Mrs. Quagmire had seemed furtive, ushering her into the house quickly, again giving the outdoors an distrusting glance. This time, instead of leading her to the entrance room, she had steered her back and to the far far left, through halls and doors and exquisite rooms, before finally arriving in front of a large wooden door. Mrs. Quagmire stood poised before it, looking at Violet intensely, her hand pressed to the handle. Her lips were a thin line as she stared down at her. Violet shifted uncomfortably.
"Do you know the weight of what you are doing?"
Violet's heart plunged. She didn't know, did she? But the woman's face betrayed no hint of condemnation.
"The weight?"
"The truth makes itself a burden at times."
Her eyes were piercingly hollow, concentrated on Violet's face. She fought to keep her muscles perfectly still.
"I understand. I'm ready."
With a gentle turn of the knob and reverent push, Mrs. Quagmire opened the door inwards.
A man was sitting at a table in the middle of the room - Violet assumed he must be Mr. Quagmire. He looked up as they entered, standing from his seat. Mrs. Quagmire steered her in as she glanced around the room in awe - the room was wallpapered with bookshelves, floor to ceiling wooden bookshelves, all filled to bursting with volumes upon volumes of books. It would take three of the library she visited to collect as many books. The room had the warm scent that comes with old books, a scent made up of ink and feathers used as bookmarks, swinging toes in the nearby creek as you read on the mud bank, the personification of the gentle give as you open a book for the first time, tenderly rolling the spine so that it won't break. It smelled like sunlight caught between the dust, of staying up after bedtime, of trailing your fingers behind you against an out-of-tune piano. It smelled like home. She stood, turning her head to soak in the sheer magnitude of it all - it was beautiful.
"Violet?"
She turned with a start to the man who was still standing. Taking a quick two steps, she crossed the space required to shake his hand. He smiled, sadly.
"You look so much like your mother."
"There's more Bertrand in her than meets the eye." Mrs. Quagmire had moved beside her husband, taking his arm then sitting down.
Violet recomposed her posture, feeling awkward facing the two of them together, as if she were on trial. At his gesture, she took a seat as well, smoothing her skirt uncomfortably.
"My wife tells me you've come to us for help?"
"Yes," Violet hesitated, choosing her words carefully, "I need answers."
He gestured at the books around themselves good-humoredly.
"Well then, you've come to the right place."
She allowed herself the luxury of looking around again, still filled with awe at the sheer magnitude of it.
"My parents always did say the world was quietest in libraries."
Mrs. and Mr. Quagmire paused again, attempting to conceal the sad pallor that overtook them. They hid it well, if not for their telling eyes.
"What specifically are you looking for?"
"How did you know my parents? What were they working on? Is it true that their deaths might have been… less than accidental?" She couldn't bring herself to say murder. The couple shared a quick glance, their thoughts resting on the back of their teeth. Mrs. Quagmire spoke first, her voice a placatingly calm tone.
"Haven't you spoken about any of this with, um," she paused, searching the ceiling for the right words, a deep breath caught in her chest.
"We don't talk much, we just live together." Her continence was stony as she tried to avoid the subject.
"Yes, well, that's expected." She cleared her throat. Mr. Quagmire leaned in.
"But for four years. Excuse my impertinence, but that's a rather long time. He hasn't offered any conversation on the matter? Moreover, he doesn't mind you coming here to speak with us on it?"
She clenched her jaw.
"He doesn't know I'm here." The joints in her fingers flexed. "He doesn't know a lot of things."
The couple shared another glance between themselves. Mr. Quagmire turned back to her, scrutinizing her.
"Violet, what do you want?"
She paused, taken aback. What did she want? Primarily, her freedom, seemingly bought at any cost.
"I want to know what happened to put my siblings and myself in the situation that we are in. I want to know why my parents died, and what I can do now to set right what I can."
"How much are you willing to give for it?"
She breathed out softly, her heart clenching.
"Everything."
Mr. and Mrs. Quagmire shared another knowing look before standing. Mrs. Quagmire stepped back, allowing her husband to lift the cover of the table. It was arranged through a clever set of connections so that it easily moved up and to the side, resting beside the base. Violet looked at it, amazed, as it revealed a smaller, metal door within, closed with a set a wires connected to what appeared to be a small keyboard. Violet looked up at them in wonder, the inventive gears in her head spinning. They smiled back at her.
"Do you know what this is?" Mrs. Quagmire's voice was low, direct. Violet shook her head slowly. "It's called a vernacularly fastened door, it's a sort of lock that can only be opened if one had the knowledge of the three passwords, which are then typed in in order, unlocking the door."
Violet moved closer, touching it lightly.
"The key is to utilize knowledge that, while obvious to anyone who needs access to it, would stump villainy. That's hardly difficult, as villainy is very seldom well read. The first one is easy enough - it's the playwright who composed 'Zombies in the Snow.'"
Violet frowned. "Don't think me villainous, but I've never heard of that."
Mrs. Quagmire shrugged, unsurprised. "I didn't expect you would. It's 'Gustav Sebald.' You should become familiar with his work in time." Violet frowned, but nodded, watching her fingers dance across the keys. The first lock unhinged.
"The next one is the fifth daughter of Wladimir Sklodowska-"
"Madame Curie, that's easy enough." The couple both smiled, fondly if a little sadly.
"I knew you could get that one, see. All nobleness takes is a little knowledge." She typed "Marie Curie" into the keypad. Another lock slid open.
"And lastly, the poet who wrote 'The Garden of Proserpine.'"
Violet paused. She knew the name - her parents had kept volumes of his works in their own library, before it had all been lost. She hesitated.
"Swinburne. Algernon Charles Swinburne."
With a final click, the latch opened, allowing the door to be pulled back. Violet peered inside, her heart pounding.
..
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AN-
Hello my dudes/heathens.
So I've received a series of frantic messages asking me if Violet got an abortion. And while I usually love letting yall sit with uncertainty, I'm going to clear this one up right now. No she did not. If I was going to put my girl through a series of invasive surgeries, believe me, yall would definitely know. I'm going to go back and edit that bit when I get a chance to hopefully clear it all up. I try to walk a thin line between implied and assumed, and I guess I got too vague last chapter, sorry. So calm your nervous selves, everything is chill. Well, not everything, but we won't worry about that right now.
Cheers