Eight-


High tide has come and gone by the time they hit the shore.

Bits of coral and tiny creatures swim suspended in the puddles left behind, looking slick and bright. The shiny scales of dozens of fish catch the setting sun and glimmer like an oil spill as Violet passes, grinning like a child, scouring the remnants for treasures.

Olaf had driven them to a remote stretch of beach, right into an unmarked trail, his only explanation, "I did some training here when I was younger." Their car ride had been loud and enjoyable, the radio cranked, the windows down. Songs she had known and forgotten returned unbidden like old friends. She sang loud and rough, uncaring of her tune or the hair she kept having to spit out.

The Count had teased her the entire ride, in more ways than one.

He would hold a spare comb beneath her chin at random intervals as if it were a microphone and say, "Sing for me, Violet! You know this song, I can tell!" If he wasn't holding the comb, or had to pay more attention to the road, his free hand was always touching her somewhere maddening- rubbing his thumb over her knuckles, rolling them, or brushing his fingers lightly on the bare juncture between knee and thigh. Just once, he had brushed her hair aside and placed his hand on the back of her neck, using his thumb to tickle a line from jaw to collarbone, resulting in goosebumps and a deep shiver she couldn't control.

"Hey!" Violet had whined, perplexed and concerned by the arousal that coiled in her belly immediately after. Olaf had grinned, unapologetic, and returned his free hand to the wheel, apparently satisfied. It had taken a few minutes before Violet felt comfortable enough to resume singing.

Olaf had parked crookedly on the beach, right before where sand met sea. Violet had thrown open her door and run for the retreating tide, calling, "Olaf! Come look!" He had followed her dutifully.

They had combed the beach for nearly twenty minutes when Olaf asks, "You realize these will die soon? As the tide retreats further?" He struggles to follow her between tide pools in his shiny shoes. Violet ignores him, hopping effortlessly across the sea-slick stones.

She disappears behind a large boulder, crusted in wilting coral, and by the time he appears next to her, she is rising with a bright orange starfish in hand. She smiles up at him, her balance uneven and precarious.

"Could you throw this into the deeper water?" She asks, presenting it to him like a gift. Olaf, wincing, examines the starfish which flails its legs weakly in Violet's grasp. He strokes one finger atop the rough surface of it, debating.

"Throw it how?" He asks, opening his hand. The starfish slides into his grip.

"Like a frisbee." Violet says, demonstrating with an empty shell. It skips across the water once before sinking a pitiful distance away. She jokes, "And that's why you need to throw it."

Olaf adjusts his footing and grips the starfish near its middle. He crosses his throwing arm carefully over his chest before flinging the starfish high through the air. They both watch in tense silence as it spins exactly like a frisbee before sinking into the deep green water.

"You did it!" Violet cries, her hands raised in victory.

Olaf runs a hand through his hair and strikes a pose. He sighs dramatically and laments, "The things I do for pretty little orphans."

Violet grins, reaching to thread their fingers, cautious of the act. Giddy satisfaction blooms in her chest when she is not rebuked. To hide her ridiculous grin, she leads them to the shore like an expert navigator in a mysterious submarine, her back to the man the entire trip.

"I didn't bring you out here just to chuck starfish back into the ocean, you know." Olaf chides. He stands taller and prouder once returned to solid land, his balance restored. Sea breezes toss their hair, tangling. Violet wishes for her hair ribbon for the first time since Carmelita had stolen it.

"Well what else should we do?" Violet asks, bundling her hair in a loose knot. For a few moments, the only sounds are the repetitive lapping of waves on the shore. Olaf stares to her, a proposition in his shiny eyes. A lecherous grin spreads slowly across his face as Violet blushes so deeply she wonders if her cheeks emit heat waves.

"What should we do?" She repeats, unafraid of him even as her nerves return to drop her stomach. Despite her best effort, a small tremor still quakes in her words. Olaf smirks wider at this, and Violet wants to fling herself into the ocean after the starfish and never resurface.

The man takes mercy on her eventually. He drops the smirk and reaches to crush her against his chest, as if to squeeze the embarrassment from her. He releases her so quickly, Violet wonders if he doesn't trust himself to truly release her once he has her. Olaf turns and heads towards his crooked car. Wind warps his voice when he calls, "I've got a place to show you."

By the time she catches up to him, he has already pulled two bottles of wine from his car with a set of glasses to match. They are round and stemless, the glass blown thin.

Olaf stands before her, a bottle in each hand. When they meet eyes, his are serious and calm. "Now, seeing as this is a date, and that dates are supposed to be romantic, I brought wine. But seeing as you're underage, as we know, I also made purchase of sparkling juice if you find you prefer that instead."

Violet doesn't hesitate before she says, "Bring the wine."

"I figured you'd say that." Olaf mutters. His mouth has a strange quirk to it as if he is trying to suppress a genuine smile. "Seeing as you're out with me, I didn't think you were one to care for an age law."

"Definitely not." She agrees, doing her best to suppress her own stupid grin. "But thank you for your consideration."

He waves her thanks away with a roll of his eyes. His hand waits empty in the air for hers. "Come along, Violet. To the cathedral! Hurry up!"

"Hurry up and wait!" She says, flinging open the passenger door and carefully retrieving her box.

"Ah, my surprise. I can hardly contain my excitement." Olaf says, wiggling his fingers impatiently.

"Alright, alright." Violet hurries to lace their hands, box propped on her opposite hip. "Show me this cathedral."

They walk in silence. Sea air and sunset kick up the sand and blow it across the shore, a faint hiss in the background. The beach is bordered by stretches of thick, humid forest. Vines wind between trees so densely that Violet doesn't notice the cathedral until they are nearly at its base. Wooden slats have been boarded over high curved windows, uneven enough to snag the sunset and glow with deep blues from stained glass. The building is so tall, Violet cannot see through the trees to the top spire. She feels humbled and awestruck at the size of it, as if this religious establishment were a manifestation of its focal deity.

"Are you ready to do some urban exploring, little inventor?" Olaf asks.

"Oh yeah. But how do we get inside?" Violet worries. She could imagine tugging free a loose board and shattering the old windows, an act from which her conscience would never recover.

"If my memory serves correct…" Olaf mutters. He grabs her hand more tightly and leads them down and towards the shore. They work slowly, stepping through overgrown shrubbery and crumbling debris.

"I would have worn pants if I had known we'd be exploring. Not this flimsy little skirt." Violet says, mostly truthful, partly wanting the Count's reaction.

