Four-
The next time she meets the Count, two more weeks have passed and they are both in hiding.
Violet is hurrying through the ground level of Eliade, passing scattered instructors, empty classrooms, and walls glittering with religious iconography. It is the fifth Wednesday the orphans have had to themselves. Some have used the time to rest in their bedrooms, to have quiet hours of peace with their friends. Others take the city busses to the local market in search of food and shops and freedom without harsh rules and overseers.
Others, like Carmelita Spats, cause trouble.
Others, like Violet, avoid trouble.
Her footsteps echo in the empty hall against the ornate tile floor. She rounds a corner, nearly trips over a large wooden crate, one of the many anonymous prayer boxes scattered around the building, and hurriedly flings open a small exit door. She hopes Carmelita will think she wouldn't exit Eliade, would continue down the hall in a rush of avoidance and altar smoke.
Violet's lungs are suddenly full of greasy city air as she stumbles down three uneven steps and into a cobbled alleyway. It is pressed thin between the cathedral and the newsprint station for The Daily Punctilio.
Usually it is crowded with garbage and shadow and moss. She finds all those things there, yet what she finds in addition is a familiar man sitting on an overturned wine crate, clutching a newspaper. His dark eyes fly to hers, narrowed and ready for a fight, before recognition sparks in them.
Olaf mutters, "Orphan," in greeting, but Violet can sense the implied question at the end.
The best she can give him is a pleading look and a breathless, "Hi, Olaf," before she stumbles to crouch behind a row of grimey garbage cans. Violet can feel the confused weight of his eyes through her hiding spot but before he can ask a single question, the door flies open yet again and another familiar face glares into the alley. Her mouth is pinched into a snarl and her red curls are frizzy as if the malice burning within her has fried them.
"Count!" She chirps, her furious demeanor shifting to sickly sweet. Olaf's glare shifts to rest upon the other girl. Even through the fear in her gut, Violet remembers the first words Olaf had said about Carmelita- "Voice sounds like a dog toy?"- and feels reassured by them. "Have you seen a cakesniffing orphan pass through here? I saw her sneaking around my room… And what are you doing all alone out here? Meeting someone?"
A harsh sigh of annoyance leaves him. Through the gaps in the garbage cans, Violet can see Carmelita's pale face is calm and open. There seems to be a moment of pure consideration on Olaf's part. He stands, languid and slow, folding his newspaper across his forearm and watching the other girl with a tight, suspicious look around his eyes.
"I'm not meeting anyone. Not that it's any of your business, but this is hardly a private place for associates. Can't a man read the paper outside in peace?"
"I think it would be my business. Considering." Carmelita sniffs, a hint of annoyance to her tone.
"Considering." Olaf repeats, monotone with displeasure. "Considering what? Your penchant for harassing your schoolmates?"
"I'm not harassing anyone." Carmelita insists. "I just didn't know if you had seen someone come into the alley. Have you?"
Violet shifts in time to catch a glimpse of Olaf rolling his eyes. Gravel pops as the man drops to his seat and yanks his newspaper open with a crisp crack of pages.
He says like finality, like fact, "Fuck off, orphan. Take your schoolyard tiffs inside and leave me be."
Offense changes Carmelita. Appalled at the adult language, her brown eyes blow wide with shock before she glares with a ferocity Violet nearly envies. She flicks her hair and puts one hand on her hip as if Olaf were a challenge easily solved by a tantrum.
"I'll have you know," Carmelita hisses, voice pitched high and whining like the buzz of a mosquito. "I'm only here because of-"
"I don't care why you think you're here." Olaf mutters. He turns a page Violet is sure he has not read. "Have you forgotten you live in an extension of an orphanage? There is no one here to protect you. To defend you. And anyone who might feel the need-" He meets her eyes with a knowing glare. Carmelita shifts, her expression paling, her posture sinking with diminutive acceptance. "-is not around. Hold your tongue, orphan. And get out of my sight."
With a frustrated huff of defeat, Carmelita backs away and slams the door shut. Silence hangs in the alley like another visitor until Violet rises from behind the garbage can.
"Thank you, Olaf." She says, grabbing another wine crate and dragging it over to sit beside him in the sunlight. Now that Carmelita has gone, so has her fear. In its place is a wired, sharp awareness that she is, again, alone with Count Olaf who is sitting with his long legs crossed at the ankle, with his sleeves rolled up, and smudged ink at his wrists and she is, again, uncomfortably, achingly attracted to him.
The sun has just begun its slow sink over the city. Through the cramped alley, it casts the pair in gold and sends their shadows to the ground as if someone had cut their silhouettes from golden silk and stretched them through the backstreet.
"You're welcome. You've said that to me twice now, y'know. Pretty soon you'll have to buy me a personalized cake as thanks. It will be raspberry flavored and the frosting will be white with black letters and say, Count Olaf, thank you for being so handsome and saving my ass and also being very handsome. Love, Violet." The Count quips, still clutching his newspaper the way some nervous drivers clutch a steering wheel. He sighs in lamented, sarcastic wanting and mutters, "Or wine. With the same thing on a card, of course."
