Nine-
When Violet wakes it is to the sound of a funeral.
Organ music floats round and deep through her room to vibrate in her skull and rattle her teeth. It is an unforgettable tune, one she recognizes immediately from her family's service.
Waking feels immediate, yet her mind still snags on a nightmare, her surroundings blurred, her thoughts tripping over themselves to catch up with wakefulness.
In her dream, she sees Eliade burning like a funeral pyre. And Violet, stuck in her own bed while flame glitters at the door, terrified of her heart turning to cinders, slipping a dagger from her pillow and slicing clean into her side, unobstructed by bone and muscle, to tug her heart free. It gleams clean as any professional dissection, yet it is only the size of a typewriter key. She rises from the bed, the wound in her side gushing the rest of her insides onto the bed like a birth, and walks to the window. Outside, the rest of the orphans and staff stand watching silently. She cannot spot singular identities in the crowd, just one mass of eyes on her through the smoke, yet she opens the window and throws them her heart all the same.
When she turns, the flames have eaten at the door and are tiptoeing inside. She returns to the bed, pushing aside her gleaming mass of organs, and reaches into the drawer on her bedside table. In one instance she is reaching, the next she is gulping painful swigs of gasoline from a depthless wine glass. The smell burns her nose, erodes the lining of her throat, yet she drinks and drinks, gas dripping down her chin, her chest, and when she can take no more, turns to spit a mouthful to the blaze at the floor. In her last moment, she hears the funeral music begin and true fear makes her gasp.
With a roar, she is smothered in fire.
She wakes and rises with a ragged whine, flinching away from the door. No flame chars the floor of her bedroom and no gasoline eats like acid at her tongue. Violet pants for a few moments in pure terror, bewildered by the music still trembling in the air. A few moments pass as her heartbeat calms. Instead of flailing like some trapped animal in her chest, it slows to a deep throb she can feel all the way to her toes.
It is precisely this moment when Isadora opens the door.
"Violet-?" Her friend shuts the door quickly, noticing the terror on her face, and sits beside her on the bed. She rubs her hands along the blanketed curve of Violet's calf in an attempt to soothe her the way one might pet a terrified child. "Are you okay?"
"I'm-" Violet begins, but her throat closes as if choking on smoke. Her coughs punctuate the organ music like a fast horologe. She could almost taste the char, as if someone had snubbed their cigar on her tongue. "Okay. Just a nightmare. Ugh. Sorry."
Concern flips Isadora's features, draws her eyes too large and her worried mouth pinched too small. "Did something happen last night? On your date?"
"No, no." Violet says, surprised she hadn't immediately thought to snub that idea. Before she continues, she heaves a deep sigh, calming now that she was sure she was awake. Isadora still pets her leg and that tactile sensation helps ground her away from the dreamy disaster she had been trapped inside. "Well, things happened, but nothing bad. I had a nightmare because of this song. It was played at my family's funeral. Why are they playing it so close to the orphans' quarters?"
"That's what I came here to tell you about. The sanctuary was flooded, as I'm sure you remember. Nero found me earlier this morning and told me to get you and Duncan and clean it up before the next sermon. So they had to use the spare organ down the hall to practice." Isadora says, avoiding her eyes as she rises. Violet follows suit, surprised at the languid, easy stretch of her body.
"Practice for what? Who died?" Violet asks and only when she stands does she realize she had crawled into bed entirely naked. Her clothes from the previous evening are strewn in sandy piles around the room. She glances down at her bare chest as if she had just noticed it. "Oh. Sorry. I'll get dressed."
Amusement lightens her friend's tone when she says, "Don't worry about it. Can't wait to hear why your clothes are all sandy. But… Surely you've seen the Punctilio? Lots of people, sometimes entire families, keep dying left and right in the city. All from house fires with no direct cause. The papers won't print it, but everyone's starting to suspect arsonry. They're rehearsing for all the funerals."
"How morbid." Violet mutters bitterly. The word arsonry summons an acrid taste in her mouth like bile. "I've skimmed the Punctilio. Should've actually read it but I was distracted. But I have a copy in my bag, so we can read it when we get to the sanctuary. How does Nero expect us to, uh, drain it?"
