Chapter Text
The sack was ripped off of his head, revealing the boy's tangled, disheveled hair and battered appearance. Bruises and cuts generously littered his pale face. It took a moment for him to come to awareness, blinking fervently as his eyes adjusted to the light.
The figure before him, sack in hand, scoffed. "What do you hang on for?" The bearded man said. "You have nothing left." He dragged his cane along the ground, raking it against cement as he circled the restrained boy. Bristly, thick rope was bound tightly around the boys wrists; the more he struggled, the more his skin was rubbed raw. The bearded man gave a satisfied chuckle at the frustration of his young captive. "—You have nothing left but the ability to suffer even more." Suddenly, with a swift and sharp jab, the Man with a Beard but No Hair sharply drove his cane into the boy's foot. Throwing his head back, a cry of pain peeled from the boy's throat. Before his head could fall back to his chest, his chin was roughly snatched by his captor.
Squeezing his eyes tightly shut, the boy refused to meet the furious gaze of the bald man. He knew well there was no amusement to be found in those ancient, devious eyes—only fury. “I will only ask you once more.” The man whispered. “Where is the sugar bowl?” He growled deeply.
For a moment, there was only silence. The hand clenched around the boy's jaw trembled with wrath and frustration. The boy did not have the strength to smile—not even close—but something deep within him relished the ability to be the thorn in the side of his captor.
"...My name is Quigley Quagmire." The boy heaved. His voice rasped, worn and damaged from the grueling captivity he had endured. "I survived the fire that burned my home to the ground." He whispered. "—and I survived the Great Unknown. All I know is how to hang on." Quigley opened his eyes—in them, a resilience and fury burned more brilliantly than a thousand fires. "I know exactly where the sugar bowl is, and I'd sooner die than tell you."
Quigley met the Man with No Beard's eyes. “A-And your head—” Quigley spat with satisfaction. “—Looks like a boiled egg.” The man did well to conceal his emotion, but Quigley swore he saw his eye twitch in indignation.
To Quigley's surprise, the man released his chin rather tamely, and brushed off his suit. “Well, Quigley Quagmire,” he said calmly. “If you think death is a mercy you will be spared, you are profoundly mistaken.”
Sunny Baudelaire was not the child she once was.
The door behind her creaked open. Sunny felt a tremendous weight lift from off her shoulders as the eyes of the school principal finally shifted to regard the new occupant in the academic office.
Finally, Sunny thought.
“Mr. Viktor. Nice of you to join us.” Her principal said, the disappointment in her stare extended to her brother as if he were guilty by association.
‘Mr. Viktor.’ Sunny glowered, sinking deeper in her seat. She would never get used to their new names. It went without saying that, when in the comfort of their apartment, the Baudelaires still used their real, birth given names. However, for anything in public—Violet, Klaus, and Sunny Baudelaire were dead, perishing in the flames of a disastrous hotel fire that they had lit. Instead, Klaus had proposed the names Corrie, Viktor, and Anne based on some of the bravest voices to emerge in twentieth century literature.
Sunny had grown considerably since the Baudelaires had left the island—the young girl had sprouted up and was taller than most girls her age. Her golden hair had only grown lighter, making her stand out rather starkly amongst her darker haired siblings.
Sunny had grown—she was not the child she once was.
Yet her siblings still treated her like a baby.
“Sorry to take so long,” Stammered Klaus—or, Viktor, Sunny sarcastically corrected herself, rolling her eyes—as he entered the room. Klaus winced as he accidentally closed the door a bit too hard. “Sorry.” He apologized again, clearing his throat. Sunny restrained a snicker—her brother practically exuded anxiety as he sat down beside her.
She finally got a chance to take in his appearance. His glasses were crooked; his hair disheveled; and he was out of breath. Principal Delilah arched an eyebrow. “I–uh, the bus was full, so I had to—sorry—” Klaus took a deep breath. “–had to run.”
“Yes, well, I can see that.” Principal Delilah muttered. “I'm sorry to have to call you in today—I wouldn't if it were simply a one-time offense—but unfortunately this has been an ongoing issue.”