"You're doing as you were told. Although, I hadn't considered these." He kicks down a particularly large vine hindering their path, "Last I was in the cathedral, it wasn't overrun with greenery. You should be fine once we get inside."

"Alright. But if I get poison ivy, I'm giving it to you."

Olaf laughs at that and trudges forward. Eventually they reach the very corner of the cathedral, and the crumbling set of stairs that leads to the massive doors at its front. The man climbs nimbly up the stairs, which are uneven and slick with moss. After seeing him struggle on the rocks at low tide, Violet wonders how frequently Olaf visits the abandoned cathedral.

"Come here often?" She asks, trying to keep her voice casual.

"Not often enough, evidently." Displeasure darkens the Count's tone as he stands with his back to her, hip cocked, his arms folded across his chest. Violet hurries up the last few steps to stand beside the man, peering at the vast wooden doors.

Unlike the rest of the cathedral, which was corroding and damaged, the front doors stand as thick and imposing as they once might have been. No lichen blooms atop the wood, intent on its decay. Golden letters curve along the top frame where wood meets stone, catching the sunset weakly, displaying CATHEDRAL OF THE ALLEGED VIRGIN.

The only oddities Violet could see were bits of smashed metal on the ground and, on closer examination, the remains of a typewriter hanging from the large metal handles.

"A typewriter?" Violet mutters, glancing to Olaf who wore a curious expression. The man seemed pensive, eyes far away as he stared at the smashed device.

"A typewriter." Olaf agrees through a frustrated sigh. "As I said, I did some training here in my youth. I learned some of my very best acting techniques and became proficient in the use of veiled facial disguises, if you know what I mean."

"Veiled facial…?" Violet repeats, not following.

"This group was very secretive. And the only way to get inside this building was through a series of keywords that would change every so often. We would receive a letter, or be slipped a list at a restaurant, or find a hint in some publication, and type those words into the typewriter to get inside." The man's tone remains frustrated, still snagged on an idea Violet couldn't guess.

Concerned, she asks, "Why are you telling me this, then, if it's so secret?"

Olaf swipes his shiny shoes over the rubble, sending a spray of typewriter keys tumbling down the steps. "It was a long time ago when this was still used. As far as I know, this vernacularly fastened door was the only one that still worked. The words were years old, but… Whatever. Someone wanted it destroyed."

"So what does that mean?" Violet wonders, pushing the typewriter aside to examine the large lock on the front. She kneels before the door, setting her box and her bag carefully on the stoop, and tries to ignore the prickling awareness of the Count standing at her back. "Why would anyone destroy an old lock for an acting school?"

"Acting school." Olaf repeats to himself very quietly, voice neutral. "You're asking all the wrong questions, Violet. But don't worry. We can discuss my sordid past some other time."

Before she could figure out how she had been asking wrong questions, Olaf continues, "Now. Why don't you tell me what has you on your knees? Not that I mind the sight."

"Oh! I, uh, I can pick locks. I figured I'd give it a shot. See?" Violet whips her kit free from her satchel pocket and holds it in the light.

"Impressive." Olaf says. He kneels beside her, places the bottles of wine next to her bag, and holds the busted typewriter out of her way. "Think you can pick it?"

"Maybe. I've never tried one like this before. But there's a flashlight in my bag. Could you shine it into the lock for me please?" Violet asks as she brushes her hair from her face, wishing yet again for her lost ribbon.

"God, Violet, you keep this in your bag? You could really hurt someone with this." Olaf sneers as he does what he is asked. The large red flashlight looks enormous even in his hand. Its beam shines bright into the lock.

"Never know when I'll need it." She mutters, and places her choice picks inside.

For several minutes the only sounds are the distant waves on the shore, and sharp clicks of metal on metal as Violet works. Yet the flashlight never wavers in Olaf's hand, even as he brushes her hair from the back of her neck and places his lips to her skin in a series of soft kisses.

Violet, stunned and suddenly covered in rapid goosebumps, asks, "Is this really the time?"

"Couldn't resist." The man says simply. His dusting of facial hair just-trimmed catches her skin as he speaks. Despite her uncontrollable shiver, he continues, trailing kisses along her shoulders, her neck, her jaw. Determined to ignore him, Violet resumes picking.

She fall into a lull, frustrated mind turning, picks snagging against rusty pins. She knows she is so close to hearing the lock snap open, but cannot get the last pin to move. Violet sighs, aggravated. Olaf, bored and testing her, moves to the juncture between neck and shoulder, sucking lightly.

"Hey," She says in protest, even as the act fills her with sparks as if she were a lighter just struck. "Don't give me a hickey. That could get me in trouble, y'know."

Olaf pulls away, yet she can feel his smirk. "I would never. At least not where anyone could see."

Violet groans, dually frustrated. The picks falter in her hand. "Olaf, you're making my fingers go dumb."

"Oh, Violet." He says, voice soft and close. "I could make all of you go dumb if you'd let me."

Her reaction is immediate. Arousal drops straight and deep into her belly so fast she flinches, picks scraping harsh in the lock. The dead bolt snaps free. Olaf rises.

"You-! You fiend!" Violet accuses. She is still kneeling, still holding her picks in place, yet she glares at him with a face as red as if she had been sunburnt.

"I wasn't teasing. But come on, let me show you around." He holds his hand out to her and she takes it, shaky and grateful. Her joints crack into place as she replaces her picks, gathers her things, and rises. Olaf hauls the door open and waves her inside.

"Oh wow." Violet breathes, her earlier embarrassment almost forgotten as she gazes around the cathedral. Light cuts in from the high domed ceiling where earlier boards had fallen away revealing the stained glass. The trees outside sway before it, making its blues shimmer against the floor. Pews thick with dust clutter crooked in the center of the room. Flakes of paint from the ceiling had fallen to split and crack beneath her shoes as she enters. Olaf closes the heavy door behind them. The drag of it echoes low, like the roll of a dense marble on hardwood.

"Ah, shit. This place got looted." Olaf sighs. He crosses the room to stand beside her. "There used to be a huge pipe organ there. And then a marble baptismal pool. Those cads even swiped the giant cross at the front! Must've dragged it out across the beach. What an image."

"Very biblical." She agrees.

"Well, if this place got looted then there's not much else to see... Besides the bell tower."

"Bell tower?" Violet parrots, excited as a child.

"Yes yes, dear thing. Follow me further."

They climb their way through cobwebs and dust, Olaf swinging the heavy beam of the flashlight up the tight spiral staircase. Darkness creeps so thickly around them that if Violet glances behind her she sees nothing but empty space, cannot even begin to make out the stairsteps down or the footprints she had left behind. On a private beach, in an abandoned cathedral, in the presence of a secretive man, she feels her nerves winding up, preparing for some great scare or sorrow.

