Seven-
Instead of fire and destruction, Violet dreams of her family.
They are crowded into her inventing room so tightly her mother makes a comparison to sardines in a can, layered one right next to the other with no space between them. She does not hear her mother's voice, can no longer seem to resurrect her exact tone and diction, yet the words are said and the Baudelaire family laughs together.
Violet can feel the sturdy presence of her father before her and her mother beside her and Sunny's breath tickling her face from where Beatrice holds her. Klaus' elbow presses into her side and he is saying something too faint for her to make out, some comment like, "Really, Violet, these string lights can't be safe-" and the moment is so sweet she finds herself weeping. Her family does not see, cannot sense her brokenness. As she feels Sunny's soft fists tangle in the clutch of hair at her temple, or her mother's soothing hand steady on the small of her back, they do not feel the tremors that shake her to her core.
In this dream her family stands together, alive, and Violet is already mourning, already bursting with wretched, ugly grief. But the hatch of the trapdoor swings open with a bang beside her father's foot and Bertrand draws his attention from fiddling with her grey hair ribbon to the floor where Count Olaf rises like a specter from the grave. He stands taller than all of them, dressed in the same button-down with the pin of the eye he had worn when they first met. Beatrice and Bertrand do not react but Violet can feel their eyes on her, concerned and wary.
In the next moment they are gone.
Sunny's fists have left her hair, Klaus' voice no longer holds her name, her hair ribbon is at the floor where her father stood, and the small of her back is still warm from her mother's palm. Only Olaf remains and he stands beside the trapdoor watching her weep, expression empty.
A loud crack has her awake before she knows it, and Isadora peers at her from the trapdoor, visible only from the shoulders down, a neatly folded note in her hand.
"Christ, Isadora-" Violet hisses, voice foreign and thick. She skitters away from the other girl, sending a small stack of papers toppling to the floor. They fall atop her legs, tangling in the deep nest of blankets.
Isadora climbs into the sanctuary and lowers the trapdoor softly behind her. Violet crosses her legs, realizing distantly that she had fallen asleep in her uniform instead of changing into a set of spare pajamas tucked into one of many cluttered boxes. Thin light shines through the windows, a powdery blue flecked with gold. Sunrise has just barely peeked inside.
"What's this note?" Isadora says, instead of a greeting. Violet reaches to take it, face towards the sun, and only then does she notices the tears that slick her cheeks. Her tongue feels foreign and folly in her mouth, her eyes swollen and hot. She remembers her dream instantly and feels a wave of violent nausea as all that grief sinks her belly. Embarrassed at being caught so vulnerable, she swipes hard at her cheeks with the wrists of her uniform before taking the note.
Isadora sits beside her, tugging free a swatch of dark blanket to cover her legs. Her voice is kinder when she says, "I thought it might have been for me, so I read it…"
"V," Violet says, reading aloud to steady her voice even as it warbles, "Seeing as I find you unearthly charming, I demand the opportunity to take you out. Meet me in the alley at half past six. Wear that short skirt from-" She pauses, pointedly not looking at Isadora, her earlier embarrassment shifting into something deeper. "-from the night we first met. I want to see the proof that I have touched you. Don't be late. O."
Silence smothers the space between them, heavy and awkward. Violet tries to summon humor in her tone but it is forced. "Well Isadora, I think I have something to tell you."
Isadora laughs but it is weak and confused. "You don't say. Who's O?"
"Uh, he's-" Violet stutters, unsure of how to continue. An image comes to her of the man's shiny eyes, narrowed and amused, as if he were overhearing this very conversation and delighting in watching her squirm. Unsure of its consequences, she decides on honesty. "It's Count Olaf."
To Violet's surprise, a slow, self-assured smile glides across Isadora's face. She nods, smug. "I had wondered. He had already made up his mind to dance with you yesterday. It seemed like you two already knew each other."
Pleasant shock steals the words from between her teeth. Violet looks at her friend with a hesitant smile, feeling unmoored. She had not prepared for this conversation.
Isadora continues, "But I wasn't positive. I thought you would have told me something about that. About a boy. Well- he's not really a boy, is he?"
Violet says, "I thought about it, but we hadn't really, er- We didn't ever… Our first kiss was just last night."
Isadora nods at that. She frowns slightly, her eyes far away as if snagged on a troublesome poem. Thoughts still hidden, she asks, "How old is he?"
Dark humor glides across Violet's mouth pulling that wicked smile tight as she quips, "How old was your dad?"
