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"You're a sweet girl, Violet." Honeyed words floated through her consciousness in a haze of semi-lucid memories. In her mind's eye she saw herself clearly: seated on the floor of her bedroom in a lace-trimmed cotton nightgown, her mother pulling gentle strokes through her straight black hair with a delicate hairbrush. It was her mother's brush, made of bone and boar bristle, one she would bring out for these small, intimate moments of maternal care. A gesture that made Violet feel important and cherished. Mature.
The brush now lay in ashes, along with the entirety of her family's estate and her parents' own remains. Nothing, she'd been told, had survived the fire.
Violet padded prudently down the dark, creaking hallway on freezing toes. She maneuvered her way through the cramped kitchen, a space that would have felt fairly generous had not each and every surface been covered with grimy pans, moldy bits of food and cracked, discarded dishes. Through the sagging curtains she could just make out the slice of an anemic crescent moon, cruel and thin. She clutched the threadbare nightgown around her shoulders and held back a shiver. Somehow, suppressing it felt far worse than allowing it to overcome her.
Using only the moon's paltry light, she pushed aside a sheet of newspaper and grasped a small box of matches underneath it. An old, shriveled apple core rolled from the newspaper to the floor, breaking the icy midnight silence with the faintest thud. She paused and held her position, as motionless as a rabbit sensing a shadow overhead. All remained still; she exhaled and opened the box.
Violet reached for a match, striking it with a hiss and holding its glow close. Her hands remained steady until she saw the flame. It took a moment of reflection to recall how long it had been since she'd lost her parents in the fire and been sent, as a result of the enigmatic demands of their will, to this moldering estate. Two months? Three? The fact that it did not come immediately to mind sank like a stone in her stomach. Would she forget their faces someday as well? Certainly not the broad strokes...but what about the small details that, when added together, made up the whole of their identities?
The heat of the flame approaching her fingertips caught her attention, and she turned to quickly ignite the stove before it singed her.
With the stove now properly lit, Violet silently reached for a cast iron kettle, rusted (solely, she hoped) on its exterior. She filled it with water from the sink. It was late, but she couldn't be sure of the exact time. She and her siblings had not been provided a clock in their room. In fact, so little had been provided for Violet, her twelve-year-old brother Klaus, and infant sister Sunny that she'd awoken that night on the floor, twisted into some uncomfortable shape, while her brother slumbered in mutual misery on the single, lumpy mattress beside her. They traded nights in the bed, and tonight was her turn on the floor.
As the kettle bubbled away, she allowed her gaze to rove the grubby, peeling cabinetry. She was fairly certain a tin of tea existed somewhere in its disorganized interior. An explorer she would be, probing the foreboding, sultry jungle depths in order to make a new discovery. She tied her hair back with a ribbon as she envisioned it: hacking through uncharted terrain with a machete, pausing to take notes on a rare plant or observe an undiscovered species. Her foray into the cabinets proved far less thrilling. She located the tin in about a minute's time—it was behind a moth-eaten sack of flour and beside a forgotten jar of olives, a thick layer of dust caking the surface of its lid.
She weaved her hand around the obstacles until she grasped the tea, then pulled it from the back of the cabinet just as carefully. She was judicious, cautious, slow. Nevertheless, she froze in fright as a particular gasp cleaved the still night air in two. The rattling snores of their captor and hostage-taker, Olaf.
In all honesty, he was far more of a threat in the daylight, this self-appointed "count." A steady wheezing sound from the second-floor bedroom helped her keep tabs on him at night and made it fairly easy to avoid him. He was generally so deep in a wine-soaked stupor by the end of the evening, he rarely rose at night except to lumber his way to the filthy washroom in the hallway. Plenty of time for her to dip into the broom closet or underneath the splintery kitchen table and remain unnoticed.
Though his snores were somewhat comforting to Violet, as they assured his distance from her, they were also a constant reminder of the omnipresent influence he held over her and her siblings—part of their everyday reality since they'd lost their parents. And now, with this most recent scheme, she may never again escape the oppressive shroud of his constant surveillance. Not if he made good on his threat and chose her as his wife.