Klaus's face sobered.
“Anne lacks chemistry with her fellow students. Or, to put it another way, has too much chemistry with her fellow students.” Delilah sighed. “Things have become quite explosive to say the least.”
Klaus winced. “If you don't mind my asking, what happened exactly?”
“Anne…bit another student.” Klaus paled as principal Delilah sighed. Klaus couldn't help how his gaze wandered to where his sister sat—she turned further away, refusing to make eye contact. Klaus bit the inside of his cheek.
“Anne,” Principal Delilah said, “would you mind waiting out in the hallway for a moment—” Before she had finished speaking, Sunny was up out of her chair and heading out the door. The latch of the door clicked behind her, Klaus suddenly felt nervous beneath the gaze of Principal Delilah.
When he was in school, Klaus always had a reputable relationship with his principal. He and Violet were celebrated and adored by their teachers for their manners, intellect, and academic prowess. Even though Klaus did not find himself in the office on this occasion for an offense of his own doing, it was still troubling to fall outside of the good graces of an esteemed academic authority. But perhaps even more perturbing was the fact that Klaus had great difficulty remembering the last time he had been in a room alone with anyone but his sisters. In fact, it was a situation he took great care to avoid.
“Viktor,” Principal Delilah began. Klaus swallowed the lump in his throat. “—Are you alright?” She broke from her train of thought, “You look like you're about to pass out—”
Klaus waves his hand, “F-Fine.” His voice croaked awkwardly. “I'm fine.” He cleared his throat.
She nodded and continued. “Viktor…I know that you and your sister have not had an easy life by any stretch of the imagination.” Delilah’s eyes bore into him with intensity before softening. “I myself was raised in the foster care system, and I carry much of that weight with me to this day.” Klaus felt his shoulder ease slightly.
“—I have extended much grace to Anne. In retrospect, perhaps too much.” The woman smiled faintly. “And I deeply desire and believe that every child, no matter how difficult, should receive a proper education. However, Anne has continually disrupted her classes and clashed with her fellow students. It isn't fair to her classmates to not address her misconduct.”
“I understand, Mrs. Delilah. I wouldn't want you to treat my sister any differently than you would your other students.”
“Thank you for understanding.” She said with a kind nod. “And you will also understand that I will have to suspend her for a day or two.”
Klaus nodded regretfully. For a moment, he chewed on his words. “How bad was it?”
“Was what?”
“The bite.”
Principal Delilah put a hand to her mouth to conceal a laugh. “It was quite impressive,” she admitted with a small grin.
Klaus was silent as the two walked back towards the library. He still had three more hours on his shift when the library business phone began buzzing off the hook, the school desperate to reach one of “Anne's” guardians. This wasn't the first time that Klaus found himself incredibly thankful to have found a boss that was sympathetic, flexible, and patient. It was one of his first strokes of good luck in…quite some time.
Sunny stuffed her hands in the pockets of her overalls and kicked at the pebbles littered on the sidewalk.
After a long and perilous journey at sea, the Baudelaires had washed up on the shores of Briny beach once more. Violet and Klaus had not returned to school—instead, the two devoted themselves to working and establishing their family underneath their new identities. The first year was difficult, but slowly, enough money was amassed that they were able to afford a small apartment.
No, Violet and Klaus had not returned to school—but Sunny on the other hand…
Sunny was not in the slightest pleased about attending school. After all she had been through—she had travelled near and far; endured terror upon terror; and was already a well versed secretary from her time at the Academy—going to school for the first time was a mockery, a disgrace to her good name.
If Sunny knew that school was on the other side of the many unfortunate events that had plagued her small, broken family, she would have fought for her life with far less tenacity.
Finally, after an overwhelming spell of silence, Klaus opened his mouth.
“—stop.” Interrupted Sunny. “I know what you're gonna say. I know that we’re supposed to stay ‘incognito’ or whatever—I'm sorry. And I'm sorry that I made you miss part of your shift.”
Klaus closed his mouth and looked at her with a hint of sympathy. “—But,” Sunny interrupted again. “—I'm not sorry I bit him. Eustace is a horrible boy and I'd bite him again if I could. He deserved it.”