"Violet Baudelaire!" Isadora shrieks, laughing, faux outraged. She swats aimlessly at the blanket they share as Violet giggles, relieved, her dream already shoved to the back of her mind. She scrambles from the floor, hurrying to place Olaf's note somewhere precious, but the sudden movement tugs at her torn skin and, in an instant, the laughter dies.
She makes an odd, strangled sound that warps in the cramped room. Isadora is beside her in seconds as she leans against her desk of wine crates and clutter, eyes closed, trying to keep her composure. "Are you okay? What happened? Did he-?"
"Nero." Violet hisses, directing her repressed pain into a single name. She sighs deep and long through her nose and when she opens her eyes, Isadora stands before her, worry pinching her delicate mouth.
"I was going to ask you about that." The other girl mutters, glancing out the window to the back alley.
"It's a long, awful story with a happy ending, I guess. I'll tell you on our way to the market." Violet says. She fumbles through the clutter atop her desk, finding no suitable place for the note.
"The market? You need to go, too? Duncan's been begging for me to buy him a magnifying glass." Isadora says, grabbing a roll of tape and presenting it to her. Violet takes it, confused. "Tape it to the window. It'll look nice and you can read it whenever you want."
"Good call. Where should we tape it?" Violet unfolds the note carefully and drags it slow over the edge of her desk to smooth the creases.
Isadora hums for a few moments before finally deciding, "Here!"
She points to a junction of warped window panes where the note's right corner could sit flush against the wood. "And if he ever writes you more you can add them to it."
"Oh. That reminds me. I already have one." Violet digs in her satchel which is slumped to the floor like a melted candle, eventually pulling free a small yellow note. She unfolds it to smooth atop her desk, the ink still blue and perfect in the man's handwriting: Moved the lights before we left, orphan. You can thank me later. -O.
The rising sun shines warm on Violet's face as she drags over the pink velvet chair and hesitantly, slowly, stands atop it before the window. As Isadora hands her cuts of tape, she imagines the Count sitting as calm and cool as he had been the previous evening, like a carefree king on his throne. She stands barefoot on the arms of the chair, the velvet soft beneath her soles, and imagines how the man might run his hands slow and teasing up the backs of her legs, might play with the hem of her skirt dipping right before his face. She can almost hear his voice, low and coy, "Are you teasing me, little inventor?"
"There." Violet mutters, and if there is a tremor in her voice, Isadora does not comment. "All done."
She clambers down, mindful of her cuts.
"It looks dreamy. His handwriting's pretty spidery, isn't it?" Isadora says. For a moment there is silence as they both examine the Count's intricate penmanship, backlit by sunshine. Her first initial is whirled with loops and twists as if a display of affection all its own, while his O is clean and neat. Violet knows there will be ample time to examine every detail of this letter later, alone, so she hums in agreement, turns away, and tidies her mess of blankets from the floor.
"Do you have money or will we need to stop at the bank?" Isadora asks, still examining the note.
"I've got some. I don't use my allowance much." Violet mutters, grateful for the reminder, and reaches into a stack of books on the floor.
On her very first night in Eliade, before Isadora and Duncan had arrived, Violet had wandered the halls to get acquainted with the old cathedral and had found herself in a rarely-used library off the West Tower. There was no librarian or orphans or religious officials of any kind. Unlike the other libraries she had seen throughout the place, this one was not focussed on numinous texts and instead displayed a collection of random literature.
Thinking of her brother and their home library, Violet had sat between the shelves and found comfort in the smell and the silence. She had dozed for an unknown amount of time, carefully not remembering her family even as grief bent her spine, her head resting on her upturned knees. Only when she heard the faint beginnings of dinner did Violet turn and gaze sleepily at the shelves. The first book she saw was very thin and battered, yet the title still gleamed golden along the cracked spine: THE LOVE SONG OF J. ALFRED PRUFROCK.
Before she had fully read the title she was hearing her father's voice, rich with reverence, "Let us go then, you and I,/ When the evening is spread out against the sky-"
She had taken the book knowing it would never be returned. It is within the snug library checkout pocket pasted onto the very first flyleaf that she hides her allowance.
Most orphans received an envelope of money once a month from accounts their families left behind, a small income to purchase necessities from the local marketplace or throughout the city. Violet, as reclusive as she had grown to be, had used hers sparingly and only on toiletries or invention materials she couldn't salvage from back alleys or dumpsters.
Violet retrieves the precious book from its place among the stack and opens the cracked cover carefully. Her funds are still tucked inside so she places it in her satchel and stands ready before her friend. She says, "Let's get going. You ready?"