What she does not know is that tragedy will find her much, much later. And that this is not the time for tragedies, merely ones in the making.

Cramps stick in the muscles of her calves by the time they reach the tower. Without announcement or preamble, the Count throws open the door and stumbles onto the belfry.

"We made it! I thought I was going to die from exertion!" Olaf shouts. The sound rings throughout the high tower and resonates as if he had struck the very bell that hangs in the center of the open room.

"Uh, is this safe?" Violet asks as she tiptoes her way towards the low brick wall. Even from her perch by the door she can see the vast expanse of sea and sky and sunset, unhindered in any direction. The sight is enough to leave her breathless. Persuasive enough to let irresponsible indifference cloud her mind in favor of beauty.

"Nope. But who cares? We'll be fine." Olaf crouches near a break where the brick wall has crumbled away and sits to hang his feet over the edge. He kicks his heels casually against the tower and nods for her to join him. "If you're scared of heights just don't look down."

"I'm not scared of heights," Violet insists, slowly making her way towards him. "Just abandoned bell towers that could crumble any second."

"Violet, you're being dramatic. And that's coming from an impresario." Olaf says.

"A what?" She crouches beside the man and carefully places her bag and box to her other side. She folds her skirt beneath her, mindful of her wounds, and sits gingerly. For the time being, she sits cross-legged, sure that at their angles, the man couldn't catch a peek up her skirt. She doesn't trust herself to hang her feet from the tower like her companion.

"An actor, silly girl." The man mutters. He grabs a wine glass and uncorks the first bottle with his teeth.

"Charming." Violet teases. Olaf only hums in response as he pours her a generous glass and hands it over. His shiny eyes do not move away. He waits, watches. Condensation has already beaded atop the thin glass. Violet swirls the blushing wine in a way she had once seen her mother do, in a memory long-faded by time. Watching him back, she takes her first sip.

Violet grimaces. "That's awful and I hate it."

The man is nodding to himself and already reaching for the second bottle, muttering, "I had prepared-" but pauses at her laughter and her light touch on his arm.

"I was teasing, Olaf." She says, taking another sip as proof. "It's nice. Who wouldn't like it this sweet?"

The man rolls his eyes at her and pours himself a glass. "Usually I prefer red, but I wouldn't be opposed to sharing a bottle of rosé every so often."

"Me neither." Violet mutters, holding her glass out to him. "Cheers."

"Cheers, Miss Baudelaire." Olaf says, voice low and affectionate. Their glasses clink softly.

It seems as though that is the first real moment of their date.

The time before had been travel and preamble and fuss. Now, however, they are simply alone together, staring out at the beach and the bright pink sky. No curfew or administration hangs heavy as a threat between them. No timepiece sits ticking a countdown to when they must part ways. Instead, the slow slide of the sun and encroaching moon let them have their time.

"How are your cuts?" Olaf asks softly, glancing to her folded legs.

"Better, actually. Still tender. A mess of bruises, probably. I haven't had the stomach to check on them. But, anyway, thank you. Isadora wouldn't have done as well as you." Violet rambles, suddenly embarrassed.

Discussing her cuts has the previous night's events replaying in her mind as if some wicked dream she had almost forgotten. The Count's warm hands on her sore skin, the tickle of his breath on her neck, the way he had touched her with no fear or hesitation. For the absolutely dreamlike quality of her memory, she can still recall with clarity the way his voice had sounded (rough as gravel, smooth as marble-) "I have wanted you since the moment we met, little fiend."

"The pleasure was all mine." Olaf smiles but there is that quirk of roguish grin at his lips. "I am quite lucky to have had the opportunity to tend to you. No need to thank me."

"Too late." Violet says with her own teasing smile. She reaches for the white box and places it carefully in his lap.

"Ah. My surprise." The man gulps the rest of his wine and sets the glass to the side gently. Those hands she had just been daydreaming about grasp the lid of her gift and flip it with a flourish. Almost instantly, an amused grin blooms on his face and he shakes his head, disbelieving. "You didn't. It's even word-for-word."

"Count Olaf," Violet recites, trying her own theatrical inflection. Her handwriting had been wobbly when she iced it herself, Isadora hanging over her shoulder. "thank you for being so handsome and saving my ass and also being very handsome. Love, Violet."

"But is it raspberry flavored?" He asks, testing her. Violet reaches into her bag and withdraws two forks, silently handing his over. The worn metal catches the dimming sun as Olaf spears a chunk of cake and places it carefully in his mouth, as snobby and sophisticated as a seasoned sommelier.

"I was kidding, you know. Flirting even. But thank you muchly, Violet, for the cake. You're both very sweet." Olaf says. They meet eyes and Violet finds his strangely honest and calm, no joke or jest evident within them.

"You're very welcome." She replies, just as soft.

Without his usual teasing, Olaf places the palm of his free hand flat on the crumbling stone between them and leans in for a kiss. In that moment with the man tilting, preparing, Violet is suddenly stricken with a strange paralysis. Seeing Olaf with her gift in his lap, with his long legs dangling to the deep drop below, with his bright eyes on her and only her, has her heart constricting with jagged, painful sentiment.

She thinks back to earlier in the day, sitting and sweltering under the sun with Isadora, how she had felt so full of spark she could have burst. That feeling is similar in its intensity and buzz of sentimentality, yet, looking at Olaf simply wanting to kiss her, Violet feels her heart splitting at its seams.

He kisses her with all that same sentimentality, pressing his lips hard against hers as if pressure alone could be a measure of affection. When he pulls away, Violet's lips taste of wine and frosting.

To disguise the ragged ache beneath her breastbone, she teases, "And finally I get a kiss. How long has it been since you kissed me on that stoop? At least ten years ago."

Olaf smiles at that, yet hides it in the tilt of his wine glass just-filled. He takes a sip then glances to her glass which she has almost emptied.

"You may kiss me whenever you like. Wherever you like. And why-ever you like. No excuse necessary. And it was at least two hours ago, by the way. But don't worry, I understand if my incredibly good looks caused you to lose track of time." Olaf quips. With a questioning look and her quick nod, he fills her wine glass. It brims almost to the top with wine as pink as the skyline, and Violet thinks somewhere deep in her mind that it is the first time she has truly appreciated the color.

"Guilty." She says, holding up her free hand as if a criminal at gunpoint. "But if I'm allowed to make a request whenever… Would you kiss me again?"

