Disclaimer: Daniel Handler owns ASOUE, and presumably New Order own the quote at the beginning.

An Extremely Lucky Man

It's no problem of mine, but it's a problem I find
Living a life that I can't leave behind…
- New Order, Bizarre Love Triangle

It was a beautiful day, of course. Everyone said so. They went out of their way to mention it to him.

The wedding was held at the Cathedral of the Alleged Virgin. They'd considered the Vineyard, but decided against it. It was better to put the past behind them. Make a fresh start.

Nearly everyone turned up. Some people were on assignments, of course, or for one reason or another would have found it hard to attend. But most of the pews had at least one occupant, and those who couldn't be there had sent flowers. Vivid floral displays of every shape and description filled the room, most of them with elaborate handwritten cards attached saying who had sent them and expressing their hopes for the couple's happiness. Everyone wanted them to be happy. There was even a bouquet bearing the message Best wishes – K.S., and everyone knew what she thought about –

Not that anyone was thinking about all that today. This was a happy occasion, after all. A new beginning. A time of looking forward, of hope for the future, of celebrating the love between two people and being with them as they vowed to share that love for the rest of their lives. They wouldn't think of the past today, only of now.

Beatrice was absolutely radiant. She was always beautiful but right now she took his breath away. Everything was perfect. The dress, the flowers, the sunlight streaming through the windows, it was all better than he could have dreamed. And this was only the beginning, he thought, as the ceremony began and she lifted her veil and smiled at him. They had their whole lives together ahead of them, and he was going to be the happiest man in the world, and he was going to make her just as happy and nothing would ever trouble her again. Nothing.

When they reached the part about "any cause or just impediment" it seemed that there was a slight pause, a collective intake of breath perhaps from the congregation, but nothing happened. Of course not. There was no reason for anything to happen. He loved her, she loved him, and there was no reason for them not to be together, nothing that could come between them, cast a shadow over the brightness of their lives. The service continued, and he pushed aside the dark thoughts that had momentarily come to him and tried not to wonder about the trace of apprehension he'd seen in her eyes too. They were going to be together. Nothing else mattered.

And it really was a beautiful day.

That night he lay awake for quite a while after she'd gone to sleep. Just watching her, just listening to her breath. Wanting to reach out and touch her, to make sure she was really there, but not wanting to wake her up. He felt himself drifting off as well and resisted it until he realised that it really didn't matter, that he'd have the rest of his life to look at her. They were husband and wife now, he reminded himself, still faintly awestruck by this fact. He snuggled closer to her, closing his eyes. They'd be together forever. They'd be…

There was a tapping at the window.

For a minute or two he lay still, trying to ignore it, but the noise was just too persistent and in the end he gave up and climbed carefully out of bed, wondering what on earth it could be. It could have been a branch blowing in the wind, except that there were no trees that close to the house and anyway it was too sharp a tap. It was a familiar sound, one he should have been able to place.

He eased open the window, quietly so as not to wake Beatrice, and as soon as he'd done it he realised what the noise was. A carrier pigeon. It flew straight in and perched on his desk, preening itself. It was ruffled and windswept, as if it had flown a long way. He blinked at it sleepily, thinking Who'd be contacting me at this hour?

And then a moment later Oh God no. Not him. Please.

Hands shaking, he untied the message from the bird's leg. Stared down at the crumpled piece of paper, wishing desperately that he hadn't opened the window, that he'd just stayed in bed and waited for the bird to go away. It wouldn't have, of course, they were trained. It would stay out there all night, or longer, until its task was completed. It wouldn't go away, any more than the man who had sent it would.

If it was him…

Of course it was him! You think anyone else would send you a note like this in the middle of the night?

It could have been somebody else. You never know. There could be some sort of emergency.

That shouldn't have been a comforting thought, but it was, in a way. At any rate, it gave him the strength to actually unfold the piece of paper.

It didn't prepare him for what was written there, though. Probably nothing could have done that. He wasn't sure what he'd expected – threats, possibly, recriminations, or maybe some sort of attempt to cajole, to persuade him. But what had actually been written was simpler, and much worse. Four words stared up at him from the centre of the centre of the scrap of paper, scrawled so frantically that they had almost torn holes in the sheet. Four words, and a question mark.

DO YOU LOVE HER?