Klaus sharply breathed out his nose and tried to hide the small smile tugging at his lips. “I’m not the one you have to convince.”
“Klaus, please don't make me tell Violet about this.” Her brother merely shrugged. “Sunny,” Klaus paused. His voice was not stern or upset—but Sunny had the sinking feeling that if she didn't turn things around and fast, the conversation would take a far more vulnerable shape than she was willing to participate in at the moment. “I don't keep things from Violet, no matter how small.” Klaus admitted in a quiet voice—but no less firm.
“Need I remind you, Viktor, that these teeth have saved you from a lot.” Sunny teased, giving Klaus a large tooth grin. Klaus smiled back.
Without a word, Sunny took Klaus's arm and peaked at the watch on his wrist, counting down with dread how many minutes she had left before she would have to face her older sister.
Before Sunny had stepped through the rickety front door of the Baudelaire’s modest—or as Sunny would put it dinghy—apartment, she had formulated a game plan. She'd have approximately an hour before Violet and Beatrice returned home—just enough time to prepare a nice dinner to hopefully lessen the inevitable storm that was brewing.
Shakshuka—a dish consisting of poached eggs in a tomato based sauce—was a staple in casa de Baudelaire for the following reasons: 1) it was delightful to say, 2) it was delightful to eat, and 3) it was relatively inexpensive.
Sunny didn't remember a time when money wasn't an extremely limited resource. Nonetheless, her siblings were never anything less than grateful; they never complained about their situation or acted like money was the solution to all their problems. But Sunny didn't miss the worried glances that her eldest siblings often shared as they sorted through the mail. She didn't miss how Violet would see the tears in their clothing whenever they became old and worn, nor did Sunny fail to observe that her family walked to all their destinations, boasting no vehicle or form of transportation. Sunny didn't mind. Really. That wasn't it.
Violet Baudelaire, at the ripe age of 21, had yet to claim her fortune.
“It's too risky,” Her eldest sister had explained to her once, “If we claim the inheritance now, we risk facing legal ramifications for all the unfortunate things that happened to us.” Violet's eyes were haunted with terrors—fateful weddings, heartless murders, and unquenchable flames. “We'll make due on our own.”
Klaus had agreed with her. He always did, Sunny thought, sulking as she stirred the olive oil into the tomato sauce with more aggression than the task typically denoted.
Her lone brother sat at the dining room table, engrossed in a book about the Maccabean Revolt of the first century BC. From what Sunny had been passionately informed about the subject by Klaus, it was a brief moment of pride and triumph in Jewish history before things would once more go horribly wrong as the blossoming Roman empire would sweep the middle eastern stage, eventually destroying Jerusalem and the Holy Temple.
Sunny understood why the story resonated with him. The Baudelaires had been on the run for as long as she could remember—they had been pushed around, and captured, and abused throughout their entire history. And Sunny hoped and prayed that like the heroes in his story, Klaus was ready to turn around and fight the monster that had been pursuing them.
Because she was. She was sick of hiding and playing defense. She was ready to fight.
Sunny relished in the thought of marching into Mortuary Money Management and boldly and unabashedly claiming what has always been theirs. Her family was strong—they had survived every terrible and unfortunate event that life could throw at them. Claiming that inheritance would be like finally stepping into their victory. It would be the final nail in Olaf's coffin.
Come what may! Sunny thought. They could try to arrest them, but the Baudelaire's would find a way out. They always did.
The front door opened softly as Sunny embellished herself in the thought of winning many fake arguments in her head. Before she knew it, the pitter-patter of feet sounded against the linoleum tile.
“Klaus!” Beatrice II happily greeted, flinging herself into her older brother. “Oof—” Klaus was caught off guard by the full weight of Beatrice as she joyfully propelled into him. “—It’s good to see you too.” He said fondly, despite having his book knocked from his hands. Sunny’s spirits instantly lifted as Beatrice quickly raced over from Klaus to join her in the kitchen. “Ooo, what're you making?”