Violet is distantly surprised by her lack of embarrassment. Instead of hesitancy and fretting, she is flipped confident and sure by the knowledge that Count Olaf wants her. That surety is secure and obvious enough that she feels no need for caution or doubt. She feels powerful, something she has not felt since the fire.

He kisses her just as forcefully as before, yet there is more heat to it, more promise. The chaste, shy kisses she had received before (a boy with a name she can barely remember, a face she can hardly recall, had said her name and kissed her quick, and the memory is small and worthless next to the full swell of Olaf's lips on hers, of the soft growl in his throat-) were nothing in comparison. Violet feels for a moment as if the high bell tower tilts beneath them, and they are scraping the rest of the way to drop together into the dense forest.

She pulls away from him, head spinning. When she opens her eyes, the man is already staring at her, a crooked smile on his lips.

"I said anytime you like," Olaf mutters, "And I'm not a liar."

The sweet tension between them is so thick Violet's skin nearly vibrates. Her heart stutters in her chest like a wild bird just-caged.

"Good." Violet says, hoping it is true. "Now let us eat cake."

They set the little white box between them and eat half of the dessert as they finish the second bottle of wine. Stars begin to poke like needle pricks in the pink fabric of the sky. Darkness creeps like smoke on horizon, as if their shadows had lost them along the drive to the beach and were just finally catching up.

"What is your play going to be about then? The one you've intrigued the whole cathedral with?" Violet asks, and then narrows her eyes at him as she swirls the wine atop her tongue. Carbonation fizzes against her teeth. Her stomach is full of sweets and song.

"Eager for a sneak peek are you?" Olaf chides, waving his fork at her like an accusing finger.

"Of course." She says. "You're my inside source. Now tell me all about it."

"Unfortunately, there aren't a great many details I can give you lest they change. The script and plot are still being solidified, yet I know the central themes will be… enthralling. We have yet to figure out a way to personify these urges the way we like. And so the play is hardly a play yet. Is that a good enough answer for you?"

Olaf sips his wine while Violet considers. It feels as though it takes a longer time than usual to answer his question. Her brain feels comfortably sluggish, as if a forced relaxation. The wine makes her giggly and excited and comfortable. She feels the way Olaf must under the eyes of a full stage- interesting, important, glowing. She wants to hold the man's bright gaze on her as long as possible, is willing to bend like an amateur contortionist just to keep his attention a moment more.

"So what are your themes? Your urges?" She asks, a dare.

Olaf freezes, sensing the challenge immediately. He meets her eyes brutally over their little feast, unashamed. "Well, those are very different things. The themes for my play will be childhood trauma, manipulation by superiors, revenge, and a feeling of doom one can never avoid. But my urges are something else entirely. Ask me that question once more if you would like a demonstration."

He throws back the rest of his wine and Violet feels as if her entire body is suddenly flushed with heat, swelling to burn beneath her skin. Demonstration- coming from anyone else the word would sound bland and stuffy yet from Count Olaf it is a proposition and a promise all at once.

"Childhood trauma, you say. I think I know what you mean." Violet mutters into her glass before taking a long sip. When she looks up, Olaf has redirected his attention to the shore and the rhythmic static of waves rising and breaking.

"I'd agree. At last we've got that in common, hmm?" The man mutters. Hesitance quirks in her stomach, yet curiosity taps her shoulder like an impatient guest vying for her attention. Is childhood trauma too heavy a conversation for a first date? She wishes she had asked Isadora.

The moments where she could have questioned the man have passed by the time she realizes she should have. She reaches for her wine glass absently, searching for a distraction as she ponders how to bring it back up later, but realizes her glass is empty. Two clear bottles gleam at Olaf's elbow, their long necks absent of wine the color of roses.

"Have we drank all the wine?" She asks, startled, distracted.

Olaf smiles at her, amused and endeared. "We have. How are you feeling?"

Violet considers this. "Well. My lips are a little numb. But I just feel pleasant. Tingly. Tender."

"Wine feels that way." Olaf says. He regards her more seriously, and she is aware of it in an instant. Her spine braces in anticipation for the words that come next. The man asks, smirking, a suggestion, "And what are your urges, Violet?"

The answer blurts from her mouth so quickly she hardly thinks. "I want to go swimming."

"Swimming?" Olaf repeats. Surprise has wiped the serious look from his face.

"Yes." Violet says. She rises, eager to get a head start, but feels a different sort of tilt beneath her feet as her mind sways. She clutches the thin wall and finds herself leaning, ragged and tipsy, to face the enormous drop to the forest floor.

"Whoa." She mutters. Beside her, the Count leaps to his feet, panic draining the color from his face. He wraps one arm around her waist while his other hand grips tight just above her elbow as he hauls her upright.

"On second thought-" He grunts softly as Violet rights herself, twisting in his arms, "drinking atop a bell tower was not a good idea."

"You think?" She quips, grateful for his steadying weight. "Let's get off this nightmare and to the beach."

"As you wish, dear thing." Olaf says, but there is a nervous tremor to his voice that Violet feels much too smug about. They bump quick and loose-limbed down that same tight staircase, Olaf first, "So if you trip I can catch you, backwards."

They leave their cake and glasses and bottles atop the bell tower, boasting a later date to retrieve them. It seems to take an eternity to hurry down the staircase and tumble like a diverted stream into the open cathedral. Shifted sunset has changed the position of the light, so instead of blue-hued the room glitters with red and yellow. The colors catch the dust they had kicked up and shimmer, hazy, like a mirage.

The thought occurs to her suddenly- they are standing in a cathedral aflame- but before panic can rot inside her, Violet catches the eye of a carving at the door. Her eyes adjust, her panic settles. Curious familiarity makes her hesitate stepping towards it, even as Olaf trudges forward to grip their large handles. He passes through the dazzling light, casting his shadow atop the wood, and she wonders how she hadn't noticed the carvings before, being so large they take up nearly the entire space. It is a carving of an eye within a circular border, eyebrow furrowed, looking away as if watching its nonexistent back.

Violet is admittedly not an expert at religious iconography, so the eye seems immediately foreign to her, yet familiar in a way her fuzzy mind cannot grasp.

"What is that?" She asks Olaf, who freezes. Nerves stiffen the muscles of his shoulders. The emotion is quickly masked as the man relaxes his stance and turns to look at her blandly as he opens the door and holds it wide for her. He says coldly, clinically, "It was a symbol for the institution in which I was taught."

Sensing she is treading into murky water, Violet backtracks, adding it to her mental list of Questions For A Later Date. "Ah. It looks a little intimidating. Just startled me, is all. To the beach?"

