is when I remembered I’ve still got a friend near the coast. She lives in a lighthouse, and wouldn’t want to have anything to do with our organization, though I offered several times in the past. Maybe she’d take me in, if I explained. It’s been years and I’ve done things we all regret, but she loves news, and it feels like things keep happening to me.

If she lets me stay I’ll send you her address through the usual channel.

Love,

L

Chapter Text

This third bunch is a somewhat calmer set of documents, although as an Editor I must lament the occasional misshapen words in the first letter, and the lost pasta stuck to the second one. Despite a rocky beginning, there’s an odd sense of calm here. And in the midst of it, the beginning of a project.

K to L, November 30^th,

Cupboard of the Mulholland Match Manufacture’s laboratory

L,

One way or another, my undercover work here is coming to an end: either I’ll manage to slip out unnoticed, or else I will be caught hiding in that cupboard with classified chemical formulae on me, and I don’t think pretending to be a Health and Safety executor will work twice in a row. I hope my pencil isn’t too noisy. Also, I’m writing this in the dark, so you’ll have to guess if a word comes out too alliterated. I managed to send samples of the solution they use for matches here to Monty, and he said that while chemistry isn’t his field there’s something concupiscent in the composition. Intriguingly, he writes that it may have something to do with Lake Lachrymose – but that’s all I’ve heard so far.

He’s also offered to take the children in. I hope you’ll agree it’s possibly our best choir, given that J is monitoring both the bank and O, I’m locked up in a cupboard and you’re… well you’re not supposed to be alive. I’m sorry L, I know this must be difficult. But would you really want to see them face to face?

Speaking of, I may be back in the city soon. And I’d love to see you, after all this time. But I’m going to have to ask you to wait for a bit. I know time is a luxury we don’t have, and believe me I’m in a position where I cannot ignore how precarious our lives have become. It’s just that while you were away I was able to pretend you lived somewhere sunny, like Honolulu or Provence, safe and happy. I know it’s silly. I just have to prepare. Seeing you among the ashes and the banks might shatter whatever peace of mind I have left. Give me a fortnight.

Thank you for the address, I’ll send you my new one asap.

Love,

K

L. to K., December 4th,

Olaf’s mansion, attic

K,

I understand needing time. Do you remember that line from Anna Karenina? I too know what our unhappiness looks like.

I’ve got something to tell you but first I want to assure you I took absolutely all the necessary precautions before doing what I did. I dressed up, took a long and convoluted road on a moonless night, retraced my steps four times, suddenly turned around pointing at strangers in the street and cried “Aha! I know you’ve been following me!” thrice (with no results), monitored the roofs and the tunnels, changed clothes between locations, and carried a mirror all the way to the Baudelaires’ street.

There’s nothing left. I just needed to see it for myself. I kept thinking the mansion should be someplace else, that I took a wrong turn. I checked the address, looked through the nearby streets waiting for someone to tap me on the shoulder and say “oh them, well they’ve moved uptown last month, commutes were awful they said”.

Which is probably why I went to O’s. Remember that J assured me the place was deserted. It’s indeed quite empty, so empty in fact that I lost myself for a while. I shudder to think the children were here for a few days. Hidden behind the dilapidated furniture and the cobwebs, I found a clever little tent, something they must have built – Violet’s style hasn’t changed all that much. There were teeth marks on the staircase’s ramp. And in the kitchen, between rusty pots and pans, pasta scattered on the floor. I stood there for a while, looking at the pasta, remnants of sauce still clinging to it, and I felt strangely moved. It was like seeing a dead rabbit on the side of the road: the sadness, the scandal. There must be a Winnipegian word for it, even though putanesca is definitely a Mediterranean dish.

Maybe I should write about this. We have a duty to those children and what they’re going through. We’re part of what brought them here. We scattered the pasta. Besides, I won’t pretend this didn’t feel awfully familiar. Remember the Orphan Shack? or don’t, it’s best if you don’t.

So we know. But will Monty tell them? I’m not saying I’ve got any claim, but they have the right to know too. Everything. The truth. Will he tell them?

L

K. to L., December 6^th,

Safe place n°9

L,

I debated with myself how I should respond to your last letter, like in old training days when one was only allowed to leave philosophy class after unequivocally winning a moral argument while playing both sides. In retrospect, they taught us well.

I wanted to yell at you for going to that house (it was inevitable you would visit the Baudelaires’, I understand, but O’s, O’s was reckless). I wanted to lecture you for believing, at your age, that Theodora’s method for not being tailed works (the pointing thing can only be used once, after that people understand it’s an act). I wanted to remind you that the truth is as elusive as the ashes that once were those children’s house, but then I realized I was being dishonest. I wanted to hug you, just in general.

I spoke with Monty. He says that telling them about VFD implicates us even further, because it would effectively mean recruiting them. That they have a right to be children. And that the circle of revenge is not easily broken. I’m not one to say he’s wrong. None of us will. And yet I can’t help but feel “critical thinking” isn’t just a phrase for situations in which a factory guard is charging at you and you have only ten seconds to find a way to knock him out with a pickle jar and broken matches (unrelated, but did you know that if you mixed acetic acid with phosphorus sulfides, it exploded?). One must be allowed to decide for oneself. What is it the Duchess said to you again? Free culture.