Violet trailed Beatrice through the front door, locking it behind her. Klaus looked over his shoulder, giving her a nod and small smile in acknowledgment. “How was work?”
Violet was covered in grease and oil. Shortly after their arrival in the city, Violet was able to secure a good job at a nearby auto mechanic. With all her inventing genius, she was deemed a natural.
The eldest Baudelaire daughter sighed deeply—the more honest answer to Klaus's inquiry than the one about to roll off her tongue. “Good.” She said, plastering a small smile on her face in return. “—but also long.” She tiredly meandered over to the table, standing behind Klaus and resting her chin atop His head. “—and messy.” She mused. “The Maccabean Revolt?” Violet took note of the book in Klaus's hand. He hummed in affirmation. Violet straightened. “It smells very nice, Sunny.” She smiled.
Sunny nervously chuckled as Klaus gave her a subtle glance. Good luck, his eyes said with a glint of amusement. “Thanks, Vi.” Sunny said, cracking a few eggs into a large pot of boiling water. “It'll be done soon.”
Beatrice excitedly licked her lips, making Sunny laugh despite her anxiety regarding the inevitable conversation with Violet looming on the horizon.
Within the hour, the Baudelaires gathered around the dining table. Sunny gave herself a pat on the back as her family devoured her shakshuka. Unfortunately, Beatrice—still a little bit more of a sloppy eater than her contemporaries—concluded the meal with a healthy dose of tomato sauce on her white dress.
Sunny placed her dirty plate in the sink feeling as though she had gotten away with murder. Klaus hadn’t tattled on her—though he did give her a few prompting glances (to which she ignored.)
“Sunny,” Violet spoke. Sunny's heart sank. “Can you talk with me while I do the dishes?”
A long held tradition in the Baudelaire home was that—since Sunny was usually the one to labor away preparing meals for the family—she never had to do the dishes. Sunny slinked over to Violet, sitting on the countertop. Violet rolled up her sleeves and turned on the hot water.
“I got a call from your principal today.”
Sunny grunted. The sound of running water filled the void. Violet didn't look at her. She pumped some dish soap onto the dishes and scrubbed away.
“—Sunny, I know this isn't easy, none of it. But we have to—”
“—I know. You've only told me a million times.” Sunny's words were laced with venom. The young girl bit her tongue. She hadn't meant to explode at Violet, but the storm within the young girl had been building for quite some time.
Another moment of silence fell upon the sisters. At first, Violet's scrubbing grew more focused. Sunny grew anxious. But then, her sister signed. It was almost like watching someone try to lift a heavy weight, and then surrender, being crushed beneath it.
“I'm sorry. This isn't the life I wanted for us—for you.”
Sunny didn't say anything.
Violet finished washing the dishes, and with a shaky breath, she disappeared into her room.
‘...despite being a Jew himself, Mattathias would kill a fellow Jew who was making an offering to an idol.’
“Klaus.”
The cushion beside him gently sank, and Klaus's attention from his book wavered. Glancing to his left, Klaus observed his older sister. In Violet's hands was a copy of the Daily Punctilio. Her gaze was fixed straight ahead, idling on the wall. She looked pensive. She looked worried.
Klaus placed one of Beatrice's hair clips into the crease of the book, marking his place as he softly closed the cover and set it aside.
“You seem worried.” He noted quietly.
She hummed. “I'm sorry. I've been trying to be less…less anxious, I suppose.” She confessed. Klaus softly shook his head.
“You don't have to apologize.” Klaus said. “I understand.”
Violet sighed. “I know you do.” She whispered. Violet's words were laced with sadness, guilt, and grief. An ancient anger bloomed in Klaus's chest—a frustrated sense of justice and retribution. He still felt the betrayal of belittlement and disbelief from those who were supposed to protect them; the frustration of being unable to convey the urgency of their predicament; the crushing weight of a thousand doubtful eyes in a courtroom. He felt it deeply.
The hope of the Baudelaire orphans was buried alive, finally perishing to a slow and agonizing decay as guardian after guardian let them down.