Violet is almost dressed when Isadora throws herself across the bed and burrows into her still-warm spot. The other girl draws the blankets to her chin and frowns. "No idea. I haven't seen it. And, uh, Violet, don't take this badly, but your butt looks like raw meat. What happened?"
"Oh. Right. You hadn't seen what Nero did." Violet twists her torso and cocks her hip, trying to get a better view of her wounds. The bandages that Olaf had carefully placed two nights previous are gone, likely drifting in an undertow. The gashes look better after being flushed with ocean water. The skin around them is dry and dull red, as if already beginning to scar. The pain had leveled out to a constant but dull tenderness.
Isadora cringes deeper into the blankets. "God. I didn't think it was that bad."
"It was that bad. But Count Olaf actually helped a lot. If he hadn't been there, I'd have been a mess trying to patch myself up." Violet sits on the corner of her bed to put on her shoes. Isadora scoots closer to curl around her even as she remains lying down, her stomach around the curve of Violet's bent spine. "I want to hear all about your date."
"You will, of course. I'll tell you everything while we clean." Violet says, standing. She yanks the blankets off Isadora and laughs when the other girl pouts.
Violet gathers her things, that heavy swinging satchel, and they make their way to the sanctuary. Large traffic cones blight the hall before the great wooden doors forbidding any roaming orphans from entry. Duncan stands to the side in his rumpled uniform, clutching the straps of his bookbag, looking as though he wished he were anywhere else.
"There you two are." Duncan mutters as they tumble down the staircase and into view. "I've been waiting here forever!"
"Someone was still sleeping when I came to find her." Isadora says, glancing significantly in Violet's direction.
"Sleeping, still?" Duncan checks the watch tightly strapped to his wrist. Isadora heaves open the large doors and the three of them trudge inside. "It's almost eleven!"
Violet shrugs, refusing to look sheepish. "I was out late last night."
Dark and dampness greet them by the door. Violet fumbles for a light switch and, with a click, the large room is swamped with light.
"Why were you out so late? Were you two rummaging through the antique mall dumpsters again?" Duncan asks.
"Eew. Smell that? That's years of tears and repression soaked into the carpet suddenly rising with the water." Isadora says. Their shoes squish against the damp floor as they make their way towards the altar where a pile of cleaning supplies had been dumped atop the stairs.
"Wow." Violet quips, ignoring Duncan's question in favor of teasing her friend. "That was melodramatic. Do you write poetry?"
Isadora turns, a smirk to her face. She grabs a mop from the pile, the ragged end prompting an offensive sucking sound as it is peeled from the floor. She holds the mop like a weapon, body braced to spring. "One more jab like that and I'll bruise your butt worse than Nero."
Violet winces. Duncan casts her a disgusted, horrified look and says, "What does that mean?"
"You haven't filled him in?" Violet asks, joining Isadora at the altar to take in their workload. The lighting is dim in the Sanctuary but the overwhelming smell of settled water and carpet is enough to estimate the damage. The baptismal pool sits to the left side of the altar, always on a low boil like a well-used cauldron.
Throughout an average day she has seen religious figures or even students visiting the altar simply to dip their fingers into the water like a good luck charm and continue with their lives. Seeing it silent and calm makes Violet wonder what its destruction has cost the residents of Eliade, if they have lost some sense of security once guaranteed.
"Didn't know if you wanted me to." Isadora admits. "I'm not gonna spill your secrets, even on accident."
"You're sweet." Violet says, and means it. She eyes Duncan, who stands between the front pews looking lost and confused, his shoes gleaming with spilled holy water. "But you give him the details. I'm going to check out the baptismal pool."
Isadora claps her hands together like a journalist having just found her next big story. "Ooh, Duncan, you're going to be so surprised. Help me move these pews to the side, off the carpet, and we can talk. Let's start right here."
The mop in her hands falls with a clatter to the pile of other supplies while Violet crosses the small altar. Even through the smog of humidity in the air, the candles atop the altar still flicker with flame. A warm glow smoothes over the damage, makes it seem lesser and meek, as if Violet's shoes do not slip against ruined carpet and deeper hardwood with every step.
