This is a very sad chapter. I added some Violet and Quigley fluff. My deepest thanks to Don't Leave Me Hanging for reviewing my last chapter! Disclaimer: I don't own ASOUE. Lemony Snicket does.

All Those Lost

Smouldering charcoal stone, ashes, smell of despair. The Hotel Denouement, the last safe place, was safe no more. It was enough to bring tears to the two friends' eyes.

"This must be the remains of the huge clock, the stuff of legend, in the basement," Quigley whispered, touching the surface of the clock, a mass of warped glass, melted by flames.

"And this is what used to be a concertina," Violet realised, picking up a charred mess and running her fingers over the keys. She looked at Quigley, and realised he was staring at something in this distance. She followed his gaze. On the horizon, she saw a wobbly row of crosses, graves, with flowers tied to them. Together, they walked slowly towards them.

Quigley, Isadora and Duncan Quagmire

Swallowed by The Great Unknown.

R.I.P

Violet, Klaus and Sunny Baudelaire

Beatrice Sank

You Stay In My Heart.

Beatrice Snicket

At Only Three You Perished

You Too Stay In My Heart.

Frank, Ernest and Dewey Denouement

Noble, Wicked, Mysterious

Always Remembered.

Kit and Jacques Snicket

Two Noble Volunteers

I Miss You Every Day.

Beatrice Baudelaire

My Dearest Darling

I weep for you always.

Violet's first thought was of the third Snicket Sibling. Who was he? How did he know their story? Did he love their mother? But then the words on the graves sunk in to her and she began to weep. Why were they here? Those stones spoke lies and truth. Quigley put his arms around her again, and this time it wasn't an accident. She wept against him, and he stroked her hair. So many people lost… she was all he had left. Deep down, they both knew the chances of finding Sunny, Klaus, Beatrice, Duncan and Isadora were impossible. But that didn't mean they couldn't try. A glimmer of hope in the corner of their hearts grew. The mysterious third Snicket watched them, scribbling furiously in a notebook. 'Friday 13th the year of the snake. QQ and VB living and breathing before me. I hope that VS is near, as are the other Bs, Qs and BS. I believe in all of them, and though I've always said happy endings are simply impossible, I hope for one. LS'

After about 2 minutes, Violet pulled away.

"What do we do now?" she murmured

"I guess we leave this place, set out to find someone noble who can help, and find out about the great unknown,"

"But Beatrice, Sunny and Klaus could be drowning as we speak!"

"And my siblings could be in grave danger!"

"You don't care about my siblings!"

"You don't care about mine!"

"You're nothing but a simple cartographer! What use are maps at a time like this!"

"Oh, and I suppose you can magic up a way to find your precious siblings with your so called 'skills'"

He stopped. She stopped.

"I'm sorry Quigley. Cartography is a useful and resourceful skill. This situation is making me angry and frustrated. You obviously care for your siblings, but that doesn't mean you don't care for mine."

"No, I'm sorry Violet. Your inventions have saved me and your siblings countless times, and if it weren't for you Duncan and Isadora would probably be dead."

They smiled sadly, and as the sun went down, he kissed her quickly, briefly, sweetly, and they watched the sunset together, atop an ashy marble fountain. It was another moment of peace in a world of woe, and it would be a very good time for you to stop reading, right now, and move on with the moment of peace in your mind, instead of the horrible and unfortunate events that happen after this moment of peace, which are better left unread.

Mr Poe had once sat on the same fountain, back when it wasn't so ashy, with the love of his life. It was the day before the schism divided V.F.D forever, the day when they were expected to choose fire or peace. Her words there had pierced his heart, and it would never truly heal. But the schism is done, and nothing I write about it will change that. My own life was torn in two by the schism, although I was not alive to see it, neither was my mother or my great-great-great grandmother, but it has still managed to ruin my life. Perhaps that is why I am hunched over Lemony's typewriter, recording and weeping for him and him only. Perhaps that is why the man two floors down drinks a cup of Russian caravan tea every morning at precisely 5 o'clock, or perhaps it isn't. As someone noble once said, we live in a world of perhapses.

There was a gun shot. And Lemony Snicket, the poor man, fell dead.

To Miss Beatrice Baudelaire (XVIII),

Mr Lemony Snicket is dead. He died in an unfortunate fire.

Yours Sincerely

Dewey Denouement (XVIII)

I hope you thought it was good! Please tell me what you think.