Klaus felt a sudden and strong impulse to gather up Violet and his younger sisters in his arms and take them far away to someplace safe; some place quiet. Perhaps, they should've stayed on that island.
Violet hesitated before handing him the newspaper. Klaus's curiosity crashed into something resembling dread. The newspaper felt like a thousand pounds in his hands. His brows furrowed as he read the headline: “Mysterious Uptick in House Fires — No One is Safe.”
Klaus felt his airway and chest tighten. He had seen the papers—of course he had. Even after all the misinformation his family had endured at the hands of the Daily Punctillo, he couldn't help but sneak a peak at the papers lining the street corners. He had seen the reports: fire and mischief were on the rise.
When Klaus looked at his sister it was like looking in a mirror. He found the same fears and worries etched in her expression. “What do we do?” He whispered. For a long time, Violet was silent.
“I don't want Beatrice and Sunny to have to live in fear.” She said, voice wavering “But...there are some things that are worth being afraid of.” Violet looked at Klaus, her eyes screaming life or death. He knew that look—he knew it well. “Klaus, if I ever lost you—if I lost any of you—”
Klaus gently grabbed his sister's hands. “—You won't.” He said fervently.
Violet was invincible once, at least in his eyes. She didn't let anyone see her waver, even in the face of great loss and misfortune. There was no one on the earth that he trusted like he trusted Violet. As they slipped through the fingers of Count Olaf time after time, Klaus began to believe that Violet could fix even the most irreparable circumstances.
And a part of him still believed she could fix even the most irreparable of circumstances. But that was a heavy weight to bear, one too burdensome for anyone to hold on their own. Guilt had slammed into him like a wave when he realized just how strong Violet had forced herself to be for him and Sunny amidst their trials. But as Olaf grew more deranged; and as the flames licking their heels grew hotter, and as they lost guardian after guardian; Klaus did everything he could to help his sister bear that weight.
But as awful as it was, there was a part of him deep, deep down—the part of him that physically ached for the gentle touch of his mother, or the proud smile of his father—thay still longed for Violet to lie to him. A part of him still longed for Violet to save the day; for her to whisper that ‘everything would be alright.’
But Violet wasn't invincible.
He and Violet had the same fears, and doubts, and nightmares. There was no use in pretending anymore. He knew her.
Separation. This broken family was all they had left. It was the last tether; the sole anchor the orphans had to keep them from drifting from the harbor. They had lost everything—their parents, their innocence, their dignity.
A shiver ran down Klaus's spine. Violet had spoken his very own fears into existence. The Baudelaire children had lost everything and everyone except each other—never each other. Klaus could not fathom a life without his sisters, nor did he allow himself to try. Klaus closed his eyes. “You won't.” He whispered so quietly it was barely audible; it was a reassurance meant for him, just as much as it was for Violet. “I promise.”
Violet gave him a sad smile. She knew him. Promises like that were not Klaus's to make—both siblings knew full well. It was fictitious, a fairytale, to believe that they could keep each other safe from all harm. The Baudelaires were no longer children—their youth and hope had been murdered alongside the few, suitable guardians who had tried to protect them.
The Baudelaires had never been ordinary children—perhaps because they never had been given the chance to be.
But there is a time for fairytales. Without them, life becomes too much—too dull, too bleak, too hopeless. Some fairytales, no matter how fictitious, are worth believing.
Sunny was actually looking forward to spending her fateful three-day suspension relaxing at home, though she did not intend on revealing these true feelings. With Klaus and Violet at work, and Beatrice at school, She would have the apartment all to herself. Her mind raced with all the recipes she could perfect! However, the sky came crashing down when she realized her older siblings would definitely not allow her to stay home alone.
It was a showdown in the living room.
“Sunny, it isn't safe.” Klaus insisted, crossing his arms from where he stood in the archway leading to the kitchen.
Her eldest sister sat on the floor with her back resting against the couch. Beatrice sat right above Violet on the sofa, disengaged and distracted from the growing disagreement as she devoted her entire focus to trying to teach herself how to braid. Her fingers were curled in the strands of Violet's raven hair, every now and then tugging just a bit too hard; Violet would try to hide her grimace.