"To the beach." The Count agrees, carding a hand through her hair as she steps outside. Violet tumbles down the rest of the stairs easily, as if energized by the salt-laden air. She crouches at the mess of smashed typewriter, which had lost its keys like an ancient skull with missing teeth. Violet glances to where Olaf is fiddling with the great front doors and feels sentimental watching his shoulder blades move like little wings beneath his shirt, and the slope of his long legs, tense and braced as he tries to shove the lock into place.

Embarrassed at herself, she digs through the mess in search of souvenirs. By the time Olaf joins her at the stoop, two typewriter keys are nestled in the front pocket of her satchel softly clicking as they walk. She worms her hand into his as they trace their old footsteps through the dense forest. They walk across the beach chattering about nothing in particular, sinking steps uneven, yet still clutching one another for balance. By the time they near the car, Olaf's hands are full of old buttons, worn sea glass, the plump porcelain body of a headless figurine the size of the man's pinky, a large coil of various ropes and wire, and one marble die, its paint worn by salt and sea.

They reach the car, which has been warmed by long exposure in the sunset. Violet holds out a spare pocket inside her satchel and the man dumps his palms into it, the found treasures clicking as they settle.

"Thank you." Violet says, happy with their finds.

"You're welcome." Olaf says, casting her a smile as soft as broken bread. "A little inventor must have inventing props."

"Of course you would call them props." She mutters, hauling the strap of her bag over her head and letting it drop heavy against the sand. The waves have calmed to a quiet lull, washing softly against the shore. The sight looks so inviting, Violet can almost ignore the daring, violent pounding of her heart. She summons her bravery, sighs to the bottoms of her lungs.

"I want to go swimming." She repeats, watching Olaf. The man leans against the hood of his car, arms crossed. He meets her eyes and lazily flicks his fingers at her. "Go ahead. I won't stop you. Fortunately for me, I didn't bring a swimming suit."

Violet tries to swallow her tone she knows will be suggestive and fails. Blaming the wine, she says quietly, weightily, "Neither did I."

Feeling like a performer, Violet steps away and turns so she is backlit by sunset. The warm weight of it on her shoulders is encouraging enough that she raises shaking fingers to her collar and picks free the top button.

Olaf's body has gone still, like a predator sensing a single movement will scare away his feeble, brittle-boned prey. His shiny eyes are transfixed as Violet moves slowly, shakily, from one button to the next. By the time she reaches the hem of her skirt, she tugs free the wrinkled tuck of her white school shirt and lets it hang open. Straying to common ground, she picks free the zip of her skirt and drags it down slowly, watching, delighted, electrified, as the man's eyes follow the slow drop of her skirt against the sand.

She steps away from her skirt, bending her knees one at a time, up and behind, to pick free her shoes and long socks, which she throws to his feet, spraying sand atop his perfectly-tailored trousers. The long white shirt billows in the wind like a cape, and Violet shrugs out of it, balls it up, and throws it towards him. It falls a pitiful distance away, and she sees the man's careful, hungry gaze crack with amusement.

Frustrated that she cannot, for a single moment, be sexy without making this older, beautiful man distracted by her inefficiency, she reaches between her shoulder blades, scraping for the wretched hooks of her boring, skin-toned bra, and releases its teeth. The fabric bunches, gives. She grabs her bra, drags it long and slow from her shoulders, folds it halfway, and flings it at him like a frisbee or a starfish. Olaf grunts as it hits him square in the chest, yet his shiny eyes stay directly on her.

Violet shifts her feet flat in the sand, feeling wine stamp on her nerves, feeling vulnerable and alive in a way she has never felt. She knows she is not particularly womanly, cannot boast strong curves, or tempt the gazes of men the way others could. Yet she still stands, dressed only in thin cotton panties, before Count Olaf (talented actor, savior of pretty wayward orphans, secret-keeper, devilishly, deliciously handsome- her mind supplies) and his gaze slides over her skin hot and sharp as a blade.

She takes a few steps back, towards the lull of the sea.

"Are you coming?" She asks, cursing the tremor in her voice.

Olaf shifts his weight atop the hood of the car, sliding his hips forward and off the hood. There is a dirty smirk on his lips as he says, "Maybe later. We'll see." and kicks his shoes off. The idea of watching the man undress has queasy lightning forking through her stomach, so Violet turns and runs towards the waves.

Blissfully at ease, she wades waist-deep in the warm water, testing her limits. The cuts sting faintly, yet they are not as painful as Violet had expected. Pleased, she wades for a few moments before diving head first. The sea soothes a ragged ache in her chest she had not realized was there, a deep wound flushed with saltwater. Violet holds her breath in the green, green water and wonders back to Eliade for the first time that night, for the orphans that rise cross-armed and gasping from the baptismal pool, if this feeling was like being saved.

When she breaks the surface, Olaf is waist-deep, his own clothes a dark pile by the car, and walking slowly towards her. She wants to make a joke or to skip a smooth shell his way, yet the sight of him shirtless, covered in spray from the waves, his eyes on her, has her voice shriveling temporarily in her throat.

"God, look at you." Olaf says, voice reverent and hushed. "You're a siren. A snare."

"Jailbait?" She quips, before she can consider the tact in it.

The man laughs, sharp, once, incredulous. He says, coming ever closer, "I hope not. I'm too pretty for jail."

"Well you haven't quite done anything to warrant an arrest." She points out, standing so the waves brush the small of her back. The man stops before her, so close she can feel the heat radiating off him like a second sun. A peculiar smirk quirks the edges of his mouth. "You're very wrong."

"Am I?" She asks, unsure of what else to say.

The man only hums in affirmation. A small silence grows between them, not uncomfortable, yet there all the same. Olaf shakes his head as if to banish a thought, "My apologies, Violet, if I seem scatterbrained. There is a delicious little orphan standing half-naked before me that I can't seem to take my eyes off of."

"No need to apologize. I seem similarly transfixed." She says, shifting as a particularly strong wave knocks her to the side.

"Are you?" Olaf asks, running a hand through his hair. It is the first time she has seen him display even a hint of nerves. Absent of words, Violet only nods.

"Then come into my arms, my beamish girl!" The man shouts, scooping her into his arms and dragging them further into the waves.

Violet can only yelp as she is pressed chest to chest against the man, her grip hooked around his neck, one of his arms looped around her waist, the other splayed wide on the flat of her stomach. They sink further into the ocean until their bodies are invisible to the neck down.

Without warning, Olaf asks, "Can you touch here?" and pushes her away.

