A/N: I'm new here. Be nice?

Summary: Soon after the death of Count Olaf, the emigration of the Baudelaires off the island, the birth of Beatrice Baudelaire, and the supposed end of the series; a surviving member of Olaf's Acting Troupe is again brought into the endless maze of VFD membership when someone sends her "literary masterpiece" to a twelve year old boy working for both sides of the schism. Old pain, old memories, and old news bubble up into reality once again; bringing about a whole new world of questions. What was actually contained in the Sugar Bowl? Who were the white faced women? And why hasn't Lemony Snicket written more about this series of unfortunate events?

My dear August Applewhite,

I have reason to believe you are in possession of incriminating evidence to the ever feared Count Olaf. For a time now I myself have owned a great amount of information which I haven't made much sense of until I received a manuscript from an anonymous mailer. The envelope, entitled Black Things and an Unfinished Romance, had startling relevance to the current facts that are under my ownership. If I choose a meeting place would you be willing to confront me in order to combine our efforts for the truth? I assure you that my motives are purely sensible in all respects, as I am much a minor. And who ever heard of child capable of any wrongdoing? Please contact me as soon as possible, my sincerest gratitude will follow.

Regards to your organization,

Gian Augusten Penelope

Dearest Gian Augusten Penelope,

Your letter was most convincing. I am indeed in possession of the knowledge you speak of, if only I knew where you've received your information I could believe you without such qualms that happen to have formed in the confines of my consciousness. My plan is as follows- Taken that you do actually exist, I have decided upon a meeting place where we can exchange such information. If you fail to meet me at my one and only request, I believe there is no real urgency to your cause and will therefore drop all contact. I must tell you that my life has consisted of a perilous line of inconceivable events, which I dearly hope will give me a reason to be blunt within response to your letter. I'm not exactly at liberty to tell you what I really think of you, but because I have absolutely nothing to fear from the child you say you are; I think you are a very sick old man who has gone into hiding for many years, leaving his loyal associates behind and is now playing a stupid joke on the people closest to him. But, alas, if you aren't who I think you are, I believe you could be of some service. My address, a flat in the depths of the city, is enclosed. Bring no one and I will give you more information than you've ever dreamed of in your entire life. Thursday, the 17th, 25 minutes after the 12th hour.

My regards to you and your colleagues,

August Applewhite

Chapter 1- Past into Present

January 17-

It's hard to take risks, even at the safest of times. Taking these letters and manuscripts into possession, wanting to find the parents I've always been told died at the instant of my birth, the parents I've wanted to meet and love like I've never loved before.

I myself had studied in the writing of letters for months before attempting to send one off to a woman who I've never even seen. Being only twelve years old, it was all I could do to try to sound precocious enough to convince a venerable associate like August Applewhite.

Because all I want, Diary, is to see my parents.

So wasn't using every opportunity what any determined person would decide?

August Applewhite paced the room, her fingers running through her black hair with increasing anxiousness. Was the person visiting her this afternoon indeed the boy with all the answers? Was this the son she'd thought was dead?

Grief tore through her already damaged heart, squeezing it dry with anticipation. The truth was, she had no idea what to say to this boy. She wanted desperately to hold him in her arms and tell him that he would never go without parents again, but a part of her was afraid.

It was a strange fear, gripping her worse than the cantankerous grief she endured every day. It was a fear that she was being misled, an almost familiar anticipation that took refuge deep in the confines of her tired, effortless mind.

She glanced over at the files lying open on her desk. The Snicket File, a healthy stack of papers more than an inch thick. Every single murder, every crime, every truth that could possibly be known was contained in its many sheets, every single piece of evidence that had survived so much.

Years ago, her feared leader, an assassin, demanded she burn these documents, clearing her and her colleagues' names from any form of record possible.

But she had never been a destroyer of information. She had never thought of herself as a bad person, one to punish and kill innocent people.

She had never truly been a member of the other side of the schism.

August jumped. Someone was rapping, sharply, on her door.

The wait was over. Turning the door knob, she opened her last effort at justice.