"I would, but I can't buy wine yet." Violet says easily. She looks to Olaf's newspaper, which he promptly folds and tosses away. It skitters down the alley, its edges brushing broken glass.
"Ah, right. I was meaning to ask you, Violet…" The Count shifts his crate to face her, puts his elbows on his knees, and laces his fingers. He looks to her seriously despite the odd circumstances of their second private meeting, as if she were a riddle he was trying to solve. Being the sole focus of his attention makes Violet want to squirm, yet she holds still and listens.
"I meant to ask you before, but never found the right time. You don't look young enough to be in an orphanage, even one as half-hearted and repressive as this one. How old are you, dear thing?"
Despite her excitement at the affectionate title, supreme disappointment manifests itself like a physical weight in Violet's chest. She feels her shoulders slump slightly, feels distaste twist in her mouth as she says, "Seventeen."
"Seventeen." Olaf repeats. Violet had expected him to turn away, to at least redirect his attention to the street or the trash or anything else. Instead, the man smiles, looking villainous and bold and, Violet thinks, absolutely irresistible. "Not quite legal yet, are you?"
'Does it matter?' The thought comes to her, heaves itself at the backs of her teeth, yet she forces it down. Not trusting herself to speak, Violet shakes her head. From where he has shifted, the sunlight warms half of her face and she closes her eyes against the feeling, wondering how many months it has been since she was outside and coming up empty of memory.
When Olaf doesn't speak, she finally says, "Not yet. One more year and I can leave."
"To where?" Olaf asks.
Violet has wondered the same thing. Since the very day she became an orphan, that was always her biggest mystery. She thinks of Duncan and his book of secret societies, of his grief twisted into conspiracy, and the ways misery and blame so often arrive together. Without her family, she wonders what is next. Not why they are gone or who could have hurt them.
"I'm not sure," She admits. She still has her eyes closed against the sun and although she can feel Olaf looking at her, she does not feel the need to open them. "I've wondered, but never decided. I can't think of anywhere… else. Nothing has much appeal anymore."
The Count nods although she cannot see it. He says, "You could always join my theatre Troupe, you know."
Violet snorts, opening her eyes to roll them. "I'm not much of an actress, Olaf."
The man smiles as if sharing a private joke with himself, all crinkled eyes and a sly grin she has never seen before.
"What?" Violet demands, suspicious and endeared all at once. "What's that look on your face?"
"You wouldn't have to act." He says through that grin, a warmth to his dark eyes.
Violet feels as if he is hinting something she is too thick, too inexperienced to realize, yet quells that thought with doubt. He could never want her, could never desire her. She is scrawny and weak, and hides from girls like Carmelita, and feels free only when trespassing alone. She spends too much time in Eliade and has no real goals, no future. She is merely the victim of an unfortunate tragedy, and it has derailed the course of her life so brilliantly that she has lost herself in its aftermath. Her home and her family are gone and Violet is left with nothing to prove she had ever truly had them.
"A traveling inventor would be handy, I guess." She admits, feeling embarrassed for a reason she cannot pinpoint.
It is Olaf's turn to roll his eyes, which, like anything else, he does dramatically. He sighs as if world-weary and mutters, "Oh, Violet. I called you sharp before, don't make me take it back."
"Okay." Violet scoffs, her heart skittering high in her chest. "Then why would you want me around if not to builds your sets?"
Olaf eyes her critically, searching for something. After a few moments he says, voice calm and low, "Is it such a surprise I would want you around?"
"Yes. Definitely." Feeling overwhelmed, Violet stands. Beyond the shadowed alley, cars glimmer and glide past, their windows down, lofty music floating from dozens of radios.
"Going somewhere?" Olaf asks, his voice nearly a purr. Violet watches his gaze travel slowly up her legs to meet her eyes.
The words come to her like compulsion- "Not if you kiss me."- but she swallows them the way she has grown accustomed to suppressing physical pain. Violet clenches her fists at her side and watches the cars go by so her eyes are not drawn to the man beside her.
"I wish I didn't have to." Violet admits. Knowing she must leave a perfect opportunity to chat with Olaf alone and in the sunset has her stomach sinking with regret. "But I've got to get to my lair before Carmelita finds me."
Olaf hums, crossing his arms. He glances from the cars to Violet's face as if he doesn't quite believe her. "And what has you so scared of a scrawny little thing like her?"
"That's a fair question. It's better if I just… show you. Won't take long."
Violet returns to her perch on the wine crate and begins unwinding the gauze at her left hand slowly. "To put it simply, Carmelita keeps framing me. Every week or so we have a visiting speaker and usually she steals their notes and hides them in my room. One time she stole four bottles of the communion wine, drank them gradually, then hid the bottles under my bed. Neither Carmelita nor the staff can prove that I actually did anything, but they believe her without any doubts. No matter how much I protest."
Unexpectedly, Olaf is silent in the stretch of time it takes her to fully unroll each strip. Violet doesn't spare a look to his face to see what his reaction might be, merely focuses on the repetitive unwinding, the tension of the gauze.
