Only two streets over from the house where a close relative of yours used to live, there is a bookstore called Pi's Pages. It is a small bookstore with only two incommodious, a word which here means "very difficult to move about in", stories, and it sells only books about mathematics, sailing, and bengal tigers. The shopkeeper was an equally small man by the name of Archimedes Syracuse whose lifeless, gray eyes were only rivaled by his tired, gray face.

Not long after the Duchess of Winnipeg's birthday, a man who was dressed normally (with the exception of glasses he did not need) found himself in the diner across the street from Pi's Pages with a slice of pineapple pie that was particularly pitiable. Anyone who was paying close enough attention to him might have noticed that he was looking dead ahead, a phrase meaning "his eyes were so unmoving they might as well have belonged to a corpse", at the tiny bookstore and the tiny man who kept it. Anyone observing this might have found this peculiar as the diner was far more spacious, colorful, and cheerful than the man's subject of interest. Yet, it is not polite to question a person's interests unless that interest is harmful to another person; and, as interest in dusty bookstores is not usually harmful, the man was left staring without interruption until his waitress interrupted.

"I didn't realize this was a sad occasion," the blonde waitress without glasses said as she picked up the man's plate of half-eaten pie.

The man took a deep breath and gave the waitress a small smile. "The world is quiet here," he answered. "Solace is a thing so rarely found, so silence must take its place."

The woman nodded. "But where might it be even quieter?" she mused.

"I've been looking dead ahead at that tiny bookstore," the man answered. "It seems incommodious, but it may serve my purposes."

The waitress quirked an eyebrow. "Especially if you are looking for information on mathematics, sailing, or bengal tigers," she said. "I may need information of that sort in ten minutes or less."

The man stood and paid for his dessert, tipping the waitress generously. "I find that I need information of that sort this very moment."

With those words, the man left and crossed the street to the bookstore. Mr. Syracuse was asleep behind the front desk and a stack of books was near the stairs. The man, who you ought to know by now has a name as most people do, sat on the bottom step and began to read. Yet, for all of his efforts Lemony Snicket could not focus on the book in his hands. For one thing, the book was on advanced calculus, a difficult subject that very few find interesting. For another, the thought of seeing the waitress again occupied his every thought. His eyes barely skimmed the sentences as though each word was a piece of a single paragraph so long that he could not be bothered to attempt comprehending it. In that sense, it felt quite similar to the paragraph you are reading right now. Having given up on the book as I am sure you have given up on this paragraph, he looked around the aging shop and worried if it was at all adequate, a word which here means "fit to meet a very dear friend in after not seeing her for a very long time."

Before he had time to think thrice about the decision to meet, the waitress entered Pi's Pages. She was still blonde and still not wearing glasses, but she had changed into a powder blue, button-up dress and comfortable brown shoes. "I hope I didn't keep you waiting," she said as she pulled off her blonde wig, revealing dark locks that flowed only a little ways past her shoulders. "And if I did, I hope you don't mind."

She had. He didn't.

"It's good to see you again, B.," Lemony said.

"Beatrice," she corrected him. "We've known each other long enough for you to call me Beatrice."

Lemony nodded. "Beatrice..." he echoed in barely more than a whisper.

Beatrice scanned the shop, placing her hands on her hips. "Well, why am I here, Lemony?" she questioned.

Clearing his throat, Lemony put down the book he was still clutching onto and stood. "I've received a message from an associate of mine that R. is in danger from a certain man with a beard but no hair."

Beatrice widened her eyes. "I've received a similar message about a woman with hair but no beard. I didn't take it seriously at the time as I had it from a Virginian Wolfsnake that someone had mysteriously given a typewriter to."

A seed of dread planted itself in Lemony's stomach, a feat that most seeds cannot accomplish. "We mustn't let any harm befall her. As you know, she is the last living heir of the Winnipeg estate, and that must not fall into the wrong hands."

With a curt nod, Beatrice picked up a book that was sitting on a table in the center of the room and dusted it off. "But you still haven't told me what we're doing in this bookstore."

"I'm hoping that we will be able to intercept a message from a conspirator against R.. If my informant is correct, there has been a code placed in a work of fiction by author Brutus Noble. This work of fiction will have nothing to do with either mathematics, sailing, or bengal tigers."

Beatrice shook her head. "So, we're looking for a needle in a haystack..."

"A hackneyed phrase," Lemony remarked.