"Hey!" She yells just before her head sinks below the surface. She reaches out, feeling for skin, and grips the man's forearm, hauling herself back to the surface. Disgruntled, she wipes her eyes.

"I can swim, y'know. You don't need to test me." Violet pouts. The wine spins in her mind, dizzying.

Olaf takes her back into his arms, a wide grin on his face. He kisses both her cheeks, her nose, her lips. "My apologies. I merely wanted you to cling to me more."

She wraps her legs around his waist, returns her arms to hook around his neck. As petty revenge, Violet turns her head quickly and delights in the soft smack of her wet hair against his cheek. Voice light, she says, "It's fine."

"You little tease." The man growls, voice deeper and breathier than she's ever heard it. The waves bob around them, sunset shimmering atop the surface. Olaf meets her eyes and in them she sees desire as she has never experienced. Heat flushes through her body, pooling just below her navel. Before he can act, she leans forward and kisses him gently in a soft catch of lips.

He reacts immediately, enthusiastically. Fingernails snag against the soft skin of Violet's jaw, scratching down her neck, her shoulders. If she were wearing clothes (a blazer, a shirt, a bra- so many needless layers-) they would have been torn from her skin, frayed with the proof of the man's want.

Much too soon, Olaf moves away from her lips, kissing white-hot trails down her throat, across her collarbones, deeper, deeper, to the flat space between her breasts. Violet winds one hand into the cadence of curls at the back of his head, using the other to weakly, distractedly tread water. Beneath the waves, Olaf has snaked a hand beneath her panties to grip lightly at her bottom, squeezing gently, aware of the wounds that had placed her at his feet the previous evening.

At first they do not speak. There is only the rush of waves, the slick smack of salty kisses, the rapid beating of Violet's heart in her ears, fast as a hummingbird.

She feels aflame, alive, an ember blazing brighter with every breath. She is a childhood home quickly burning. An adult standing in her own ruins.

One large hand skims up her stomach, causing a mess of goosebumps to rise with a shiver atop her skin, to brush her breasts hastily, as if he could not wait one more moment. The sensation is odd, startling. Violet feels as if she was never more aware of her body until this moment, as if she is a sudden stranger to herself as she feels the man summon sensations she has never felt in the seventeen years she had directed her body herself. It is only when he scrapes his teeth gently over the taut peak of her nipple does she finally give to her desire to shudder, whimper.

"Oh god-" Violet mutters, mortified. She does not bother to feel further embarrassment at the ragged breathiness of her tone, or the rosy heat of her cheeks. "Sorry, I- didn't mean to- to- make that noise."

"Please, make as much noise as you'd like." Olaf says, his voice jagged as broken glass. He runs his stubbled cheek back and forth between breasts, slowly, so she can feel the catch and tug on her skin. "I want to hear you, Violet."

"Okay." She mutters, voice small.

Sensing her sheepishness, Olaf confesses, dragging kisses up her neck, "This is exactly what I wanted when I first saw you. You, standing on that stage, looking like an angel, like a vision of sin personified to tempt me."

"Tempt you?"

"Oh yes." Olaf spins her so they are perfectly face-to-face, her hips flush against his stomach. He grabs her by those hips, pushing down until she feels fabric, bunching, and she is flush against his constricted erection, bordered by panties and his own thin boxers.

"God-" she gasps. A sudden throb aches in the core of her, familiar in sensation but foreign and addictive in intensity. "You, Olaf-"

"Hmm?" He asks, toying with her, brushing over her nipples with soft, wicked fingers.

"You weren't lying. You really can make all of me go dumb." She laughs weakly, leaning forward to press her face into the skin of his neck.

"Yes," He hisses again, as Violet tilts her hips, grinding against him slowly. "Let me, Violet- Let-"

The man backs away from her chest to kiss her once, quick, on the lips. The hand that had snuck beneath her panties slips away only to hook back in at her hip and tug them down slowly, questioningly, as if waiting for rebuttal. Violet curls her knees, shimmying them off her hips and the curve of her bottom. Olaf tucks the thin strip of fabric into the waistband of his own underwear like a prize. It sways in the water beside him, bright and fluid as a koi fish. Cool water dribbles down the flushed curve of Violet's spine as Olaf brushes his hand over her back soothingly. Dually embarrassed and unfamiliar with being near another person in such an aroused state, yet unbearably willing to continue, Violet presses her face deeper into the crook of his neck and says, "I'm good. Incase you were wondering."

"Good." The Count breathes, and she can smell the cherry wine on his breath. "Then let me make you feel even better."

Fingertips brush the stubble above her pelvic bone for a few moments, getting her used to the sensation before dipping lower and brushing, maddeningly slow, over her labia. Sparks sear in her belly, and again Violet wonders, this time aloud, "How can you make me feel this way? I've never been able to-to do this by myself. Not like this."

"My, my." Olaf teases, faux scandal in his tone even as his fingers slip back and forth against her. "Did the chaste little Violet Baudelaire just admit to masturbation?"

Violet blushes so violently she's sure he can feel it against his throat. She scoffs to disguise a gasp, wiggles her hips, "Chaste."

"Of course." The man says, working those skilled fingers maddeningly close to her entrance. "Does that feel good?"

"Yes." She sighs, as if answering an interviewer. That same frustration she had felt earlier at her lack of sex appeal resurrects itself in miniature. She would have to do some research, would have to learn how to receive and direct dirty talk.

"Here?" He asks, amusement to his tone. Before Violet, confused, can ask, "What changed?" he drags his thumb up to rub gently on the inflamed swell of her clit, and she flinches as if shocked. Betraying her dignity, Violet grinds against him shamelessly, her throat a mess of strangled whimpers.

She feels as if her entire body has betrayed her to Count Olaf. But then, she concedes, hadn't it from the very instant she saw him? Hadn't she itched to flip her skirt and present him with the very opportunity they were enjoying?

All too suddenly, the man pulls his hand away. Violet makes a sound like a sob through a swollen throat. Her mind is fuzzy with alcohol and arousal, and the only thoughts she has are bereft of diction and direction. She feels like a firework burning rapidly through its wick, and the only way she will not explode into a flurry of sparks is through Olaf's hands on her skin.

"Why-?" She begins, but the man wraps his arm around her as he had before, and drags her towards the beach.

"I need more of you to touch. We'll drown if we continue in the sea." He says and Violet cannot argue with that. They wade through the water and when it is shallow enough for her to stand, Olaf scoops her into his arms like a fresh husband with his bride, and walks them to the shore.