The space around her knuckles is paler than normal in the golden sunset. Pink lines of pressure have been pressed into the flesh from the tightness of her bandages. The skin looks almost like a roadmap, lines crossing and scattering until they, inevitably, end at the deep red of her wounds.
Most recently, she had received five cuts from Nero for scribbling unkind things within the notes of their upcoming speaker, a local rabbi explaining the importance of the Festival of Sukkot. She never learned what she had supposedly written, had merely been summoned to the Vice Principal's temporary office by Mr. Remora and once she had arrived, had found herself placing her hands flat on Nero's desk, his thin, flexible cane flashing through the air before she understood what she had supposedly done.
The five cuts were quick but, unlike the last session which had wielded ten, these were more painful because of the leftover reminders of her previous supposed transgressions, not yet healed into scar. Violet still had yet to learn why Nero seemed so sure of her rebellion, but since the very first time she was framed, she learned that any kind of protest, plea, or even a squeak of pain resulted in more cuts. And that was the last thing she wanted.
Violet flexes her fingers, hoping the air will do some good. Thin strips of split skin cross atop her knuckles, surrounded by bruises and small blood vessels ruptured under force. At first, she could count the number of lashes. Now, they blend together in multiple lines. A swell of blood cracks free at her flex, yet she feels no pain, only the relief of a taught scab splitting.
Beside her, Olaf is still and silent. She wonders then if she had made a mistake, if sharing a problem so physically evident had crossed some invisible line of acceptable conversation, but then the Count speaks.
"Carmelita. This is her fault?" His voice is deadly quiet. Violet finally ventures a look to Olaf's expression, expecting disgust or annoyance. Instead she finds him stoney-faced, like a warrior. There is a hard quirk to his mouth as if he is bracing for a fight. His dark eyes have gone flat and cold.
"Well, yeah. I don't know why she does it. But Nero never listens, even if I-" She spits the next word like spitting a tooth, as if sacrificing some primal slice of pride with it. "Beg. He just canes me more."
Olaf has his eyes closed when she glances his way. His posture is rigid and his jaw is flexed as if he is trying to suppress some upheaval of emotion.
"He makes you beg?" Olaf asks, voice tense.
"No, he doesn't." Violet admits, standing yet again and wrapping her gauze back around her sore knuckles. "But sometimes I can't help it."
Olaf stands beside her, quick and snappy, as if someone had just challenged him to a fist fight. He is so tall he blocks the sun from her face. Coolness drops like sudden rain.
"Can't you do something? Threaten Carmelita? Or Nero? Get them off your back before you die of blood loss?" Olaf questions, insistent and brutish. Violet merely laughs and shakes her head.
"I'm flattered you think I could threaten anyone. Can't really get Nero into trouble for disciplining his influx of orphans. And Carmelita isn't going to stop. None of my instructors will listen to me. I think it's smarter to tough it out instead of make a fuss. Plus-" fear strikes straight to her dropping stomach as if she had just leapt off a very tall diving board or into the empty gut of an elevator shaft. "Nero said next time I'm caught he'll make sure I remember it, whatever that means. I don't want to accuse him of- what, abuse?- and get him even angrier with me."
Violet worries her bottom lip and fiddles with the loose end of her gauze. The setting sun has dipped further and their shadows have slowly stretched throughout the cobbled alley. Spring chill begins to settle in for the night, cool and thin. She wonders at the time and if she is late for dinner, if Duncan and Isadora wait at their usual table.
"Violet," Olaf says, breaking her thoughts. They meet eyes easily and a strange authority burns in the man's gaze. "You don't have to be the one making threats. If you need them off your back, tell me."
The Count leaves his speech at that despite the obvious intrigue on Violet's face. She wonders at his life, at the meaning behind his willingness to threaten others on her behalf, yet suppresses her questions. She can tell by the avoidant tilt of his shoulders that he doesn't want to elaborate, yet she finds herself again questioning if this will be their last time alone together, if it will be their last time ever speaking.
"I will." She steps away, reluctant to leave his shadow. "And if you ever help me again, I'll get you that cake."
That makes the man grin wide and amused. "Remember what it says?"
Violet smiles back and trots up the little steps that lead back into Eliade.
"Something about a handsome ass?" She teases, catching the narrow-eyed smirk of the man as she turns and opens the door. Olaf has his hands in his trouser pockets and his shoulders turned inward as if bracing against a chill. His head is tilted, chin at an angle. He looks down his nose at her, as if sizing up an opponent.
"Cheeky. Don't forget it." He says.
"Goodnight, Count Olaf." She says, stepping inside, casting him one more grateful look.
"Goodnight, Violet." He returns, and then she shuts the door between them, blocking out the smog of city air and leaving the man in darkness.
Once again, I didn't make many references this chapter. That will soon change.
As for me, I am about to read Snicket's newest tale The Bad Mood and the Stick. I'm sure it will not be lacking.
Again, much thanks! Please let me know what you think!