"Of course." Isadora steps close and musses Violet's hair, tidying it. "You'll have to get ready for your date, won't you? Can I help? I've got some rosewater spray and-"
"Sure." Violet says. The word date had drawn nerves out of her as if she had seen a spectre. The word sticks in her throat like sickness, aching. Again she imagines Olaf's smirk and it both soothes and further unnerves her. "Now let's head out."
"Right," Isadora says as Violet opens the trapdoor and places her feet on the first rung. "Let us go then, you and I,/ When the morning is spread out against the sky-"
"Clever." Violet mutters. Her lockpicks jingle as she slides quickly down the ladder to a silent theatre. She lands flat-footed and easy, hearing Isadora laugh on her own way down.
Hours later they are sitting outside sipping a single root beer float between them. Their lunch has already been hauled away, leaving the two girls to wilt in the heat of mid afternoon sunshine in the city. Isadora's hair had gone frizzy long ago, leaving her looking stressed even as she swirled her straw against Violet's and sat at a deep angle in her chair, a relaxed smile on her face.
Despite being away from her sanctuary inside Eliade, Violet feels as renewed as Isadora. The fresh air has done her good, and she hadn't even wanted to argue when the other girl insisted on lunch at a new café. The food had been charming and much better than anything she had eaten in the cathedral. She feels renewed, invigorated, and at peace in a primal way she had only ever felt before the fire. As Isadora swirls her straw, Violet wonders if this was how normal teenage girls were supposed to feel, as bright and tender as a firework just sparked.
"Thank you for a fun day, Isadora." Violet says as she leans across the table and steals a sip from her own straw. "I… really needed it."
Isadora meets her eyes which seem to hold the same simple spark as hers. "You're welcome, silly. That's what friends are for. Now let's get you back and dolled up."
She rises with an excited slap of her hand against the cool metal table, as delighted as if she were the one going on the date. The wind tosses her hair evermore, and a few patrons at other outside tables turn to glance as her chair scrapes the ground.
Violet cannot keep the affectionate smile from her face when she says, "We will soon. But first we have to wait for my- Oh! There's our waitress now."
A woman wearing a neatly-fitted white shirt and a small black apron hurries to their table, threading through the masses of other patrons, a white box in her hands. She has sandy blonde hair which is tied up in a neat bun, and a plain face behind her glasses. The closer she gets, the more aware the two girls are of a tune upon the air, one as familiar as a nursery rhyme.
Their waitress continues whistling even as she sets the box down between the two girls and steps back. After a few moments, Violet asks, "Mozart's 14th symphony?"
The waitress smiles but it is pinched with a negativity Violet cannot place.
"Sharp mind. Most people wouldn't recognize it." She says, placing a different bag atop the table. Violet can see her order through the thin plastic, bright and sleek in its tube.
"My parents whistled it every once in awhile." Violet offered, glancing at Isadora, who nodded and said, "Mine too."
That same bitterness twists on her mouth, a disappointment to her dark eyes. "Your parents must have been very noble people to know such an odd tune."
Confused silence smogs the air as the two girls glance from each other to their waitress, who gazes across the street to the thick rush of passersby.
Finally the waitress sighs and says, "Enjoy your evening, ladies. Watch for taxis." She turns and hurries away as quickly as she came, whistling the same tune but slower and sadder, as she unties the apron at her back, ignoring the summons from her other tables, and enters the little cafe.
"That was weird. We don't even need a taxi." Isadora says, frowning, as Violet sips the dregs of their root beer float. She nods in agreement and stands, taking her box carefully in hand.
"You're right. But let's not worry about it too much. We've got to catch the trolley back to Eliade." Violet says and Isadora nods but the frown does not ease from her face until they have boarded the trolley and even then she is silent, thinking. Violet cradles the box in her lap, that old tune stuck in her head, and watches the faces of citizens blur as she passes.
Isadora walks her to the alley like a concerned mother. They pass quickly through the halls, their reflections warped against the intricately-tiled floors, and bicker.
"What if he tries to kiss you? I mean really kiss you?" Isadora whispers, feigning ignorance.
"He has already really kissed me." Violet returns, glancing for any adults and finding none waiting ready to question them.
Isadora, nonplussed in her endeavor to embarrass her friend, tries again."What if he tries to take your top off? I mean really-"
"Then I'll let him." Violet quips, a smirk on her lips.
"Violet Baudelaire! You naughty girl!" Isadora chides, although she cannot keep the amusement from her tone.