For a moment he couldn't move at all, could hardly breathe, and then his legs seemed to give way and he sat down heavily on the bed, trembling all over as if he'd been standing out in the snow. The force of his collapse disturbed Beatrice, who rolled over in her sleep and murmured something distractedly. Let me, it sounded like. Or possibly lie to me.

Or something else.

The shock faded away, leaving fury in its place. What right did that man have to question him? How dare he, after everything he'd done? After the way he'd betrayed her, betrayed all of them? Yes, he loved her, loved her a damn sight more than that traitor ever could have, and if he thought he was going to be intimidated by some cowardly trick like this he had another think coming, because he wouldn't be getting a reply. He was just going to rip the thing to shreds and forget about it.

He strode over to the window. Flung it open again, intending to let the note blow away across the fields. Gripped the paper with both hands. And hesitated.

It wasn't the message that stopped him, it was the note itself. The ragged edge of the paper where it had presumably been torn out of a commonplace book. The erratic scrawl of the handwriting. His former colleague had always been renowned for neatness – this was more than uncharacteristic, it was downright alarming. This didn't look like a message that was meant to intimidate, an act of aggression. It was more like desperation. It was a plea.

And now he noticed that the paper, as well as being ragged, was stained and wrinkled by what looked like drops of water. Raindrops, perhaps. Except it hadn't been raining.

He glanced at the pigeon, which was strutting around his desk pecking randomly at objects in the hope that they might be edible. It looked back at him and cooed, leaning its head to one side as if in inquiry. Well? I haven't got all night, you know. Make your mind up.

"All right," he muttered, grabbing a pencil and a piece of paper and pushing the bird to one side so he'd have something to rest on. There were many ways to say what he needed to say, but in the end he settled on the simplest.

The pigeon winged its way across the fields.

He went back to bed. Eventually, he must have fallen asleep, because he was woken up by a beam of sunlight coming through the gap in the curtains. Beatrice was already downstairs. He could hear her moving around in the kitchen.

Already, it seemed impossible that last night had ever happened. He might have thought it was a dream, if not for the crumpled note still in his pocket.

Should he tell anyone?

And following immediately on from that thought, Why didn't I? It was the obvious thing to have done. The sensible thing, the right thing, and he hadn't even thought of it until now. It was too late, they couldn't trace where the pigeon had come from now and even if they could he wouldn't be there. So there was no point reporting it. It wouldn't have done any good anyway, he reasoned, he'd established that it wasn't a threat of any kind and so all it would have done was upset Beatrice. She wouldn't want to know. She'd want to pretend all that never happened.

Or maybe that's just what you want. Oh, it all sounds very noble – you just want to protect her, of course. And there's not the slightest doubt in your mind that you're not just protecting yourself? That you're not just keeping her in the dark so you won't have to face up to the truth?

She hates him. She said she never wanted to hear his name spoken again.

And you believe her?

"I…" He tried to say it out loud, but the words just stayed stubbornly stuck in his throat and wouldn't move. "I…"

And then the tapping at the window came again, and he almost stopped breathing. "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door," he thought wildly, scrambling out of bed and opening the latch, at arm's length as if the glass might suddenly shatter into his eyes. "Only this and nothing more."

This time the paper was a full sheet, folded neatly. The handwriting was even, controlled, hardly wavering once.

My old friend,

I am truly sorry. My actions last night were both thoughtless and selfish, and I can only pray that the sending of this apology will not put either of you in further danger. Be assured that I mean you no harm. I know what you must think of me, and I do not expect that you will trust my words. I do not ask you to believe me, then. I ask only one thing. Keep her safe.

Guard her, protect her, give her the life she deserves, the life I can never provide for her. Do not tell her about this letter. My memory can bring her nothing but sorrow – it would be best if she forgot that Lemony Snicket ever existed.

With all due respect, and for the last time,

L.

In the deathly silence after he'd finished reading he heard Beatrice coming upstairs. The pigeon struggled when he grabbed it and pecked at his hands, but he managed to get it back outside and in the last few seconds before she entered the room he'd slammed the window and was forcing a nonchalant smile on to his face. He felt certain she'd see through him, but she handed him a cup of tea and said, "Morning, darling. Did you sleep well?" matching his smile with her own.

She had the most dazzling smile.

"Pretty well," he responded, taking the tea with one hand, surreptitiously slipping the letter into his pocket with the other. There was a flutter of wings outside the window, and she looked at him curiously.

"What was that noise?"

"Nothing," he told her, taking a sip of his tea. "Nothing at all."