“Plus,” Violet chimed in to the discussion, “While you're at the library with Klaus—you'll be able to keep up with your studies so you don't fall behind.” She reasoned.
Sunny’s pout deepened, an ugly frustration bubbling in her core. First off, she was leaps and bounds ahead of her classmates. Sunny rolled her eyes as dramatically as she could. She wanted them to know they were being ridiculous.
There was never a moment where Sunny doubted her older siblings loved her, and for that she was grateful. But so often, she felt like she was on the outside. She supposed it was likely an unconscious behavior, but Violet and Klaus treated her like she didn’t understand; like she hadn’t been right there in their arms experiencing all the horrific tragedies that had plagued them.
But, even for all of her frustration, Sunny understood that there were things she didn't understand. She didn't remember their parents—she couldn't recall the lines in their faces or the sounds of their voice. She had no comfort in their memory, and she wouldn't apologize for that.
All Sunny had ever known was the unfortunate mess of events that was their life. She didn't understand why they had to be so fearful and so cautious. They had always made it out, hadn't they? Sunny Baudelaire had danced with death more in her short seven years than most people did in their entire lifetime. She had looked the reaper in the eye and lived to tell the tale. She had sailed the wildest of waters, been to the tops of the highest mountains, and lived to tell the tale.
And now, she had to live beneath the precocious and exhausting jurisdiction of Violet and Klaus. Now, she had to use dull butter knives to prepare her meals; she couldn't go over to her friends' houses after school; and she wasn't supposed to make eye contact with strangers at the market, just in case they recognized her.
It felt like a step backwards. It was humiliating and degrading.
Did they not remember how many times she had saved them? Did they no longer believe she was capable and competent? Did they forget all the storms they had weathered together? What made them believe that they knew so much better than she did?
Sunny huffed—air puffing up her cheeks. A thousand frustrated words were on her tongue and the dam was about to burst. “I remember, you know.” She began as calmly as she could. “I was there through everything.”
Klaus straightened in the doorway. Violet stiffened—or maybe Beatrice had just found a knot in her hair. “Sunny,” Her eldest sister’s eyes were apologetic; selfishly, Sunny savored the glimmers of regret she found in them. “We know—”
“Do you?” Sunny interrupted, “Because neither of you act like it—but I remember.”
Her words rang out. Though their apartment was far too small and cramped to foster any echo, it felt as though the words boomed and reverberated all throughout. Her older siblings looked pale, wary of making eye contact. Beatrice’s fingers in Violet’s hair had frozen—the strands of her braid left loose.
As the words rang back in her ears, a wave of guilt rose Sunny. The flame in her eyes and the fight in her spirit began to wane. She sighed.
“Sunny, I’m sorry.” Klaus said quietly, remorse evident in his drawn face. “We never meant to make you feel that way.”
Sunny bit down her bottom lip, in the hopes of stopping it from quivering. With horror she realized that her eyes were beginning to sting. No! The girl thought. Don’t cry—it’ll just prove their point. Despite her resolve, she could stop a stray tear or two from trickling down her cheek. Maybe they were right—maybe she was still just a stupid baby.
Sunny felt two hands fall on her shoulders; she didn’t have to look up to know it was Violet. There was part of her that longed for the comfort of her older sister—she wanted to collapse in her arms and let Violet wage war on all her demons like she had Sunny's whole life. But the other part of Sunny—the part that had been silent for so long, pushed down, and muffled—was screaming. That part of Sunny wanted to sharply recoil from her sister and brother; she wanted to forget about the past and live reckless abandon, oblivious to the evil that walked the earth. If her siblings were going to treat her like a child, then the least she could ask for was a normal childhood, unplagued by everlooming dread and trepidation.
She wanted to grab Beatrice's hand and run far, far away—perhaps to Peru. Violet and Klaus had told her that Uncle Monty had once promised to take them many fateful years ago. Sunny would've liked that—Peruvian cuisine was so intriguing.