You always were a troublemaker, Snicket. You stood on tables before crowds of angry volunteers as soon as you were tall enough to climb them. We were always in the minority. But I remember the Orphan Shack.

So the truth, yes. When we get to them, we’ll tell them the truth. In the meantime, write about it. We may know what our unhappiness looks like, but they probably don’t. They’re just kids.

I also wanted to apologize for my last letter. It was cowardly. I was dead on my feet and half-starved, but that’s no excuse. I’m back. We should meet. I want to see your face. And I just happen to be in possession of quality root-beer and ice cream.

See you at SP9 at the time Dad used to take his nap?

K

Chapter Text

K. to L., December 12^th,

Corner of Pym and Nantucket

L,

Monty is dead. I was going to code this, started counting the words, then stopped. Sometimes I disgust myself. He was probably the best of us, those who are left. Perhaps it’s not a good sign that we managed to survive that long.

He was leaving the country, taking them away. I could punch a wall. In fact I did before turning on Pym Street, so you’ll have to excuse my handwriting. The reptiles, the lab, all his research. Find an Editor for that book you’re writing, L. Find them quickly. Then write about Monty too. I want the people of Winnipeg to read of a man his parents chose to name Montgomery Montgomery and who still, despite all odds, managed to be the most gentle soul.

I can’t even grieve properly: we’re dealing with two fires at once. J called me to say there’s apparently an ongoing blaze at the Sebald Institute: something about magnesium movie reels spontaneously combusting. They’re containing it for now, but need urgent reinforcements. Which means I won’t be able to get to the lab in time to see if any of Monty’s notes on the samples I sent him survived. Could you please go for me? Do a Hitchcock maybe, since I’m expected there? Let me know if you find anything.

The children will have to go to Josephine. Unfortunate as it is, she was next on the will and we can’t go on blaming lawyers left and right (though J certainly tries). These awful circumstances don’t help, as you can imagine, and we had to negotiate a great deal for her to accept. It’s a good thing she did, because after that I think it would have been Prufrock, and as Bartleby says, “I would prefer not to”.

I would prefer not to run into another fire. I would prefer not to think about my dead friend. I would prefer not to take this taxi whose driver should look familiar and does not. And yet here I am, L. Here I always am.

Love,

K

L. to K., December 12^th,

Stain’d-by-the-Sea, first floor of a lighthouse

891.25.21 256-12-14

For Monty, who spoke to everyone, and everything, with the same consideration.

L

Editor’s Note: This seems to be the classification number of a recent Estonian novel titled “The Man Who Spoke Snakish”, by Andrus Kivirähk. The referenced passage reads like this:

“Although we’re heading in the same direction, we will never meet again. So great is the sea and so tiny are we.”

The Duchess’s Journal, Entry 2

December 11^th: Visions of memories thinning and melting in the flames. Reels of our own faces, of our friends’, forever gone. Some people said they would burn every trace of us. But in Winnipeg, the rivers repeat the old adage:

“Some say the world will end in fire, some say ice

I hold with those in favor of fire

But if I had to perish twice

To say that for destruction ice

Is also great

And would suffice.”

For safety, our secret must be kept.

Editor’s note: I’m by no mean an expert on the local culture of Winnipeg, but this appears to be a truncated version of a Robert Burn’s poem. I cannot determine for certain if this is code or not. I suppose, in its own way, that all poetry is code.

L. to K., December 18^th,

Ruins of the Reptile Room

K,

All things aren’t lost to the fire; at least not all of Monty’s notes are. I heard the animals were taken away as well, but I’m not entirely sure which side got hold of them, so just to be sure we should probably get a booster shot against the Guatemalan Toad’s venom again. I did a Hitchcock as you suggested: I honestly think you would be proud. Your old glasses add a lot to it, but my wig was quite convincing too. I’ve worked on my frowning technique, and repeated “That’s all very well, Jacques, but don’t you think I should drive?” until I got the intonation right. All in all, I made a very passable you.

Attached is a copy of what I could find in Monty’s notes. I’ll send you the original later, I’m still working on deciphering some of it (your handwriting is nothing compared to his).

It’s silly, but it’s been ages since we did a Hitchcock, and as I walked past destroyed bookshelves, broken tubes and cages, it somewhat comforted me to be dressed as you. These are troubled times, and I wish we could see more of each other, so it almost recreated the idea of going on an adventure with you. Of course, in an ideal, quiet world, this adventure would take place on a mysterious island where unusual fungi grow, or on a spooky phantom vessel in the southern seas, and not in the ruins of a dead friend’s house. But the world isn’t ideal anymore than it’s quiet, and this will have to do for now.

Love,

L

“Notes on sample 38-c, from MMM, sent by K.

Series of tested reactions: acetyl chlorine, phosphate ammonium, fluorine, sodium, citric acid (lemon juice).

The samples reacted to the most volatile elements, which is quite worrying for matchwood, as one usually wishes to avoid spontaneous combustion.

Flame tests: the flame quality obtained is very high, the reaction accelerating until reaching a critical point. Color: purplish-blue. Temperature: three of four times higher than that of a regular match flame.

The wood seems to have been specially treated with a mixture of various biological components, strongly evocative of ???, or maybe [undecipherable: “elf”? But surely not]. It’s hard to be sure though: ??? seems unlikely as it is very hard to reach. However, if the ??? origin is confirmed, this could be very bad news.

Probable origin of the components: Lake Lachrymose.