In the year that they had been friends, their conversations had always been abnormal. Violet and Isadora were serious girls by nature, so their talks had consisted of classes, poetry, inventions, and Carmelita. When they went deeper, they would discuss grief, their families, Duncan's conspiracy. Violet had known that they were good friends, but to have an excuse to giggle with Isadora about romance instead of mysterious plots was refreshing and fun.
"Or, you could always surprise him and take your own top off." Isadora offers as they pause before the door to the alleyway. Violet snorts and rolls her eyes, one hand cradling the white box, the other smoothing the pleats of her skirt.
"Please be safe. Don't stay out too long or I'll worry." Isadora mutters, eyes downcast, fiddling with Violet's hair.
"Alright, mother." She jokes, voice light. "I'll be fine. And then I'll come back and tell you everything."
"You'd better." Isadora smiles, stepping away. "I hope he likes his gift."
"Me too." Violet says, settling one hand atop the handle and sighing deeply, hoping the racing of her heart is not as evident as it seems. She spares one last glance to her friend before muttering, "Bye." and stepping into the warm summer air.
The door closes firmly behind her, the sound echoing faintly in the cobbled alley. The same trash litters the ground, but the mosses have grown greener and longer, stuffed between cracks in the scuffed brown bricks. The upturned wine crates are where Violet and Olaf had left them weeks ago, only now a rolled up copy of The Daily Punctilio lies between them.
Curious, Violet sets the box atop the stoop and grabs the paper for herself. She returns to her spot on the very first step, sitting slowly, her skirt tucked beneath her, and opens to the first page.
To her surprise, the first article displays a large cover photo: the splinters and ash of a mansion recently burnt to the ground. The headline reads, Vigorous Fires Destroy Much of Town! Influx of Orphans Sent to Local Preparatory School and Partnering Cathedral!
Unease prickles in Violet's gut, feeling too deep and ominous for her to examine fully with her limited timeframe. She reaches into her satchel and checks her watch which blinks 6:29 PM. Resolving to examine it later, perhaps with Isadora and Duncan, Violet begins folding the thick print only to pause when she meets eyes with a familiar face, printed miniature and colorless.
Olaf's photograph smirks at her from a side column, looking devilish and proud. Above his head, the article's title hangs in swirly, dramatic type: An Interview with The Daily Punctilio's Most Handsome and Talented Individual Involved in the Local Theatre. The interviewer begins with a brief description of Olaf's attributes, his talents, his previous theatrical endeavors.
Violet scans the interview, feeling foolish and fanatical, until the crunch of gravel under tires scatters her attention. A long black car glides smoothly down the little alley, very quiet. The outside is clean and gleaming, its windows tinted. Violet's heart flutters in her throat when it stops just before her stoop. The driver's side door opens and Olaf stands before her, a delighted, amused smile on his face.
He wears trousers as black as his car, and a gray shirt rolled to the elbows. On his face are sunglasses so large they blight the rest of him in comparison. The man shuts the door without a word and, although his eyes are concealed, she can feel that gaze like a physical weight traveling up her ankles, her crossed legs and pressed uniform, before settling on her face. Olaf slowly crosses before his car and makes his way to her stoop.
Violet stands, a grin on her face she cannot seem to quell.
"Excuse me, sir." She says. "You're that actor, aren't you? The one voted Most Handsome in The Daily Punctilio? May I have your autograph?"
Olaf smiles when he reaches her, his toes brushing the bottom step. Even like this, she is the barest measure taller than him.
"I was also voted Most Talented. But you didn't seem to notice that part." He says, reaching out to take her free hand in his.
"Ah, who cares about that?" Violet teases, grinning so widely she fears she may look unstable.
"Silly girl." Olaf mutters, removing his glasses and placing them on the top of her head. He lowers his hand from the sunglasses, down the crown of her head, and softly, to her jaw. His fingers are gentle and cool against her face.
"Of course you can have my autograph." He mutters, leaning close to kiss her quick on the apple of her cheek, as if he couldn't resist. "Have you got a pen, Violet?"
The way he says her name- reverent, fragile- stuns her into silence as she reaches into her bag, feeling a delicious curl of heat in the pit of her belly. She hands him the pen and the newspaper and watches as he lays it out flat against the hood of his car and bends atop it, scribbling.
She waits a few moments, once she has digested the butterflies in her stomach, and teases, "That's a lot more than an autograph, Olaf."
"Are you ungrateful?" He quips, finishing with a flourish. Dark lines of scribbled words cross atop the page of his interview, and Violet aches to know what he has written her, but then the man folds the paper and hands it back. He says, as if having read her mind, "Don't read it until I drop you back off."