But the realization hit Sunny rather quickly—she wanted to run, yes. She wanted to be free of the heavy cloud that hung over her and her siblings, she wanted to outrun all the stupid cautionary rules and protocols that Violet and Klaus insisted she followed—but she certainly didn't want to be alone. She wanted to be with Violet, and Klaus, and Beatrice always—after all, who was she without them?
With a frustrated sob, Sunny chose to painstakingly swallow her pride once more. She would remain a slave to the ghosts of the Baudelaires’ miserable past if it meant they were together. If it meant Violet wouldn't lay awake sleepless throughout the night; if it meant Klaus wouldn't have to hide the tremble in his voice whenever she questioned all the precautions and rules to their safe little way of life;
“No, it’s fine.” Sunny rubbed at her eyes. “You’re right.” She whispered, looking anywhere but her sister. Squirming her way from Violet's hold, Sunny made her retreat. “I'll be in my room.” She said softly.
The young girl breathed a heavy sigh of relief once the door to her and Beatrice's room separated her from her siblings. Calmly Sunny made her way to her bed, grabbed a pillow, shoved it over her face and screamed in frustration.
Whether it was minutes or hours, Sunny did not know. She laid there too exhausted and stifled to even think—when the door softly creaked open, Sunny made no move to crane her head.
“...Sunny?”
The small voice was like honey—Sunny had been bracing herself for Violet or Klaus—whom she dearly loved but had very little interest in seeing at the moment. With minimal movement, Sunny patted the blanket next to her, inviting her little sister to enter into the warzone.
With youthful vigor, Beatrice bounced on to the bed. The brunette rolled next to Sunny, laying on her stomach and tilting her head to peer at her. Sunny, where she laid gazing dully at the ceiling on her back, rolled her head to look at Beatrice.
“Sorry.” Beatrice whispered.
“What are you sorry for?” Sunny asked, confusion apparent on her face.
Beatrice considered the question. “—That you’re fighting…” The ‘with Violet and Klaus’ part went unspoken. Sunny knew what her sister meant. She huffed as Beatrice continued. “I don’t like it when we fight and…I-I…None of us like fighting. I think it is hard on everyone.” Sunny looked away when she felt Beatrice’s eyes inspecting her face for a reaction. She could practically feel her sister thinking, trying to scheme up a way to smooth relations over and make everyone happy. For a while, all was silent. Finally, Sunny risked a look back at her sister.
Beatrice waited a moment as if contemplating her next move, and then, unexpectedly, she made the goofiest, most appalling face she could muster. Caught completely off guard, Sunny could help the sharp laugh that spilled from her chest.
Sunny reached over to playfully shove her sister.
“Stoooop,” She groaned, trying to cover her face. “I'm not ready to smile yet.” She lamented, eventually losing the battle to a senseless fit of giggling. Beatrice grinned with satisfaction. The girls laughed until tears glistened on their lashes. “Silly little thing.” Sunny muttered fondly.
In the Baudelaire household, Beatrice was like a warm bowl of soup on a frigid, dreary day; or finally laying down after spending all night running a copious amount of miles; or the first breath of fresh air after being inflicted from a deadly fungal poison.
She was relief from the unfortunate life the Baudelaires lived; she was hope for a kinder future.
The sisters eventually lapsed into a content silence. “Hey, Sunny?” Beatrice said softly after some time had passed. Sunny tilted her head to regard her adopted sister—her brows were furrowed, lined with a discomfort unbecoming of such a youthful face.
“Am I…do you think I am a real Baudelaire?” Beatrice asked carefully.
“Of course!” Sunny blurted “But in a different sort of way.” She said. Beatrice's face began to fall and Sunny immediately began to wish she could take her words back. “—a good way!” She quickly clarified. “You aren't solemn, overcautious, or overbearing. I wouldn't want you to be any way other than the way that you are.” Sunny stressed, sitting up and taking her sister's shoulders.
Beatrice eased at Sunny's words but still seemed the slightest bit troubled. “Okay.” She said, working for a smile that did not reach her eyes.
“Trust me, be glad you aren't a Baudelaire in blood. Maybe you'll be spared from this dismal curse on our family line.” Sunny said, plopping back down onto the bed with a frown.