"You really didn't have to carry me." Violet says as Olaf hoists her further into his arms and marches across the beach. He ignores this, and pauses to grab his bundle of clothes, throwing them atop the hood of his car in the nook between windshield and the hood. He then places her gently atop it, her back to the warm metal, like a parent offering their first child as sacrifice on some great stone. Violet sits up almost immediately, her knees coming together, her arms crossing.

"Lie back." Olaf mutters softly, holding the bundle secure to cushion her head. "Please."

"Alright." Violet concedes. Distantly, she is concerned by her immediate acceptance, her willingness to lie back at his mere request despite feeling like a bug pinned and squirming under some high lab light. She wonders what Olaf could ask of her that she would immediately reject and her mind rises empty and void.

A small squeal quirks the air as she wriggles her wet hips down to lie with her head on the soft pile of clothes. Her heels find perch on the front bumper, her bottom on the edge. Olaf kneels in the sand, as if in prayer.

"Stop me, Violet, if you get nervous." He says, glancing up to meet her eyes.

"Shut up, you." She says, a tremor to her tone, embarrassed at her evident nerves. A fine tremble shakes her bones, like the awareness of lightning fizzing the air before a strike.

He takes her advice and does not speak. Instead, he presses against her calves, pulling them apart. For a reason she couldn't name, Violet had expected to see faint disgust or hesitation to look at her genitals full-on. It seems foreign to her, too intimate. Yet Olaf is alert and admiring. This small moment where the man could have been cruel or dismissive and instead is kind and eager has anxiety melting in her chest, replaced with some sentiment warm and glowing.

He replaces his thumb at the hood of her clit and again begins that wicked circular motion. Boneless arousal has Violet melting in seconds. Her hands rise to cover her blushing face, hiding from the sloping sun and the weight of Olaf's shiny eyes.

"You're slick, dear thing." He murmurs, other fingers dipping teasingly at her entrance.

This feels like an accusation. She swallows the wild, ragged urge to shout, "You did this to me!" like some actress on a low budget television program. Instead, Violet quips, "What do you expect? For someone who has done this before you seem surprised."

The man sputters indignantly. There is humor in his tone when he says, "I merely wanted you to know."

Violet hums neutrally in response.

"When you masturbate," Olaf asks suddenly, as if the thought were just occurring. Violet braces herself. "Does it involve penetration, or merely-" he releases his thumb, as if to prove a point. Frustration nearly overwhelms her enough to arch her hips wide into the air, searching for his hands. Sensing her internal struggle, the man continues as though he already knows, "Clitoral stimulation?"

"Er-" Violet mutters, unaccustomed to sharing such personal habits. "Clitoral. I've never tried it the other way."

"Understood. Would you like to? Something easy?" He asks. Olaf rubs his whiskery cheek against her calf like some stray cat, his eyes finding hers at what she is sure cannot be a flattering angle. Even his voice asking calm, understanding, Would you like to? stirs the molten core of her.

"Go ahead. If you'd like." She mutters to the sky, to its growing clutch of stars and darkness.

"If I'd like." The man scoffs. "Something easy then, to start."

Violet merely nods and closes her eyes, focussing on her body atop the warm slope of the car, and the tipsy spinning of the world at her back.

Olaf runs his hands up and down her body soothingly, callouses scratching soft white lines into her skin, and the touch is enough to calm the nervous ache in her gut. He soon replaces his thumb, that quick twirl of pressure, and begins, very softly to press one finger into her.

Several minutes pass in mental examination and surprise at her own body's reactions. By the time the man has two fingers gliding up and in, she is a trembling mess. Violet feels embarrassed at first, glancing to her wobbly knees, to her heels that had somehow found perch on the man's strong shoulders, but then she sees Olaf's expression, the almost childlike happiness on his face, his eyes heavy-lidded and glowing as if there were no other place he would rather be than kneeling between the legs of Violet Baudelaire.

"Soft and pink as rose petals parting-" The man breathes, and Violet wonders if he is reciting poetry.

"Olaf, I-" Violet says, unsurprised to hear her voice reduced to a teary, ragged gasp. She feels as though on the verge of sobbing, a pleasure so fierce it is almost pain. "I had no idea you could make me- Oh! F-feel this way. Th-thank you."

"So you've said." She can hear the smirk in his voice. Olaf says, cloying and low, "Violet. Could I try something?"

"Anything." She breathes, riding out a particularly delicious curl of the man's fingers. Before she can really consider what he means, the man withdraws his thumb only to replace it with the slick, hot press of his tongue. Violet gasps so deeply she can feel it to the depths of her belly- a gasp like drowning, like devastation.

Violet rises onto her elbows shakily to stare at the man (shut-eyed, rapturous-) languishing between her legs. To pet or provoke she could not have said, but Violet winds her trembling fingers to that lush hair and holds him. Olaf glances up at her touch, and the moment they meet eyes, he increases the speed of his fingers, plunging deep and fast. This sends another wave of feverish heat through her, one that she has felt alone, her hand working beneath the Eliade bedsheets, frame trembling. Heat flushes her neck to bloom atop her face.

From her new perspective, she can see Olaf's arm pumping rapidly at his hips, working himself at the same speed his other hand dives into her. The simple awareness is enough to send her body spasming, the fevered flush of heat boiling in her belly rising, swelling.

"Olaf-" Is all she has time to say before she removes the hand from his hair to clamp it over her mouth, as if to smother the small whines buzzing at the back of her throat as her entire body spasms rapidly.

Olaf pulls away, mouth gleaming, eyes heavy. Tremors rack his own shoulders and harsh breaths erupt from his mouth. After a few moments of bliss, Violet, boneless, relaxes against the hood of the car, breathing heavily. The only sounds are her breath, her heartbeat loud as gunshot in her ears, and the fast pant of the man still kneeling in the sand.

"Violet Baudelaire-" Olaf pants, "You little vixen." and then he is coming into his fist, body spasming, curling inwards. He rests his forehead on the bumper so all Violet can see is the very top of his head, sea-soaked and damp. After a few moments, his breathing evens out and he finally sighs in one great rush and clambers onto wobbly legs. When Violet looks his way, his boxers are perfectly in place as if he had never shifted them. He flops beside her onto the hood, staring up at the vast black sky and the moon shining like a stage light.

Violet summons the energy to roll onto her side towards him, startled at the stickiness of her skin against the paint. For lack of a better spot, she places her hand along the curl of his ribcage.

"I could have helped you." She mutters, feeling indebted.

The man waves his hand lazily. "No need. Next time, perhaps."