Note to self: should I ask Josephine? It could upset her, but I’m sure she would have some useful insight, if I could get her to speak to me again. I miss our flights.”

Chapter Text

L. to K., December 30^th,

Stain’d-by-the-Sea, first floor of the lighthouse

813.541.19.MEL 589-14-22

For Josephine, once flying through the mountains.

L

Editor’s Note: This reference was easier to identify, as it corresponds to a well-known classic, Melville’s Moby Dick. The passage reads as such:

“There is a wisdom that is woe; but there is a woe that is madness. And there is a Catskill eagle in some souls that can alike dive down into the blackest gorges, and soar out of them again and become invisible in the sunny spaces. And even if he for ever flies within the gorge, that gorge is in the mountains; so that even in his lowest swoop the mountain eagle is still higher than other birds upon the plain, even though they soar.”

K. to L., January 2^nd,

Sebald Institute, projection room


L,

The air is finally breathable, after days of setting up an improvised water chain out of soaked movie costumes and wigs – nothing burns like magnesium reels. The specific silvery flame they produce imprinted on my retina like a photographic flash: since yesterday there’s been a white spot superimposing on everything I see. Imagine: a fire that had been going on for a week. It’s out now. But Lemony, there were hundreds of VFD films in that room. Sally is devastated. She says it’s like seeing Gustav die a second time. I’ve only lost you once, so I stayed silent. I didn’t want to say the wrong thing.

She couldn’t go in; I went alone. At first it was like walking into an oven: pitch black, suffocating. Something made crispy sounds under my feet. Then my eyes got used to the smoky darkness, and I saw them, sprouting out of the linoleum: strange plastic algae, twisted at unnatural angles. Melted reels, petrified by fire. Sometimes, under the light of my torch, I could almost see the deformed, transparent images they used to host.

This is what our future looks like. Codes and secrets fused to the ground, skeletons of memories one can no longer conjure. Will we still exist, do you think, when every trace of us is gone?

You know, they didn’t find Josephine’s body. She has disappeared without a sign. Perhaps in a year we’ll see the white line of a plane in the sky, and wonder.

I heard through my banking cover that the children have been sent to Lucky Smells Lumbermill (I’m still officially a share-holder, it seems). It’s not a bad hiding place, though I must say I still worry. I know we keep loosing our lawyers, but what about child’s labor?

Thank you for the notes: I’ll have a look at it when my vision (hopefully) goes back to normal. In the meantime, I have something for you in return. Not every reel in that room burned. A few, inexplicably, survived. This one is a bit smoky on the edges, but I think you’ll want to see it. Hope the lighthouse has a projector somewhere.

Happy New Year,

Love,

K

Editor’s Note: Attached to this letter is an ashy metal box containing several reels of film. Of course a lighthouse is an excellent natural projector, one only has to know how to redirect the light, and so I took the liberty.

It’s a short movie, a silent one too as far as I can tell. The images are slightly caramelized, giving them an oldish look probably beyond their years. In the center of the screen we see two persons dancing, tightly embraced. The camera spins around them as they sway. The man’s face is never fully visible: the line of his shoulders and hair suggest he’s young, and I think I recognize Mr Snicket. From time to time, the woman looks directly at us, the audience, and raises her fingers: two, then four, then one, and nine, eight, nine. It’s a date. Set far in the past, a message to volunteers who are, for the most part, long gone. But, under the light of the projector, the two dancers endure. Round and round they go, holding onto each other. There should be music to accompany them: its mute presence is almost palpable. Although they never look at each other, tenderness sips through the movement of their arms, the pressing of their fingers.

I let the movie roll on for hours. Now, as I close my eyes, I can still see the silhouettes turning.

L. to K., January 3^rd,

Stain’d-by-the-Sea, empty depression, among the sea weeds

K,

I’ve just understood something crucial. I was going through Monty’s notes once again, trying to decipher all these question marks. And it hit me like the spot of a lighthouse hit the sea monster as it pops its head above water. K, those aren’t question marks. Or rather, they are – asking something that cannot be answered. The sign of the Beast.

I’m a fool for not seeing this sooner. I, of all people, should know.

And now those mysterious parts read like this:

“The wood seems to have been specially treated with a mixture of various biological components, strongly evocative of ??? [the Bombinating Beast].”

“??? [the Bombinating Beast] seems unlikely since it’s so hard to reach – or maybe [elf eggs?]”

“If the ??? [Bombinating Beast] origin is confirmed, this could be very bad news.”

And so it is. Bad news. Terrible, even. I’d go as far to say it’s a Vividly Fatal Disaster.

So in short, it seems your matches were made more powerfully flammable using a mixture originating from Lake Lachrymose (since there were traces of its soil in the samples), and largely composed of degraded Bombinating Beast’s tissues or, perhaps more likely, of its eggs. This is where I loose the plot. The Beast wasn’t supposed to lay more eggs. I thought we made sure the Lachrymose leeches were its last progeny. I need to know what happened.

I’m heading to Lachrymose immediately. Maybe I’ll find something that will help me document the children’s time there, too. I doubt Josephine is still alive, but if she managed to flee somehow and is at sea, may the sky protect her.

L

K. to L., January 6^th,

Sebald Institute, basement

Oh, fuck.

K

Chapter Text

K. to L., January 20^th,

Hotel Denouement, upper art gallery


L,

“In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.”