"But useful for when one wishes to express frustration with or put off trying to find something that is very difficult to find." As she started up the steep stairs to the second floor, Beatrice turned back. "I'm glad to see you, too, Lemony. I only wish we were meeting under more pleasant circumstances."

There has been no shortage of times when two people wished they were meeting under more pleasant circumstances. A person involved in a motor accident wished they could meet their insurance agent under more pleasant circumstances. A student who has behaved badly wished they could meet their principal under more pleasant circumstances. Marie Antoinette no doubt wished she could have met her executioner under more pleasant circumstances. However, unlike a motorcyclist and an agent, a student and a principal, or the queen of France and an executioner, Lemony Snicket and Beatrice were unlikely to ever meet under pleasant circumstances. They hadn't been meeting under pleasant circumstances since Lemony had bought Beatrice a rootbeer float to apologize for embarrassing her in front of her classmates, and they were unlikely to start doing so in the future.

It took the volunteers some time to locate the fictional section in the store as it was not organized by the Dewey Decimal system or seemingly any system at all. In a far corner, closest to the books even those interested in calculus would find dull, works of fiction began and stretched over three shelves, each full in both front and back.

"I never knew there could be so many stories about mathematics, sailing, and/or bengal tigers," Beatrice said as she saw it.

Lemony looked at the collection with equal surprise. "This world is but a canvas to our imagination," Lemony replied finally.

"I'm afraid I'll be able to do only a very little bit of reading," Beatrice sighed. "I accidentally left my glasses at R.'s home after her mother's birthday party and haven't been back to retrieve them."

"I thought you might have," Lemony said as he offered her a little smile and took the glasses off his own head. "These match your prescription if I'm not mistaken."

After trying the glasses on, Beatrice nodded. "Yes, but just how you know that is beyond me."

Lemony bit his lip anxiously. "You left those at my home the last time you were there."

Beatrice laughed, and it sounded like music. "Of course, I must have. How kind of you to save them for me."

Yes, he had saved them. It might have been that some small part of him had hoped she would return for them. It may have also been that if he looked at them long enough, he could imagine he saw her sparkling, intelligent, blue eyes behind them. Yet, in any case, it was time to let them go and return them to their rightful owner.

Together, they began to pull books written by Brutus Noble off the shelves ten at a time and set them on a table next to the railing. From there, they could see the entire bookstore, including Mr. Syracuse who they both decided may-or-may-not have been actually sleeping.

Once they had collected each of the one-hundred books they needed, Lemony unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them up to his elbows. "Mr. Noble has certainly had time to write as much as he chooses," he said. "I'm not confident I could write more than ten books without wailing in agony."

Beatrice bit her lower lip and nodded. "I'm sure I'd die after writing just one."

They were both silent a moment, until Beatrice spoke up again. "Now," she began. "Bertrand says that one can always rely on the process of elimination."

The process of elimination, as you know, is a process most commonly used by detectives to solve murders, fires, and other such things that detectives investigate. However, it is also possible to use it for other things. For instance, if one is trying to determine who created a self-portrait, one could first eliminate artists who did not paint self-portraits. Afterwards, if the self-portrait features one long eyebrow instead of two, one could eliminate all self-portrait-painting artists who did not have a unibrow. Then, one would be left with either a dastardly villain or famous Mexican artist Frida Kahlo. If the painting was any good, one could safely assume that Miss Kahlo was the artist.

Lemony already knew how the process of elimination worked, so the only question he had was, "Who's Bertrand?"

"He's a member of my theater troupe," Beatrice answered with a shrug. "I say we first remove everything with the word 'tiger' in the title or summary."

Unable to for lack of time and unwilling to for lack of spirit, Lemony chose not to ask any more about Bertrand.

After removing books with the words "mathematics" and "sailing", there were only two books left that they could possibly find the message in. The sun was long gone by then, and they (with Mr. Syracuse) were the only people left in Pi's Pages.

"Lemony?" Beatrice said, before even daring to touch the cover of The Goose Girl as retold by Brutus Noble.

"Yes?" Lemony answered before even guessing what the pages of The Lonesome Lover by Brutus Noble contained.

Beatrice took a breath. "R. is my oldest friend," she said. "I've known her even longer than I've known you, my dearest friend."

Lemony's heart leapt at Beatrice naming him dearest, but outwardly he made no sign of it.