Violet sighs, frustrated and endeared all at once. She says, more serious than she'd intended, "I promise."
"Good." He smirks. The man examines her outfit carefully, eyes heavy. "You wore the skirt. What an obedient little orphan you are."
Embarrassed, Violet fiddles with the hem of her skirt, tugging it down reflexively. Unsure of what to say, she turns, grabs her box, and cradles it closely as she taps down the steps and into the alley.
"What's this?" Olaf asks, drumming his fingers atop the box.
Violet smirks, glad to have the upper hand. "It's a surprise. And you'll get to see it once we get to wherever we're going."
A delighted grin glides across the Count's face. "Let's get going then. The sun is setting more quickly than I had expected. I've got a place to show you, Violet."
"A place? Oh, thank you." She adds as he directs her to his car and opens the passenger door. She clambers inside, careful of her skirt.
"Yes. A surprise." He leaves it at that, shutting her door with a sharp clap. Excitement erodes Violet's nerves, leaving her jittery. She fiddles with her seatbelt and taps her feet softly. Olaf climbs in beside her momentarily. He starts the car, which remains as silent as if he had never turned the key, but does not move.
"It's good to see you, little orphan." He says, reaching for her free hand. She whips it away quickly, aware of her clammy palms.
Confusion piques Olaf's features, draws them upward. "Don't tell me you've gone prudish now."
"No," Violet says, painfully aware of her reddening face. "I'm just, uh, nervous. And sweaty."
"Nervous to be alone with me, Violet?" Olaf asks, voice quiet and low. His eyes have grown heavy and teasing, a weighty accusation. "I can't imagine what thoughts might have been running through that pretty little head of yours all day."
He snakes a hand to the top of her knee, fingers brushing the barest stretch of thigh.
"I've been with Isadora all day." Violet retorts. "I've hardly had any time to think of you at all."
"Why does that sound like a lie?" He teases, leaning ever closer.
Violet ignores this, instead focussing on the man before her and the heavy racing of her heart.
Violet Baudelaire realizes this in an instant, in a heartbeat: Lust has no mercy.
She kisses him so quickly he grunts in surprise and pulls away, a wild shock to his eyes. Violet wonders if he had never expected her to be brave, to initiate. Olaf looks as though he is grappling for a witty remark and is coming up empty. Her kiss, however brief, had stunned him.
Violet unbuckles her seatbelt and places her knees flat against the bottom of her seat, rising, neck bowed, to gaze at the man before her. Heat blazes between them, as humid as ever.
"Don't tell me you've gone prudish now." She says, voice soft and simpering.
"Anything but." Olaf says, his voice answering in its depth and gravity. "I'm merely surprised that you would be so forward when we're right beside your school."
"...Oh." Violet mutters, craning her neck to glance towards the door which remains firmly shut. A slow blush crawls up her neck to bloom, hot as a wound, atop her cheeks. She slides back down into her seat, face in her hands. "I didn't even think of that. I'm so stupid. And embarrassed."
"Don't forget nervous and sweaty." Olaf adds cheerfully as he plucks the sunglasses from her head and holds them before her like an offering. "Take these, you sultry little orphan. You'll need them. Plus you'll look a lot cooler."
"Thanks." Violet mutters through a weak smile as she takes the sunglasses and places them on her face. She turns to face him as she again buckles her seatbelt and asks, "How do I look? And where are we going?"
"Very cool." Olaf says, giving her a quick once-over before grabbing a set of spare sunglasses for himself, just as large as the ones he had given her. Small golden text shines on the right temple of his glasses, gleaming in the bronzed sunlight: THE HOTEL DENOUEMENT.
Instead of answering, Olaf throws the car into gear and speeds down the rest of the alley, spraying pebbles and dust behind them. He cranks the radio, which is upbeat and dramatic. "We're going on a date, of course!"
The speed has Violet's stomach soaring to her mouth amidst a mess of excited giggles. Exasperated, she swats the man on the shoulder, mirth in her voice when she demands, "To where?"
"Violet!" Olaf cries, mocking her exasperation. He makes a turn into the busy streets, the sunset low and bright in the pink skyline. "I'm taking you to the beach!"
J Alfred Prufrock, from T.S. Eliot's poem The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock, is mentioned within The Austere Academy.
"Let us go then, you and I,/ when the evening is spread out against the sky." These are the first two lines that Violet recalls.
I desperately did not want to end this chapter here, but the next one is already too damn long. If anything, be comforted by the fact that next week's chapter will be at least twice as long as our couple have their first date.
Let me know what you think!