Although she had expected to find the pool empty, she finds it instead swollen to the brim with water. Intricate tiling, golden as sunlight, lines the floor. Violet breaches the surface with a hesitant finger, finding it cool, and watches the ripple shimmer across the tiles.
From across the sanctuary, she hears Isadora, "And then they danced together in front of the whole class, which you would have seen but you're sick and skipping everything-"
Duncan groans. Violet cannot help but snicker.
Isadora continues talking as the two siblings push the pews against the walls. Violet stands still, looking at the machinery of the baptismal pool, wondering at the initial problem. She considers every jet and filter. Eventually her gaze comes to rest at the very last step of the staircase leading down into the water, where the drain rests. A wispy shred of fabric clogs it like shadow.
Sick apprehension curls in her gut as she shrugs off her blazer and places it at the altar table. She rolls the sleeves of her button up as far as they will go before kneeling near the staircase and reaching into the water. Recognition makes her wince as soon as her fingers brush the fabric. She yanks it free, water splashing onto the stage. The drain gives and gurgles.
When she stands, Violet rises with her wet span of gray velvet ribbon. Its edges are frayed with mistreatment, and it is only half the length she remembers, but it is still the ribbon her father had given her and having it in her hands again has wretched relief bringing tears to her eyes.
Duncan and Isadora have shifted nearly half the pews. She can hear Isadora still chattering, "Oh! But I forgot to say this. When I asked her how old Olaf is, she said 'How old was your dad?' Can you believe that? I was shocked but it was also kind of hilarious… I hope they get married."
"Isadora-" Duncan cuts in, exasperated, but Violet interrupts them both, distaste souring her tone.
"Well. I found my ribbon."
The Quagmire siblings stop and look in her direction. Confusion twists Duncan's face while hard frustration blights Isadora's.
"How convenient." She hisses, leaving the pew where it is to stomp up to the stage. "Your ribbon goes missing. Carmelita gets pissed when Olaf picks you in class and hurries down here to clog this with your ribbon then runs off to tell Nero. I mean, we knew it was her. But this-" she nods to the shred of fabric still dripping in Violet's hand. "Proves it wasn't just some stupid accident. Because of course it's not."
Violet shakes her head bitterly. She balls the ribbon into her fist and wrings it out over the baptismal pool.
"Of course not." She echoes, twisting to shrug on her blazer. "I just wish I had the other half."
Isadora hums at that. Across the Sanctuary, Duncan has settled across a pew, his head propped on a stack of hymnals.
"Come over here and relax with me. We have much to discuss, I think, and there's no way Nero actually expects us to clean this. It needs aired out or something. Not stomped on by three orphans." Duncan calls.
Eager to quit, Violet and Isadora tumble down the small set of stairs and make their way across the room. Isadora drags their bags over and drops them onto the pew at Duncan's feet. He sits up and grabs at the newspaper peeking out of Violet's satchel. Flipping it open, he reads, "Vigorous Fires Destroy Much of Town! Influx of Orphans Sent to Local Preparatory School and Partnering Cathedral!...Death toll up to exorbitant amounts. Citizens advised to avoid anyone suspicious or who may be in disguise. Also advised to avoid flammable liquids, matches, sparks, dry foliage, or thought crimes, under punishment of law."
"That's depressing." Isadora mutters from where she lies across her own pew, her head nearly brushing Violet's.
"Is there anything not depressing in that Punctilio?" Violet asks, feeling worn by the further bad news. Duncan hums and slowly skims the rest of the page before flipping to the next. Several seconds of silence follow, long enough that Isadora feels the need to break it.
"So is Count Olaf your boyfriend now?"
Violet snorts, amused by her friend's lack of tact. She takes a few moments to contemplate before saying, "I'm not sure. I mean, he said he wanted me. And he did say something about me maybe being his Countess someday, whenever. But I think that was sort of half-hearted. We've only been on one date. But… he could be? He said he wanted me, so that's got to mean something."
"He wants you alright." Duncan cuts in, voice sarcastic and slightly cynical. "He wrote you a letter in this Punctilio."
"Oh. Yeah, he did. I forgot all about that." Violet mutters, a sudden blush coloring her face. As usual, Isadora misses nothing and raises one speculative eyebrow her direction.