Marriage. Wedding night. My Countess. All whispered through foul lips from a man the law had designated to act as her father, over thirty years her senior. He claimed it would be a marriage of convenience, the easiest way for him to control the vast fortune her parents had bequeathed to her. But his gaze spoke otherwise. Her siblings did not notice how his keen, shining eyes took on an entirely different quality when they lingered on her face. Lord, she barely understood it herself, her inventions always having taken up whatever attention she may have spared for boys. To her academically-minded family, this hadn't struck a single one of them as odd. She once enjoyed the luxury of an extended childhood under her parents' understanding and watchful protection. She no longer had them, and she no longer had such a luxury.
Violet pried open the tea tin with trembling fingers, wondering when it had last been opened. She'd only ever seen Count Olaf drink wine, far more than he consumed water, even. Empty and half-empty bottles littered the kitchen—counters, tables, chopping blocks, chairs—threatening to roll to the floor at any moment and reveal her presence. Part of the myriad of chores he'd assigned the three Baudelaire children did include keeping the kitchen clean, but, try as they might, he and his ill-mannered theatrical troupe appeared determined to undo their fastidious work each evening. At some point, the mess and disarray had become so expected in their lives they scarcely took note of it anymore.
She pulled down a chipped mug from a hook on the wall. The inside was lined with a thick circle of brown residue. She scrubbed it and dried it. She couldn't locate the tea strainer, but a pasta strainer would work just fine in conjunction with a mindful pour. She pulled the kettle from the flame before it had the chance to make a noise and slowly filled her cup.
Something from the back of her mind continued to push forward images she had been trying to suppress with her benevolent puttering. A pale, gaunt hand grasping her shoulder. Long, dirty fingernails brushing her cheek. "After the marriage, I wouldn't dispose of you like your brother and sister," he'd whispered in her ear with stale breath. She felt a wave of nausea build in her throat—an ancient warning, instinctual to her sex. One with which she had only recently built an intimate acquaintance.
She wondered how much her brother understood. Sweet Klaus, no doubt tossing and turning in the bed upstairs. On the cusp of manhood, but with so much further to go. His only example of masculinity remaining was this wretched, skeletal convict. Klaus' single attempt to protect his sister from Olaf's wrath had left him with deep bruises along his jaw, marks that would soon transition from a dark purple to a vomit-like chartreuse. To think her brother's soft features, which had yet to completely shed their influence from childhood, would be marred for the first time by this drunken lout. A grim trophy for his efforts to protect their baby sister. Violet thought of her own father, always so gentle and kind, and her throat clenched.
"Watch out for your brother and sister, Violet. You're the oldest." Her father's words brought forth an all-encompassing wave of grief that swelled from somewhere below her breastbone. It crested, then subsided after she gave it a firm, reprimanding push towards the pit of her stomach. In its wake, she conjured a more casual memory of him: her parents taking her and her siblings to the cinema, likely to catch the latest B-movie. She remembered becoming frightened at a certain point in the film and reaching for her father's hand. It grasped her own in return, steadfast and large, calloused but considerate in its pressure. She noted the cool feeling of his wedding band pressing against her own trembling fingers, and in mere moments her fears had subsided.
She stared at her own hands—her left hand, in particular, and the finger that would soon be clapped in its own cold, unfeeling shackle. A symbol of eternal union, twisted into the demonic.
Violet took an absentminded sip of her tea. For a split second, its comforting warmth enveloped her, but the low susurration of Count Olaf's unconscious movements from above swiftly replaced it with a piercing, tremulous bolt of terror. As always, the slumbering brute obscured the more pleasant memories from her thoughts.
Not a brute; that would insinuate he was a hulking and brainless figure. He was nothing like a wolf or bear, as the fairy tales foretold. Rather, Count Olaf was a falcon. A bird of prey with cruel, shining eyes, well versed in how to flush out quarry. A raptor that would hover above them for eternity, waiting for the exact right moment to dive and sink his talons into his catch, using every trick in his arsenal to make it so. In some perverse attempt to replace and thus vanquish every masculine figure in her life, this circling predator had appointed himself her new father. Then, in an avaricious bid for more power, he vowed to seize the title of husband as well. In doing so, his circles had tightened. His strike was imminent.