"What I'm saying is," Beatrice started again. "No matter what we find here or elsewhere, I am going to do everything in my power to try to save her. And..." At this, she sighed and laid her hand gently on Lemony's arm. "My dear Lemony Snicket, I'm asking if you'll help me as long as you can."

Lemony blinked and swallowed. How could he refuse her? How could he ignore the way just hearing his name from her mouth made him dizzy with adoration? Yet, "Of course," was all he said.

The deal struck, the two delved into (the word "delved" is a word which here means "got busy reading") their books.

It was nearly morning before Beatrice cried, "I have it!" and called Lemony over to help her decipher the code.

The passage read as follows:

"Every day as the goose girl walked down to feed the geese, she sang her sad tale of woe as the bell on her bucket rang.

'I've been so sad since my wicked servant girl so cruelly sent me down to this wretched state. You needn't feel sorry. You needn't cry for me. Some day, I know, I'll sit on the throne beside my true love. For my mother chose a Prince for me. Yet, I drive my wicked servant girl so wild, I fear it will take more pain."

The Prince heard Goose Girl one day and knowing the truth he began to chase her, his heart-bells ringing with love. He caught her, kissed her, and married her the same day and they lived happily ever after."

"It's an atrocious piece of writing," Lemony said.

"But you recognize the code?" Beatrice asked.

Lemony nodded and counted out the words. "If I'm not mistaken," he said. "It says, 'I've sent you on a wild goose chase'."

They were both silent for a very long while.

"Have you seen Mr. Syracuse?" Beatrice asked finally. "He's not in his chair..."

Slowly, the two looked over the railing to see Mr. Archimedes Syracuse fully awake and aiming a crossbow in their direction. "I wouldn't try anything funny, yungins," he said. Some elderly people have a habit of calling anybody younger than themselves a "yungin." While the term is irritating for two people already in adulthood, it is no more irritating than working a full night with nothing to show for it.

"Mr. Syracuse, I'm surprised at you," Lemony said, sounding more brave than he felt. It seemed to him that if the old man were to fire his crossbow, the arrow would hit Beatrice in a usually fatal spot on her head.

"Who?" The old man laughed. "Oh! The disguise worked, did it? Archimedes Syracuse hasn't been here in months! That is, he hasn't been up front... He's been a little too tied up, I'm afraid."

"Well, who are you then?" Beatrice demanded. Anybody who wasn't looking wouldn't have noticed her tear the first button off of her dress. But Lemony was looking, and he noticed.

The old man smiled cruelly. "I hoped you'd guess! After all, you've been enjoying my book. The Goose Girl always comes in handy when I need someone to waste time."

Beatrice's hands were behind her now, button and all, and she seemed to be crushing it in her fist. "Brutus Noble," Beatrice sneered. "Are you one of those miserable villains behind the plot against my friend?"

"I'd be a fool not to be! We're splitting the Winnipeg fortune only five ways."

Beatrice's hand made a still, tight fist now. Lemony backed away to stay clear of what was to come. "You and who else?" he demanded.

"As if I'd tell!" Brutus growled.

"Then you are of no further use to me," Beatrice said. "And you're a pathetic writer." With that, she leaned over the railing and opened her fist, blowing white powder onto the wretch below like blowing a kiss.

Brutus Noble fell unconscious to the ground almost instantaneously. Beatrice nearly fell to the ground, as well, and would have if Lemony had not caught her by the waist at the last moment. She spun around to face him, her nose nearly bumping into his chin.

"Thank you," she said.

They both stopped a moment, unsure what they were stopping and why they were stopping.

Lemony removed his hands from Beatrice's waist. "Think nothing of it," he instructed.

With a nod, Beatrice turned to look more carefully over the railing. "It's not very strong powder," she admitted. "And it's only enough to fit in a button. We have time to release poor Mr. Syracuse, but I'm afraid that's all we can do here."

"That's alright," Lemony assured her. "I'm sure I have no desire to read anymore about mathematics, sailing, or bengal tigers."

"Lemony, there are four more accomplices besides this one," Beatrice said. "This is voluntary work. You don't have to come."

Lemony looked her seriously in the eyes. "I said I would come, so I will. I promised you, Beatrice."

Beatrice grinned. "Well then... There's no time to waste. We have so much to investigate and so little time to do it."

So, the friends walked downstairs to find Mr. Syracuse, Lemony behind Beatrice, and he smiled at the back of her head all the way down.