"Read it!" She chirps, quick and scandalous.
"Well he's obviously already read it! I'm sure it's mortifying so just get it over with." Violet waves a hand to where Duncan is sprawled belly up in a pew, a mischievous smirk at his lips.
"You haven't read it yet?" He questions. Violet shakes her head, simply stating, "Olaf told me to read it later."
"And you listened?" Isadora asks. "If it had been me I'd have snuck off to the bathroom first thing to sneak a peek."
"We were on a beach and then in an old cathedral. There weren't bathrooms or any really, uh, private places." Violet mutters.
"Oh yeah?" Isadora teases, a wicked grin on her lips. "Not much privacy there on the beach, huh? Oh, but you went swimming, right? But you didn't bring a swimsuit. If there wasn't a place to change, I can imagine you just stripped naked and said, 'Hey Olaf, fancy a swim?' And then he ran after you into the sunset to-"
"Get a life, Isadora!" Violet shouts, amused and embarrassed all at once. "There's no need to make up romantic stories about me and Count Olaf! Anyone who feels the need must not have their priorities straight! What's wrong with you?"
"I'm right, aren't I? That's why you're shouting at me, because I'm right! Prove me wrong then-" Isadora taunts, but Duncan cuts her off. "Do you want to hear what he wrote or not?"
"Yes!" Both girls shout in unison. Duncan snickers and shakes the pages of the newspaper, clearing his throat like a performer. "Okay just for context, it's written on an interview with him about acting. It starts off with a V written in loopy cursive. The man should really take up calligraphy. I've never heard his voice but I'll try my best. Here goes. V-" He begins in a tone so deep his voice cracks. Isadora and Violet erupt into giggles, both insisting, "He doesn't sound like that!"
"I'll try again. V-" Duncan says, Violet interrupting immediately, "He doesn't have an accent, Duncan!" To which he responds by throwing the newspaper into the air.
"Read it normally!" Isadora pleads.
"Fine." Duncan grumbles, faux annoyed, and snatches the newspaper from the ground. He begins yet again, "V, thank you muchly for the absolute honor of taking you out. You are a beautiful, wondrous young woman and I am deeply entranced by you. Your mind as well as your body are spectacular to behold. I'm not quite sure why you seem similarly attracted to me- I am a villainous old man with a gnarled heart and bad history. We do not make a good match. Hopefully our date tonight will go swimmingly-"
"So you did go swimming!" Isadora cries, and Violet hisses, "It wasn't his idea! Shut up!"
"... and we will see one another again. If this night ends in disaster, at least know that I am very grateful for the opportunity to take you out, especially when you look the way you do in that little skirt of yours, waiting so prettily for me on that stoop. Violet Baudelaire, you are so very charming. And then he just signed it with an O. But there's more. P.S.- I was thinking of you in question number six."
"Tell us, what's question number six?" Isadora asks.
Violet rolls her eyes, slapping the top of her head lightly. "You're having too much fun."
"Let me be, Violet. Get on with it, Duncan." Isadora waves to her brother impatiently.
"Alright, so it's an interview question, obviously. Isadora, you come here and be the voice of the interviewer and I'll be Olaf again." Duncan says. The girl leaps to her feet and hurries to the pew like a delighted child. Violet sighs but she cannot find it in herself to be angry when the Quagmire siblings sit shoulder to shoulder, united more in their effort to embarrass her than any other time in their entire residence at Eliade.
Isadora grabs the Punctilio and clears her throat. "Now let's get to the fun stuff. Olaf, as well as being voted Most Talented, you were also voted Most Handsome. That comes with some responsibility to the general public. Tell us, is there a lady lucky enough to be with you?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?" Duncan says, aloof and flirtatious.
"Oh, give me something. Do it for the fans!" Isadora cries.
"I am helplessly entranced by a true delight. She's beautiful and very brave. That's all you need to know." Duncan says and Isadora pretends to weep in disappointment. "Just wait until the readers of The Daily Punctilio see that!"
"Are you guys done humiliating me yet?" Violet mutters.
Before they can answer, the door to the Sanctuary is pushed open with a bang and Nero stands in the doorway, a thunderous frown on his flushed face. He points one fat finger their direction and they all flinch.