K

Editor’s Note: One will have recognized the refrain of the famous “Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”. I cannot say I ever fully understood it. I can’t see how there is so much to be discussed.

L. to K., January 25^th,

East of the Finite Forest,

K,

Please tell me you’re kidding. Prufrock? I thought we had abandoned the place. Who decided this? I understand the wills have authority, but since that disastrous “Coded Climbing 101” back in training, we know that authority sometimes needs to be challenged.

I couldn’t find anything relevant at Lake Lachrymose, except a bunch of unreasonably voracious leeches (I’m fine, but my brand new leather shoes aren’t. In fact they are now my brand new colander). What I have found, however, is small traces of the Baudelaires’ ordeal. Equations, scribbled on the corner of a table that was floating near the shore. A mistreated shoelace. The sign for Josephine’s house, which is basically all that’s left of it, had teeth marks on it too. Can you believe that people at the fish market are gossiping that Josephine eloped with a sailor and put the children in a boat “so they might sink or they might swim, but they’d never come back to her”? It’s already turning into a sea shanty. What a dreadful neighborhood.

I’m still concerned about the Beast, but maybe Monty’s notes only meant it could be leeches’ eggs, which is still bad but not as worrying (the little monsters do hatch from time to time). Having made no substantial progress, I’m heading to the mill, to collect evidence about whatever happened there (do you know anything? Are the rumors true?). I’m hearing they need a new optometrist: at least that’s one easy disguise.

Love,

L

K. to L., February 1^st,

Hotel Denouement, orchard


L,

I am, sadly, serious, and this time I’ve had just about enough. I think I dare to eat a peach. I’m going there. You know how the school is always tragically understaffed? Well I’m more than qualified, and trust me I won’t teach the wonders of the metric system. Someone out there is going to read Anna Karenina whether they like it or not.

I don’t know what you’ve heard about the mill, but the rumors are indeed quite confusing. J has been sent to investigate the matter: the short of it is that Georgina is dead (how? It can’t be the children, I simply refuse to believe it). However, conflicting versions are circulating, for Sally told me quite anxiously before I left that she had heard you were the one who died at Lumbermill. I was quite confident this was baloney, having received your last letter the day before. But still, it’s worrying. Do you think anyone saw you, at Lachrymose? I hope our enemies haven’t started to use the ravens again. I’ve ask D to keep an ear to the ground (of the hotel’s third floor, where his brother E is on duty).

I’m leaving soon, but first I have to make a quick stop by the coast: Widdershins sent a telegram to the Institute, asking if I would set up a message in case Josephine is actually alive. Something to do with shell coding, it wasn’t the clearest and my marine biology skills are rusty; anyway that shouldn’t take long. I’ll speak to the children, when I’m at Prufrock. I’ll tell them the truth. I promise.

Love,

K

Chapter Text

L. to K., February 18^th,

Paltryville, optometrist's cabinet

K,

Where are you?

L

L. to K., February 22^nd,

Ruins of the Valorous Farms Dairy

K,

I’ve written to D and to J: no one knows where you are. Why aren’t you answering my letters? Please write as soon as you can.

Worriedly,

L

L. to K., February 26^th,

Under the Fountain of Victorious Finance

Kit,

There hasn’t been a fire. For once in all of the world’s history, there hasn’t been a fire anywhere and I still can’t find you. I’ve called around, sent telegrams. I’ve asked an entire bus of scouts if they’d been good to their mother. I’ve even tried to find O (I know you wouldn’t. But he would, wouldn’t he?).

The search ultimately led me back here, to the city. J told me the children had been sent to Jerome – and then muttered something about “killers, thieves and lawyers”. You were right: it’s high time we take matters into our own hands. I just had mine manicured, and stole a pinstriped suit from an unsuspecting banker who didn’t pay attention to open manholes. Hopefully, it will suffice to get into Esmé’s building: I tried once but the doorman pointed out that I simply wasn’t “in” enough.

And of course I’m not. I’m not “in”, I’m besides myself with worry, out of focus, off the mark, overanxious and confused beyond measure.

If you can’t write, try to leave some traces. Or burn something, and I’ll run.

Your brother,

Lemony

K. to L., February 29^th,

The coast

L,

I’ve seen it.

And I’m alive. I’m alive for now.

I was arranging shells to form coordinates on the sea floor where Widdershins had indicated, and I remember thinking that the coded colors made for a nice pattern. Everything was silent, the water as flat as a polished pebble. And then, there was a great wave.

I don’t know how long I swam, trying to keep my head out. After a while I reached a solitary sandbar, quite miraculously for there was water all around, as far as my eyes could see. I stayed there for maybe two days, eating weeds. The sandbar remained emerged.

And then, on the second day’s morning, I woke up feeling a sort of pressure in the air. My face was covered in sand and salt, I had trouble seeing anything in the blinding daylight. The seagulls had stopped crying.

And it was there, coming out of the sea, immense and ineffable, motionless. There are no words for it. But it wasn’t the Beast that we know. For there were three. Younger. Children. Three questions marks with no face, mouths like dark tunnels and eyes, thousands of them. All those eyes were looking at me with something I can’t name. It was almost as if they were pondering.

I thought of Winnipeg, then, I believe.

And after a moment, the questions unraveled. The forms sank back into the sea, whales of woe, having somehow decided: “Not today.”

