Mrs. Snicket sat at the table, sipping her tea and gazing out the window. Now, you might have expected little Mrs. Snicket, dressed up in pastels and lace gloves for tea, to be gazing at the fragrant roses in the Duchess's rose garden. But Mrs. Snicket, who wore sturdy boots under her ruffled hem, and a quick tongue behind her sweet smile, a mother's duty underneath her lady's demeanor, gazed beyond the petal carpet, past the perfumed arbor, to the white painted gazebo, streaked with climbing roses, opening petals to the warm light of the sun. Inside the gazebo was in fact the source of Mrs. Snicket's interest. The Duchess had allowed the children to take their tea alone in the gazebo, an exciting treat as they hated sitting with the adults, itching stiff collars and listening to idle chatter that they couldn't understand.
Now, in that gazebo haven, discarded shoes lay among rolled up stockings and tossed tea jackets. Gathered around a tray laden with a rose sprig tea pot, a small pitcher of cream, a jar of sugar, four half full tea cups sitting patiently on saucers, small sandwiches in a myriad of shapes and sizes and an array of cookies and scones and crumbs, were four children. Lemony, completely in his element, knelt on one side of the abandoned tray, the knees of his powder blue tea suit frosted brown from the dirty wood floor, his grey eyes lit up, tongue running a mile a minute while his hand occasionally moved to push long strands of hair back out of his face. Rebecca sat rapt, small white hands folded in the lap of her pink tea dress, while Kit sat beside her, deftly braiding a wreath of roses to perch on Rebecca's curls, both listening to the story Lemony spun like cloth. Jacques, deeming himself too old to listen to silly faery tales, leaned against a pillar, leg hanging down the steps, leather bound book in hand. However, despite his scoff at such activities, Kit noticed that his gaze would occasionally lift from the cramped page to the animated face of his brother, caught hopelessly like the girls in Lemony's web of dashing heroes, wilting princesses and tyrannical villains.
"Lemy," Kit mused, finishing the wreath and setting it on Rebecca's head, admiring how the pale pink roses matched her hair so perfectly, "why do the princesses in your stories always have to be rescued?"
"That's the heroes job, of course," Lem sniffed. Even Jacques agreed. Why would there even be a hero if the princess could just stroll out of the villain's clutches all willy nilly as it pleased her?
But that explanation would never satisfy Kit. "I'd never have to be rescued," she stated vehemently, braiding rose stems into Rebecca's hair. "I have no need for a hero."
"But girls can't fight like boys can," Jacques retorted smugly.
"And you would know, Jacques," Kit tossed her hair, fairy silver in the fading light. "The only girl you've ever fought was me, and I won every time."
Rebecca's eyes went wide. "Fight? I don't want to fight!"
"Don't worry, Becky," Lem laughed, standing and brushing the dirt off his trousers. "I'll rescue you if you ever get into trouble."
Those simple words, said in a laughing voice, were the strike of the match, a seed planted deep inside the earth, the tiniest breeze on a still summer day, the very smallest drop of water.
"Jacques!" The children turned to see the two adults making their way into the garden. Mrs. Snicket called again for her children, who began to grab jackets and stocking, running through the garden, air heavy with rose perfume.