"You two. Quagmires. You're needed in Remora's class immediately to discuss yet another week of dismal attendance. And you, Baudelaire, I'm sick of seeing you. Go find a hole to hide in for all I care. You've barely mopped a drop and now you're napping? The disrespect! And, you, Miss Spats, I expected better-"
Confused, the three friends follow the man's gaze to the stage where Carmelita emerges from behind a broad curtain just past the altar. Her expression is flushed with frustration, her shoulders slightly hunched. When she sees Violet looking at her, a tiny smirk quirks her lips, one that promises only destruction.
It is a wicked thing to see, Carmelita standing suddenly proud and conniving in the Sanctuary, gleeful with threats she has not yet made. Violet can imagine the reality that follows- nasty rumors trailing her through Eliade, Nero punishing her for breaking curfew, for romantically associating with a guest of the cathedral, for anything he could ever dream. She could see Olaf losing his position as director, as impresario, losing the play he has worked so tirelessly to produce. He would resent her, would never forgive her.
Smirking on that stage was the biggest threat to Violet's happiness.
Duncan replaces the newspaper into Violet's satchel and they rise, following Nero to the door. They mutter quick, caustic words to her but she does not hear them, can only focus on Carmelita. She slips the strap of her satchel over her shoulder and rises on strong legs, moving slowly like a predator. Nero sweeps her friends into the hall and a small team of men hustle inside, carrying a large pew to join the stack, making room for the influx of orphans.
Carmelita rolls her eyes, flips her hair. "Didn't you hear the Vice Principal? Cakesniffers like you can go rot. Me, on the other hand, I'm off to tell all of Eliade what a rancid slut you are-"
"Carmelita." Violet says, voice a warning and a promise. She steps towards the stage. She has never felt this way, never felt true rage turn to an overwhelming desire for violence. She wants to hurt Carmelita, wants her blood in her hands. Violet can imagine taking a fist full of that shiny red hair and knocking her face against the pulpit. Even the thought makes her smile, flips her tone predatory and desirous. "You don't need to pretend. I know you're jealous."
"Jealous?" Carmelita huffs, but her voice falls flat as if she knows she cannot deny it. "Nice try, Baudelaire. But you really know nothing about Olaf, do you? I've known him for far longer than you'd expect. We're… associates."
The girl smirks and waits as if she expects a grand meltdown. Instead, mild confusion blooms within Violet's mind, but only enough to serve as a reminder: she will ask Olaf when convenient and he will tell her.
Violet shrugs, her genuine disinterest apparent. "I don't care what you are to him. Your crush on Olaf doesn't matter much to me anyway. If you were here long enough to hear about my affections, you certainly heard his. Or did you miss the part where he says he is hopelessly entranced by me?"
"I didn't miss it." Carmelita hisses. "Olaf's handsome, sure. But he isn't a good man. There's not a shred of nobility in him." That same maddening smirk appears on her face, as if she knows a heavy secret. "If you're not careful, he'll ruin you."
That simple word ruin resurrects their scene high up in her sanctuary, Olaf's voice so sure and simple, "You are young and broken. I could eat you whole."
"No-" Violet spits before she is even sure she is speaking. In that moment she feels her bloodthirst warping into furious shame. She is uncomfortably aware of the meekness in herself that Carmelita has seen, that Nero has seen, that Olaf saw from their very first meeting. All of them so sure that they could break her, could maim her, has indignant, self-critical frustration boiling within her. Violet is sick of feeling brittle and broken, of fretting Nero's punishments and hiding from Carmelita.
Violet would not be ruined. Not even by Olaf. She would become strong and cunning enough to leave them ruined in wake of her however possible. Violet remembers Olaf, that strange authority burning on his face when he said, "You don't have to be the one making threats. If you need them off your back, tell me."
She would become strong enough to protect those she cares about and in this moment, Olaf's livelihood is at stake and Carmelita would not steal it from him. From them. Because of this, it is as if she grows a spine in an instant. Carmelita has reminded her of her failures and threatened her with them and they would no longer control her.