After that I got hold of a floating tree branch, and swam ashore.

K

K. to L., March 4^th,

Planktown-upon-the-sea

L,

I’ve found shelter not too far from where I was stranded: I’m fine now. A couple of fishermen took me in, and fed me oysters and sour soup. I slept. I had something of a fever, at least that’s what they told me, and they looked quite concerned – perhaps I talked too much when I arrived.

Sorry about my last letter: it was written in a daze. I’m not too sure when I actually sent it, and how. The dates look impossible to me. I don’t understand what happened, and what I saw.

As strange as that sounds, I think we should let it rest, for now. Whatever it was is out of our control. It would be like fighting the sea itself. And I quite like the sea.

Sally transferred me a letter she recently received: Prufrock has reviewed my resume, and they want to hire me of course. I can’t believe the children have already been expelled. It certainly speaks well for their character, but how is it that everyone, and I mean everyone (myself included) is failing so badly to offer them a chance of settling down?

Anyway, I think I’ll take the job, for a short period. I need to read. And I’ll be able to send you intelligence for your next book. J tells me we might need to monitor the teaching staff before the next VFD meeting. I wish I could help more but I’m feeling so inert, as if something had been sucked out of me.

Please be careful. Esmé is so much more dangerous than we generally assume, and I hope Beatrice’s bats are still living in the trees of Boulevard Noir because she deserves to be haunted by something too.

Take care,

K

The Duchess’s Journal, Entry 3

February 29^th: She’s awake.

Chapter Text

At this point in the repository, I must intervene once more. Three hands can usually be identified in this First Part: Mr Snicket’s, his sister’s, and the Duchess of Winnipeg’s. The next document, however, cannot be attributed to either of them. It isn’t signed. The paper is dirty, the letters sharp and tall. The envelop it was delivered in was folded manually, without care, from a Daily Punctilio paper. It contains, in addition to the following note, a single playing card. A Jack of Hearts.

2^nd of April,

Village of Fowl Devotees

Pick a card. Now look at it. Look at it well.

L. to K., April 2^nd,

Stain’d-by-the-Sea, lighthouse

Kit,

I think Jacques is dead.

Lemony

K. to L., April 3^rd,

Prufrock Academy, library

Lemony,

I’ve received your letter but I can’t make sense of it. You’ve misinterpreted a coded message. Or someone tricked you. It’s not true. It’s impossible.

Jacques can’t be dead because I’ve seen him a fortnight ago, and he was fine, everything was fine, he was leaving for the Village with a good cover, he had a hiding place, and a weapon.

He can’t be dead because he sent telegrams to D regularly, and we’ve got one as recently as Monday.

He can’t be dead because he’s the best at that sort of things, and a terrific journalist.

He can’t be dead because he knows the world isn’t quiet.

He can’t be dead because everyone always liked him, wherever he went.

He can’t be dead because he said to me “See you at the Hotel in two months, Kitty”, and I chastised him, I hate that nickname.

He can’t be dead because he also said “Congratulations. I know you’ll be a wonderful mother.”

He can’t be dead because this can’t be happening to us, not again, not after everything else, that must be enough, it has to be.

He can’t be dead because I’m sure it’s all a magic trick.

He can’t be dead because, then, how can we be alive?

Jacques can’t be dead because he’s our big brother and he always knows best: how will we continue then, how will we cope without him?

Please don’t answer, not yet

Kit

The Duchess’s Journal, Entry 4

3^rd of April: And now the mourning begins.

Chapter Text

K. to L., May 16^th,

Hotel Denouement,

L,

Sorry for not writing for so long. It was good to see you, though. It helped.

I wanted to tell you that D received intelligence regarding the Library of Records’s destruction last month. Apparently, the children were at the Heimlich Hospital around that time, but it’s all very confused – by which I mean we just offered a room at the Hotel to a very confused archivist (called Hal), whose story raises more questions than it brings answers. You should probably speak to him. He’s a good sort, I’m almost sure, but Sunny bit him as they escaped (he seemed quite shocked). That kid was always going to be a triumph, I knew it as soon as I saw her little round head in the old-fashioned, frilly carriage Beatrice loved. They must have changed so much, and in more than one way. I’m not referring to the absurdities the Daily Punctilio is keen on publishing these days, of course. Have you seen they’re trying to pin Jacques’s death on them? I understand now why he was so mad about lawyers. There is no justice in this world.

Your sister,

K

L. to K., May 20^th,

Last Chance General Store

K,

Once again my trip to the coast amounted to nothing. I know you don’t want me to investigate the matter of the Beasts, but I find it pretty haunting. And everywhere I go I chance upon new information about the children. I can’t help but feel these two concerns are linked in ways that are too obscure to understand. Or perhaps I’m just chasing a white whale, and answers, reparation and forgiveness have all swum away for good.

The owner of the shop I’m writing from is a surprisingly generous soul (although he’s begun to look at me strangely after the first four hours I’ve spent here), and I was able to send a free telegraph to S, who then sent a telegraph to U, who sent one to V, who sent one to W who answered me through Morse code the local machine can apparently detect. I didn’t expect this much technology from a Hinterlands store, but I’m certainly not going to complain. From what W told me, I may need to find Olivia: she’s the last known person to have been in possession of a map of ocean currents that would be very useful to try and trace the origin of the eggshells at the bottom of Lake Lachrymose. I’m afraid that won’t be easy: she’s always been so good at hiding.