Beatrice nodded, her young eyes far off.
A sharp, pretentious knock tapped sounded against the door at a fashionable three minutes late.
Arthur Poe, esteemed vice president of orphan affairs at Mulctuary Money Management rose from his desk and hurried to welcome his client. “Coming!” But before he could reach the door, the knob turned—door swinging open to reveal a tall, professional, and ravishing blonde woman.
“Esme Squalor!” Mr. Poe greeted. “It is nice to come into your acquaintance agai—” A sudden, wheezing cough erupted from Mr. Poe’s chest. The man doubled over, wetly hacking into his hand. Final, the coughing fit subsided and Mr. Poe cleared his throat. “You look very distinguished as always.” The banker said cheerfully as he held out his hand.
The distinguished woman's nose wrinkled in poorly veiled disgust. Leaving Poe’s hand untouched, Esme shouldered past the stout banker, inviting herself further into the office room.
“Let's cut to the chase.” She said curtly. “You know why I am here.”
“Yes, of course—right to business as usual.” Mr. Poe said, hurrying back to his desk. Pulling open a drawer, the man removed an obscenely large paper document, plunking it down upon his desk with a resounding smack.
“The Evidence Act, I believe you'll find it on page three hundred fifty-nine, clause twenty four, section seven.” Esme sat unphased, clearly intending to make zero effort.
“—But I won't bore you with the details. What you need to know is that, here at Mulctuary Money Management, we have a five year policy. If the intended inheritors of an obscenely large fortune are missing, presumed dead, after a period of five years, their inheritance can be claimed by their closest relative or affiliate. The claim will go to court, where the jury will decide if the claim has legitimate bearings and—”
“Good heavens—what happened to not boring me with the details.” The woman moaned. “Mr. Poe, I assure you I am the last rightful recipient of this inheritance. Beatrice, the children's mother, was a dear—” Esme restrained a gag, closing her eyes and wincing as if the words stung her lips just to say, “—dear friend. Not only that, but I am the Baudelaire orphan's last living guardian.”
“Yes, I know, Mrs. Squalor, but we still have procedures—”
“Mr…uh…?” Esme narrowed her eyes as she wracked her brain for the banker's name.
“Arthur Poe.”
“Ah, yes! Mr. Poe.” Esme placed a long, spindly hand on the man's shoulder, leveling him with a very serious expression. “Ever since taking in those orphans out of the goodwill in my heart, I have faced nothing but suffering. My husband and I separated, I was victimized and mistreated by a horrible man, and my career was jeopardized as I chased down the run away orphans to keep them safe! I lost everything. Now, I am only the eighth most important financial advisor.” Esme put a hand on her chest as her throat tightened. Tears glistened on the woman's long, artificial lashes.
“Do you know what it's like to have to look your teenager daughter in the eye and tell her that her Mumsie can't afford to buy her a private jet to fly her to her dance recitals?”
“—Well, no, I don't suppose—”
Esme turned her back to the banker, looking over the shoulder of her fashionable blouse as she drew a tissue from her pocket. “—And, Mr. Poe, can you imagine the disappointment in her sweet, beady eyes when I had to tell her she would just have to keep using the boring, uninspiring company jet instead?” The woman dabbed her eyes with the tissue.
“Well…”
“Arthur—can I call you Arthur? I want you to try and comprehend the enormous amount of shame that has come upon my practice after my good name was tarnished by an abusive relationship with a wretched and slobbish man!” Esme's entire being shook with an array of emotion. She pointed a long, manicured finger in Mr. Poe's chest. “And the trauma of surviving a disastrous hotel fire that did irreparable damage to my hair!” A fire burned hot in Esme's eyes, eye voice dripping with malice. After a moment, she cleared her throat. “And also took many lives.” She added what was almost an afterthought.
“My…Esme, I am so, so sorry. That is simply awful.” Mr. Poe sympathized. “Why, I'm not sure I can imagine anyone who has suffered as much as you have suffered.”
“Then please,” suddenly, Esme's demeanor changed, grief and lamentation morphing into a more deranged desperation. “Help me get my hands on my fortune.”