"No, Carmelita. He won't ruin me. But you've been trying to, haven't you?" Violet advances slowly towards the other girl, supremely satisfied when she takes a few steps back. It is only when the other girl steps into a beam of light that Violet notices a familiar shimmer of fabric. Coiled inside the hip pocket of her cardigan is the other half of her ribbon, the gray velvet weakly catching the light.
"You've been stealing from me! And framing me!" Violet says, and with a speed so quick she surprises herself, lunges at the other girl, but misses the ribbon as Carmelita springs away. Absent of a rebuttal, Carmelita instead turns and darts through the curtains, disappearing into the dark labyrinth of halls behind the small altar stage.
Fueled by frustration and injustice, Violet follows suit, darting into the black depths. She listens for footsteps, for laboured breathing, and follows that trail. The only light is cast by a glowing exit sign very far away yet it glazes their bodies red as a crime scene, alights in the curls of Carmelita's hair, turns her face gaudy and violent as she looks over her shoulder and eyes Violet with true fear as she runs.
Carmelita takes a turn so harsh the rubber heels of her shoes squeal. Foul words echo in the dark, cramped halls and it takes a few moments for Violet to realize they are coming from her- fast, jerky syllables and tasteless insults spew from her mouth as she runs and although she knows she is being cruel, Violet cannot stop, can barely even hear herself over the thrill of hunting Carmelita, over the delighted race of her heart in her ears.
Light bursts forth from the end of the hall as Carmelita heaves open an exit door and Violet follows quick on her heels, diving into that blinding doorway only to find that they are in the hall near the alley. By the time Violet's eyes have adjusted, the other girl is close to rounding the corner and dashing to the dining hall to safety.
True panic freezes her to the spot as she glances around anxiously searching for a solution that would not let Carmelita slip away. Her eyes come to rest on the large anonymous prayer box beside her, to the heavy Bible on the surface of the little desk. Quick as thought, Violet snatches the heavy tombe and launches it into the air.
She can feel the strain in her bicep and knows she has torn it yet the pain is minimal in comparison to the anticipation she feels watching the book fly through the air and hit home. The flat spine rocks into the back of Carmelita's head so hard she loses her balance and tips head-first to the floor.
"You foul bitch-" Carmelita hisses, hands clutching the back of her head. She looks a mess- hair disheveled from running, her face red with rage. "Are you insane?"
"Give me back my ribbon." Violet says, voice taut and cold. "And leave me alone."
Carmelita stands so fast a button on her blazer bursts loose and skitters across the floor. She crosses the hall hastily, her eyes never wavering from Violet's.
"This is what you want?" She asks, voice faux sweet as she pulls the ribbon from her pocket and holds it between them. Violet lunges to snatch it but Carmelita pulls away and puts it to her mouth.
For one bizarre instant Violet thinks she is going to eat it. And then the ripping begins. One end of the thick ribbon is bit in two by Carmelita then split quick down the middle with a tough yank.
Seeing her ribbon's further destruction has Violet's grief splitting open in her chest. If it were a physical wound she would be leaking through her uniform and bleeding out on the ornate floor tiles.
"My father gave me that." She says, voice pinched. "A few days before they all died. It was the only thing I had left from him."
Carmelita sneers and opens her mouth to hiss something foul, yet Violet is faster. She has never felt the need to strike someone before this situation. Has never felt bloodlust so keenly. Despite the torn muscle, Violet launches her fist forward with all her strength. It connects with a solid smack against the other girl's jaw, sending her stumbling. Pain shoots up Violet's knuckles and only then does she remember the healing wounds Nero has inflicted upon her.
Carmelita takes less time to recover from that hit. She marches forward, arm thrown back to return the punch, and Violet is ready, is willing to bite and scratch and tear if only for the sake of revenge.
A loud bang echoes in the hall yet Violet barely hears it. She can only focus on the ruddy scowl on the other girl's face and the realization that watching blood drip from Carmelita's split lip is the most fun she has had within Eliade her entire residency.
It happens too quickly for her eyes to truly see.
One second Carmelita is snarling before her, about to strike. The next she is being slammed against a wall and held by her throat by a man who had just leapt through the side alley door, his clothes covered in soot and ash. Olaf leers over her with a grimace so foul he even scares her. The other girl is sputtering, her face purpling.