I’ve got to go: I’m under the impression that friendly shopkeeper is now slowly dialing the police’s number, or possibly the Daily Punctilio’s, under his counter. I should have known not to overstay my welcome.

Love,

L

L. to K., May 31^st,

Caligari Carnival

821.01.20 SMI 48-3-6

For Olivia, who didn’t deserved this.

L

Editor’s Note: I’m sad to say that this refers to one of Stevie Smith’s poem, from Harold’s Leap, called “The Roman Road”. These are the very first lines:

“Oh Lion in a peculiar guise,
Sharp Roman road to Paradise,
Come eat me up, I'll pay thy toll
With all my flesh, and keep my soul.”

K. to L., June 3^rd,

Hotel Denouement, parking lot

L,

Oh no, not Olivia.

It’s always him, isn’t it? From the start, everywhere we look. I don’t understand how we’ve come to this. I feel no time has passed since we were eighteen, and he recited William Carlos William to me.

I wish Olivia had realized not wanting to take sides never protected anyone. She used to be a friend, long ago. But so many people have died since, it’s hard to forgive.

I haven’t got much time: D ran into trouble in the mountains, and no one’s available. So I will run to his side, because it’s the only side there is, as far as I’m concerned: it’s always been about the people you’re standing next to.

PS: Have you found the map?

Love,

K

The Duchess’s Journal, Entry 5

June 4^th: Things are becoming difficult, as I knew they would. She does not want to stay away. Perhaps I should write to Kit, and explain.

Chapter Text

As a whole, this repository contains a lot of wet documents. The cause, of course, varies: rain, fresh water, tears and above all salt water. But in this specific series, humidity has become a problem so serious half the letters (Mr Snicket’s) are effectively illegible, with only isolated words emerging from time to time in an ocean of diluted ink. As a result, we only have Kit Snicket’s part of the correspondence to try and understand what unfolded, which leaves a lot in the dark. Here is what I know: Mr Snicket left the lighthouse on June 5^th, having retrieved a maritime chart whose route he intended to follow. He procured a sailboat down the coast, telling me he would be back within a week. I did not see him for a fortnight. When he finally reappeared, he only stayed a few minutes to entrust me with his last manuscript, then jumped into my car, shouting something about a hotel and a fire. This was three weeks ago, and it’s the last I saw of him, although I have since received the notes I spoke of in the Foreword, and of course the present collection of documents, whose First Part is now coming to a close.

L. to K.,          8^th ,

             sea,   tempest

K,

                                                      followed the currents from what I could

                                to Gregor Antwhisle’s old lab                                     of course burnt to the ground a long time

                                 some tools were stolen              don’t know when

                    believe it could be her, but it’s been decades, why

now to find their point of origin: I’m headed the Mountains too.

L

L. to K.,          17^th,

          cave, Mount Fraught

K,

I’ve found

                            mountain cavern, where                                   eggs.      

                                                                          revenge, after all this time? Or perhaps

                   someone else, and I simply        . After they hatched, the shells must have drifted to            discomposed              Lachrymose. That being said, it’s still unclear who had the idea of using                        for matches.

I’m hearing echoes of young voices up there                          children?

                     need to climb the mountain,

         perhaps I’ll see you

L

K. to L., June 17^th,

East side of Mount Fraught,


L,

Writing this as a matter of urgency: I just saw the children gliding down the slope of the mountain, toward the sea. But they were swimming: perhaps there’s still hope.

I’ve had trouble reading your last messages: it was very wet, and it’s wetter now because of the rain, all the melting ice, and my damned hormones. As for what you wrote about the eggs, I agree it’s frightening but we’ll discuss it at the Hotel: for now, we must do all we can to save the Baudelaires. Since you’ve got a map of currents, can you tell me where they’re likely to reach shore, if they ever do?

K

L. to K., June 17^th,

West side of Mount Fraught,

K,

                       can’t believe I’m writing this but after my calculations

        Briny Beach.

L

Chapter Text

L. to K, June 23^th,

West of the Overarching Ocean


K,

I’m on my way back, after some further inquiries: I don’t know much more about the Beast and its new offsprings, but at least I’ve managed to find a ski station in the mountains, from where I sent another long series of telegrams to try and make sure the children were rescued. I hope you reached Briny Beach on time. If we can bring them to the last safe place, we would have at least begun to repay our debt.

The ocean is raging: I should have waited to weigh anchor, but I’m not far from the coast now and I couldn’t risk—

[Here the handwriting is apparently interrupted, and resumes in a much more hasty way, making it hard to read in places.]

There’s a large column of smoke rising to the horizon, larger than the one from the hinterlands, and higher too. It’s so dark I can even see it from here, like a giant black finger pointing toward the sky. Kit, tell me it’s not you.

Please, please, let it not be you.

Lemony

K. to L., June 24^th,

On a raft made of books, floating away on the Overarching Ocean to wherever the currents may take me

Lemony,

All has gone terribly, terribly wrong. The Hotel is gone. Dewey is gone. I don’t know if the children managed to escape. I don’t know if anyone, anyone at all apart from you and me, is alive.

I’m all out of words. Ironically, the books I had brought back from my time at Prufrock came to play a life-saving role in my escape: who knew such deep literary works could float so well?