She was fourteen. She'd never even kissed a boy, and already her future had been decided by someone she'd met only months before. What would this cursed future hold, chained to a man who had only her worst interests at heart?
Pulling out a chair, Violet pushed aside a pile of dirty rags to clear a small space at the table for herself. Olaf's snores, along with the steady ticking of a nearby clock, settled her for a brief moment. Whenever she worked to clear her mind, it simply became an empty vessel, waiting to be filled with the fears she'd been avoiding. Despite her best efforts to repel them, they flooded her with a deluge of panicked, disconnected thoughts, fueled by an instinctual attempt at self-preservation. Husband. Wedding night. Will he be kind? Surely not. When has he ever been? Better to struggle or submit? Can I appeal to his sympathies? Can he sympathize? How long will it take? How often? How much will it...
Cold, wicked perspiration beaded at her brow and a sour taste filled her mouth. She may have allowed herself to vomit if she wasn't worried about the noise awakening him. Enough, she commanded herself. She pressed her fingertips ruthlessly against the scorching hot porcelain of her mug, allowing the pain to anchor her.
Panic would spell her demise, and that of her siblings. So often Violet relied on her inventive mind to deliver her from danger—but what good was that when fear clouded her thoughts, froze her spinning cogs in time?
Violet rose to pour her tea, still half-full, into the sink. Its initial comforting warmth had lost its effectiveness amongst such frigid, paralyzing worries. She took great care to place each and every item back where she found it so as not to alert Olaf of her clandestine visits to the kitchen. Soon, even this luxury would be taken from her, as she would find it difficult to sneak away unnoticed while sharing his bed.
He will pursue us until our death, or his. The truth struck her with irrefutable clarity. It pinned her in place like an insect under glass.
As Violet opened the cupboard to return the tin of tea, a small brown bag shoved against the back of the shelf caught her eye. She hadn't noticed it before, but it featured some unusual markings stamped on its front. A chemical symbol—one that Klaus, intelligent far beyond his years, would likely understand immediately. Luckily for her, it also included a rather detailed etching underneath: a rat, lying on its back with limbs extended like a dead beetle, two small Xs replacing its eyes.
Her heart hammered in her chest. Does Olaf know about this? If he did, he'd certainly been hesitant to use it. The number of rats that plagued the decrepit mansion attested to that.
The first image that came to Violet was Olaf sprinkling the powder into their food, or more likely, into her siblings' food after they were officially married. She immediately removed the bag from the cupboard and searched the kitchen for a suitable replacement. A small, chipped sugar bowl, shoved behind a non-functioning toaster, was the first lucky find she'd experienced in quite some time. Tying one of the sullied rags around her face to protect her airways, Violet heedfully swapped the contents of the bag for the sugar. She stood on tiptoes to replace the bag as meticulously as possible.
With his seemingly infinite supply of schemes designed to destroy their lives, she'd managed to pry at least one from him. She stood a moment, appreciating her work and savoring this rare stroke of good fortune that had befallen her. As she turned to pour the contents of the sugar bowl down the sink, however, she paused. Something tugged at her, an unseen guardian that resided deep in her subconscious. Olaf may have touted his unlimited tactics, but fate had just granted her a single, rather potent option herself.
Fourteen. Sweet Violet. A murderer before she'd even come of age. The idea was ludicrous...and yet, this foreign but invigorating rush of adrenaline was telling her that, perhaps, it was not. Wine became extremely bitter when left uncorked for too long, and she'd seen him drink it regardless.
Once again, her mother's words came to mind. "You're a sweet girl, Violet. But more importantly, you are smart. And that makes you a survivor."
Violet tenderly cradled the sugar bowl, now containing the contents of the brown bag, and carried it with her to the overgrown briar in the backyard. Under the scant light of the moon, she buried the bowl in a nondescript corner of the yard. There, beneath a tangle of dormant thorns, her one chance at freedom awaited her decision.
Yes, she would try her hardest to invent an alternative. A way through her predicament that didn't require her to bloody her hands. For Olaf's sake, and for the sake of whatever innocence she had left, she hoped she'd find one.