"Next time, huh?" She feels bewildered at the thought of experiencing pleasure with Olaf again, as if she is almost too lucky. Her mind swims with ideas of sensations she has not yet felt, but can now imagine with sharper clarity.

"Well of course." Olaf purrs. He shifts his weight so they are facing one another, his elbow propped, jaw in his palm. Even in the darkness, Violet can see the possessive gleam in his eyes. "Now that I've had you, why would I ever let you go?"

Queasy delight soars in her stomach. The idea of someone wanting to be with her, to stay, makes the young girl want to sob with exhaustion. She tries to smother the hope that single sentence summons. Violet thinks back to early morning, all those hours ago, of her dream standing wrecked with grief between her family, how visiting them even in her mind had given her a single moment where she was not alone, but awake she was in absence of them or any familial security at all.

Sudden caution stamps quick on her hope. She wonders if Olaf knows the right words to use with an orphan, how to twist a phrase into an emotional snare. She could imagine the process as if it was all some big plot: Demonstrate acceptance, engage physically, nurture dependence, neglect emotionally, inspire hope, separate entirely…

She remembers, then, how before his death, Klaus had been interested in the cycles and patterns of common religions and their processes. Those were the exact words he had used to explain how various religious icons had gained followings and sycophants.

An image rises in Violet's mind of Olaf in linen clothes, turning her glass of water to wine pink as sunset, saying, "Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth." and herself, a disciple at his feet.

She realizes that she is a little drunk.

Unsure of how to address the multitude of questions suddenly growing like teeth in her mouth, Violet settles on sarcasm. "Had me? You haven't had me."

That causes a narrowing of those possessive eyes, like Olaf had sensed her challenge even before she did. The man runs a hand from her collarbone, to the flat gap between breasts, to her stomach, which caves a bit as goosebumps sprout up her body. Beneath his hand, Violet shivers.

"No." The man agrees, although he sounds amused. "But I've gotten a taste, if you will. And I am most willing, Violet, to teach you everything I know. Demonstratively."

She recalls a sermon from early in her stay at Eliade, a Catholic priest standing tall and proud as a marble idol, his voice rolling low in the sanctuary, "The law of Your mouth is better to me than thousands of gold and silver pieces. Your hands have made me and fashioned me. Give me understanding that I may learn Your commandments…"

Isadora had met her eyes immediately, both sharing the same wordless idea: That was kind of sexy.

"I'm drunk." Violet declares, forgetting what the Count had been saying. He gives her a puzzled look, and she recalls his words almost immediately. "Ah, but… You wish to demonstrate your urges, hmm?"

Olaf chuckles quietly, a grin on his lips. He snakes a hand around her waist and pulls her closer. She can feel his warm breath on her neck, the wet cling of his boxers at her thigh.

"If you're willing." He replies, not waiting for an answer before kissing down the line of her jaw and nuzzling against her neck.

"Oh, I am." Violet assures him, suddenly very aware of her nakedness and the chill of the wind on her skin, still damp from sea and sweat. "But not tonight."

Warm pressure slides against her neck as Olaf smirks. "I didn't mean tonight, silly girl. As I said, I am quite satisfied with our progress thus far."

Violet briefly debates her next sentence in her mind, unsure of how to avoid sounding maudlin and young. "So you wish to… see me again?"

"Oh, Violet!" Olaf cries, flinging himself so his back is flat atop the hood, one arm thrown across his eyes. His tone is melodramatic and silly when he shouts, "When are you going to get it through that thick skull of yours that I want you? Even in that alleyway when I barely knew you I said, 'Violet Baudelaire, be my Countess as we travel the world as theatrical marvels' and you said something stupid about inventing for me! Or when I danced with you as my bride before your classroom of undeserving orphans? Or tended to you, just last night? Or perhaps not too long ago, when I knelt before you in the sand intent on making you feel pleasure at my hand? Or maybe it will be clearer to you when you read the note I wrote in that Punctilio rag, sounding like a foolish old man charmed by a little nymph he can never have, lest she wander off like some cryptid. Yes, Violet, I want you. For as long as you'll have me."

Gracelessly, Violet flings herself atop him and winds her arms around any parts of him she can, snagging on his neck and chest. She presses her face into his shoulder, mute with gratitude. The man brings his arms up to wrap around her back, holding her in place.

"I'll have you." Is all Violet can think to say, and even then it comes out astonished and weighty.

"Delightful." Olaf mutters. He drops a kiss to the top of her head, and Violet sighs, only then letting foreign hope and affection smother her. "Not to ruin our date, but it must be nearly midnight. I'll have to get you back soon."

Violet groans playfully, strengthening her hold on him. "Don't make me go."

"Unfortunately, that's not up to me. Let me up so I can gather our clothes."

To end their night, he drops her back off on the very same stoop. Their clothes are damp and sandy, their hair frizzy from saltwater, they both look as though they had been doing exactly what they had been, yet Violet has never felt more giddy and treasured.

Olaf parks and opens the door for her and Violet reluctantly exits. She stands before him silently, appraising the rumpled look.

"Goodnight, Violet." Olaf murmurs, taking her pruney hand in his and bringing it to his lips.

"Goodnight, Olaf. Thank you for such a wonderful date." She mutters, blushing for a reason she could not name.

"The first of many I hope." He says, leaning forward to kiss her cheek, her nose, her lips. Violet nods at that, hoping the very same.

She leaves him in the darkness, standing next to his long black car, and sneaks into the shadowy silence of Eliade, feeling lighter and stronger than when she had left. Violet hurries to her room in the orphan's quarters, shedding her damp clothes and crashing into bed, already plotting what to tell Isadora, and hoping that if she dreams, they are full of waves and wine and soft, soft wonder.


Hurry Up and Wait, which Violet quotes, is a fairly new product of Daniel Handler and Maira Kalman, with the most recent book called Weather, Weather.

Some liberties have been taken in the location of the Cathedral of the Alleged Virgin. In actuality, it is located off Lousy Lane near the Grim River, not a beach.

"Demonstrate acceptance, engage physically, nurture dependence, neglect emotionally, inspire hope, separate entirely…" When I was in school taking religion courses, this process is actually something I was taught to consider until one of my classmates later told me it's a line from a popular tv show. I still consider it worth considering.

The Scripture is 1 Corinthians 13:6 & Psalm 119:72.

The Beach by The Neighbourhood is a song I was listening to when the idea for this fic first materialized, incase anyone wants to give it a listen on this particular chapter.

I hope you sinners like this update. As always, I'm up for conversation through my tumblr ( s-softersoftest) and would treasure any feedback.

Let me know what ya think!