I have no idea if this letter will ever reach you. You know, I’ve always tried to keep on hoping. I think I did a pretty good job of it, over the years. Let that be remembered. But now I’m just a lonely silhouette on a raft, alone in the middle of a vast, vast ocean. And my heart is breaking. I don’t have any more question. Still, I love you. Remember that too.

Despite everything, the baby kicks more with each day that passes. I wonder what will become of her, in this loud, troubled world she will inherit from us. I’m trying to tell myself the worst is never certain: perhaps she will find a way to do better, or a path toward a quiet life.

Write your book, Lemony. Your new one, then the next. And the one after that. If you go to the Hotel, what is left of it, look into the pond. You will find what we’ve always been chasing down there: Dewey made sure that it wouldn’t burn. It’s the end of VFD. But it’s not the end for you.

Postscript: I was trying to catch a seagull to send this, when I saw a swam of bees flying over the water directly toward my raft. Those were Winnipegian bees, carrying a package from R: a letter, and pages from her journal. Lemony, this is extraordinary. I can’t explain in details: the Duchess’s words will be more efficient than anything I could write, so I’m enclosing them with that message, hoping it will find you.

But I want to be the first person to tell you:

Editor’s Note: The letter stops abruptly. On close examination, the paper used reveals that it has probably been torn by repeated pecking. Traces of seaweed on the surface and large holes in the envelope suggest that the message was not delivered without difficulty: the parcel was undoubtedly mishandled, perhaps as the result of a gulls fight. In any case, the explanatory letter from the Duchess of Winnipeg to which Kit Snicket refers does not appear in the documents I received , and only the extracts from her diary survived transport.

The Duchess’s Journal, Entry 6

June 24^th: It is as I feared. She’s gone. This is not a good weather for sailing, and there are dark, twisted shapes lurking in the sea. I hope all will be well.

[End of the First Part]

Chapter Text

The second part of this repository, here called “the Other Part” for reasons that I shouldn’t have to explain, is much shorter than the first, but no less poignant. It is made up of a series of letters I received just a few days ago, after Mr Snicket’s last (and very brief) visit and his departure for Hotel Denouement. Those letters have all been written by the same person, although the hand varies greatly from the first to the last. The oldest ones aren’t easily deciphered due to a shaky and uncertain calligraphy. But as time passes, it becomes steadier, as if the author’s command and resolution was slowly fortifying, so much so that the last letters are quite admirable from a formal point of view.

This section is thus very homogeneous: every letter was composed on letterheads bearing the Duchy of Winnipeg’s coat of arms (the bee and quill). However, it is important to note that while they were written over a long period of time, they weren’t sent until a very recent date: the parcel in which they were delivered to me bore the postmark of Winnipeg harbor, dated from June 22^th.

March 1^st,

Winnipeg Castle, Blue Room

Lemony,

Are they alive?

Beatrice

March 14^th

Winnipeg Castle, Blue Room

Dear Lemony,

Allow me to explain. My hand is still weak, and writing does not come easily – the bandages are a nuisance too – but I’ll do my best.

It’s so strange to be writing to you. When they told me you were dead all those years ago, I believe I wrote some fifty pages, knowing fairly well you’ll never be able to read them. I don’t remember what they said, and I couldn’t tell you now: those were words only the Library of Winnipeg can house.

In short, I didn’t die. I’m not sure why.

All I can recall is the flames encircling the living room, gaining ground so quickly we didn’t quite realize what was happening. The beams were screaming like a herd of hellish cats, and the mansion seemed on the verge of collapsing. Bertrand turned to me, said something – I do not know what. And he pushed me, shoved me towards the fireplace, which the flames, ironically, hadn’t reached yet. I called out his name. His face, I remember his face. Then something under my feet gave way, and everything stopped.

The rest is Ramona’s story. She found me as she was traveling through the sewage system to get to Esmé’s apartment. She was supposed to try and talk to Jerome, to convince him to see sense and join our side. Your brother had told her she was the only person who could achieve it. This is why she left you alone in the Duchy, that was her mission. However, she never spoke to him. As she passed under our street, she saw me in the tunnel, covered in ashes: I was unconscious, and badly burned. She says that in Winnipeg Library, there’s an old map of this area which shows the presence of a trapdoor under our mansion, probably connecting the fireplace to the rest of the sewers. I wonder why Bertrand never told me about it.

She would never use those words herself – you know her aristocratic restraint – but I think Ramona was pretty shaken by the sight I offered. She abandoned her mission on the spot and brought me back to Winnipeg. She was so worried I wouldn’t survived, and so afraid we had been betrayed that she didn’t tell a thing to anyone, even when she ran into your sister on her way to the harbor. I hope Kit will forgive her: the Duchess never quite understood that whatever has come to pass between her and Olaf hasn’t affected her loyalty.

When our ship docked, you were gone. Ramona seemed to believe it made sense: “In here it’s always one miracle at a time,” she said.

She treated my burns with snow compresses and frightening amounts of royal jelly. For many weeks I didn’t regain consciousness. And then, in late February, I woke up in the castle, having missed an entire season and unsure of what happened. I was very weak – I still am. Ramona tried to calm me down. She told me about the fire, and then about you. How you were alive. How Bertrand was dead.