At first Violet cannot hear what the man says, can only see the quick working of his snarling lips, intimately close. Carmelita coughs and twists in his grip, trying to get away, but Olaf only shakes her by the neck, raises his voice, "-don't know why you're here. Tell that godawful adoptive mother of yours that the plan has changed."
Through the sputtering, a look of terrible surprise crosses the girl's face.
"Oh yes." Olaf hisses and watching him hurt Carmelita has Violet's palms going sweaty, her heartbeat singing. "I know all about why you're here. But that's not the point right now, is it?"
Olaf turns so Violet is visible to them both and when he swings that hard gaze onto her, her stomach feels as though it has dropped to the floor. Strange, hot arousal roots her to the spot.
"The point-" He shakes Carmelita until she meets his eyes. Tears slip down her flushed cheeks. Her hands claw weakly where Olaf circles her throat. "-is Violet Baudelaire. You will cease torturing her. You will not speak to her, will not even look in her direction. If she tells me one more time that she has been sent to Nero because of you, I will make sure you regret it."
The man's tone has slipped into a soft, violent purr. Blood from Carmelita's split lip drips in a lazy crawl down her chin. Footsteps fast approaching enter Violet's senses but she cannot seem to tear her eyes away from the scene before her.
"What-? What the-?"
Dread steals the air from her lungs. She recognizes Nero's voice instantly and already her knuckles are aching in sick preparation. She wonders if he will insist on caning her palms as well, just to make her punishment that much worse. Surely she could not get away with chucking a Bible at Carmelita's head or punching her in the middle of the hall.
Olaf glances away from her to regard Nero, but does not release Carmelita even as she flails. He says, loud and harsh enough that they can hear, "Do not test me." before dropping the girl to the floor. Carmelita crumples, coughing, her own hands coming up to wipe her mouth, to rub her throat. When she looks up to Nero, Violet can see the handprint of ash Olaf left at her neck.
"And you." Olaf grins wickedly to Nero, who blusters about, eventually spewing, "What is going on here?"
"I am making direct threats of bodily harm. And you're next." The Count stands before Nero, his shoulders relaxed, his eyes gleaming. There are singed patches in his clothing and he leaves a trail of soot as he moves. The air smells of altar smoke and blood and violence.
"If you ever strike that girl again-" He points Violet's direction. She has a wild idea of walking over and taking that one finger into her mouth just to startle all of them, yet she fists her hands in her skirt and remains where she is. "I'll kill you."
The two men make eye contact for an oddly long time, as if testing one another without word or action. Carmelita weeps quietly on the floor, hiding her face in her hands, and Violet feels absolutely nothing towards her.
Nero, face white, eventually nods and mutters, "Understood."
Olaf claps his hands together as if sealing a deal. "So happy we could all come to an agreement. Now, Violet-" He turns, regards her flushed face and wide eyes. She realizes that she has not moved or said one word since the man burst in through the alley door. When they meet eyes, hers are open and willing and subdued. She waits and listens. He holds his hand out for her to take. "Please follow me."
She bends to gather the remaining shreds of her hair ribbon and reaches for the man's hand. It is as easy as when they had walked along the beach, happy to be with one another, yet Olaf is covered in ash and Violet is wired on adrenaline and newfound bloodlust. She doesn't look to Nero or Carmelita as she follows Olaf around the corner. Questions gather like dust in her mouth, yet Violet does not voice them, knowing there will be plenty of time in private.
He leads her to the very door she had entered and found him dwelling behind upon their first meeting. The same neon light shines BACKSTAGE as they pass beneath it, tumbling down, down, down in the cramped staircase.
Violet eyes the charred back of the man before her as they descend to the theatre, feeling relieved and cherished and empty all at once.
Violet's nightmare was inspired by Julien Baker's song Funeral Pyre.
I received some very sappy comments about the last chapter, which I enjoyed immensely. How about some violence with our sex, hmm?
Also, I recently made a Ko-fi account under the same pseudonym, which is a way to send me $3 if you have ever enjoyed my work and wish to send me money for a coffee. Sort of like a tip jar for creatives. Do not feel the need. But also, I would be forever grateful.
I've had this weird urge to write Violet getting into a fist fight for a long time. Please let me know what you think!