But she wouldn’t say anything about the children, and I lost my mind. I wrote my first letter to you in almost fifteen years then, and like fifteen years ago I couldn’t send it. I can’t leave this room, Ramona won’t hear about it. But I’ll keep on writing, when I can, until I’m satisfied my messages will be answered.

Please, Lemony, you have to understand. We’ve left them all alone, and they don’t know anything. It’s my fault. They were at the beach. They were at the beach.

Beatrice

April 6^th

Winnipeg Castle, Blue Room

Dear Lemony,

Everyday I get a little better, and the reality of the situation weights a bit more on me. Ramona said: “Being in Winnipeg will help for that.” That. It’s just a word, after all. It took some time for it to mean anything.

My body and my mind exist in different times, these days. The burns are mostly healed, and here and there along my arms patches of fresh, rosy skin have appeared, like that of a newborn. “In those hardships, we often feel like children,” Ramona added. She’s right, of course. This is what makes it all the more unbearable.

Grief came like the tide. I was expecting it, ready to embrace it as a natural phenomenon, but it still somehow took me by surprise. I can’t catch a breath. I’m stranded, I’m alone, I’m in Winnipeg. It seems that I must now become one of those legendary creatures of the submarine world, buried under miles of water, that only the occasional whale fall can take out of their immobility. I’m a rock of sadness. Every time I think I can forget about Bertrand the blue wallpaper of this room reminds me of Violet’s. Was it like that, for you? We didn’t loose the same thing, but we did loose a lot, you and me.

And then, there’s the town. I don’t see much of it of course, but my windows overlook the harbor. When I feel too trapped and alone, I think about you being here before me, and how you must have walked along this pier, one of your little notebooks in hand. Winnipeg is unforgiving. The stony sea and the steely wind remind you constantly that you’re mourning, mourning everyone and perhaps yourself too. You’re in Winnipeg. Your heart is stuck in ice like a dead horse and there’s not a single bird in the sky at night.

Beatrice

May 20^th,

Winnipeg Library, Geography section

Dear Lemony,

I fought with Ramona, again. Since I’m doing better, I was hoping she would let me walk around and send my letters – there are so many I could send, to you, to Kit, to the children if I had any idea where they are. But she’s the guardian of all doors here, and walls rearrange themselves according to her will. She’s still afraid for me. “If anyone finds you,” she says, “there will be no second chance”. It’s only fair. I don’t want a second chance: I want to set things right, and give my children the opportunity to live a life that isn’t entirely shaped by the mistakes Bertrand and I made.

I hope Monty took them in: that was what we intended, if anything happened. Sunny would adore all his lovely snakes and lizards. I try to imagine how she looks like now; it’s not working today. Toddlers change so quickly. Every day I’m robbed of something. Time passes.

You must have changed too. I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again, but it’s a question left hanging. With every one of you I arrange those little scenes in my head, different reunions. Ways to get reacquainted with life. Yours is something from a vaudeville: “But I thought you were dead,” the dead woman cries out. What can I say: I used to be an actress.

I have no words for you now, my heart is too full of others. But someday, if I ever leave this place, if I come back to the continent, if we manage to meet, if the children are with you, if you can forgive me and if I can forgive you, perhaps then, perhaps we’ll be able to have a long, long conversation. But, as you know, “your If is the only peacemaker; much virtue in If ».

Beatrice

June 22^th

Winnipeg Harbor, Pier

Dear Lemony,

This will be my last letter. I could go on, write every day, keep on waiting and listen to the murmur of the rivers, to Ramona when she says that time will take its course, that perhaps she will get the children to stay here with me eventually. It would be so easy. So easy to pretend that I’m heard, that you’re reading this, that Violet, Klaus and Sunny are safe. That Bertrand is, like me, secretly alive somewhere on the other side of the globe, sipping coconut cocktails on some tropical island while over here the ice is still melting. I could walk along Montgomery Promenade, climb the strenuous stairs up to Antwhistle Street, and avoid the lonely cats and dogs that err around Caliban Avenue. Or I could go to the Library, sit in the red chair by the Epic Section, reread the Odyssey. But life has to be lived, and letters have to be sent.

I’m sending these all at once. I spoke to the woman with eyebrows shaped like questions marks who owns the coffee shop next to the fish market. She seemed to know you: she told me I could address these to a lighthouse far inland. It’s worth a try. And if they end up in other hands, let’s hope those will be friendly, diligent hands who know where to find you.

Tell the children I hope to meet with them soon. And if I don’t, if I never see them again, at least I’d have tried to bridge the distance between us.

I’ve done everything behind Ramona’s back, planned my plan, found myself a boat. The captain looks just like your grandfather. She must be expecting it: I was once a volunteer, and we’re not trained to wait. Crossing is dangerous at that time of the year, the sailors told me. When is it safe then, I asked. It never is, they said. This is why we never leave Winnipeg.

Lemony, I think you once compared me to a ship passing in the night. It was poetry week at the Prufrock library, and I believe I said something about it being more original than a summer’s day. And now I must take the sea.

Love,

Beatrice

Chapter Text

Reader, I’m just an Editor: my kind doesn’t write tales, we only ever collect them when they’re about to end, sometimes before they can go on. There have been reports of tempests, these last few days.

I used to live by the sea. It’s been an eternity since those shores saw a drop of water, the banks of sand going on for miles. But I might take a stroll down the lighthouse path tomorrow, and the day after that. Everything still washes up there eventually. One way or another.