Disclaimer: All characters and the basic premise of "A Series of Unfortunate Events" belong to Lemony Snicket/Daniel Handler. I merely elaborate.
Author's Note: Awww, lookit the cute normal house! Yeah, the sex parts come later. I was thinking about them while driving on the H-1 West. Almost missed my exit, it was so flippin' sexy.
Chapter Three:
Impossible
She wearily stabbed the bloody parts of the meat with her fork and shifted around the cracked peppers shaped like eyes. Her appetite was clearly diminished, but she allowed herself to feign a bite or two under the watchful eye of their host. One sideways glance, though, cleared her mind of any idea involving discontent. Both her younger sister and the boy gobbled down their respective meals, both too busy to notice anything besides roast and potatoes.
Her only discomfort sat straight across from her, and she needed no sight to know that.
The lights were unusually milky, casting a strange sheen on anything ivory white: the tablecloth, various dishes, Isadora's hands… Anyway, she hadn't even bothered to examine the house, just because she immediately experienced the most adverse reaction, similar to premenstrual cramps and toxic food poisoning. Even the most mundane, irrelevant object stimulated the faint beginnings of dyspepsia, and she certainly did not want to lose what small portions remained of her lunch because of a house plant. What she did notice, however, was the unnaturally high ceiling from which a small droplet of water plopped onto her tousled hair, provoking her to involuntarily look up.
Oak. Fucking oak.
The oak ceiling, sandalwood bookcases, red brick interior lining, cement-based floor…Violet Baudelaire was no simple fool.
"Violet?"
She blinked her eyes, once, twice, before tilting her chin back down. During the meal, she had a gut feeling that she was being watched, but, like true Baudelaire fashion, she pretended she hadn't noticed.
"Yes?"
Isadora was shocked at how sultry and deep Violet's voice sounded, so completely different from the first time they'd met, a delicate time when girls became women but still remained, albeit reluctantly, girls. How polite and mature she seemed now.
And how far they had all grown.
"I was just wondering…err, that is…how are you nowadays? Business doing well and all that jazz?"
Violet smiled softly at such a rude intrusion of her private life.
'Obviously', she thought, the corners of her lips curling instinctively, 'Isadora Quagmire has no effing idea what I do for a living, nor does she care.'
"Fine."
The answer was curt, and Isadora, being a poet, could not help but hear the underlying tone and despise the common, one word answer. However…she found herself noticing that there was something very peculiar about her dinner guest, but the thought was forced from her mind as quickly as it had entered as she felt a sudden tug on the stomach portion of her house dress.
She looked down only to come face to face with the other unknown diner, whom she had forgotten all about whilst conversing (if one could call it that) with Violet.
The boy shyly peeked up from under effeminate, butterfly lashes. He clutched an empty plate to his chest, swaying slightly from side to side as he did so, as if the balls of his feet were really Chinese marbles. He mumbled something under his breath, but his voice was so soft, Isadora missed it. She bent down lower, trying her hand at a kind smile.
"I'm sorry, honey. What was that?"
"Can I please get more, Auntie?"
Isadora broke out into a huge grin, patting the boy on his dark curls. "Of course, honey. You can get as much as you-"
Violet's voice suddenly cut in. "It's 'may I', James. Remember your manners."
Her voice sounded a lot like a sharp kitchen knife slicing through butter.
Isadora immediately began to protest, barely beginning a rant about how he needn't worry, it's fine, it's fine, before she was silenced by the sharp tone of Violet's voice.
"And she's not your Auntie."
The silence lasted only a mere second, but Isadora could feel her innards starting to frost over. Any outsider could have dismissed this comment as mere truth, or at least a haphazard, throwaway attempt at one. To specific Isadora, however, this comment was far from shallow.
Isadora Quagmire was a brilliant girl and an even brighter woman. Poetry, the intricate and delicate art of words, had survived as her forte for a good twenty one years. Most recently and by the fault of her boyfriend's encouragement, she started research on a variety of other subjects, the most intriguing of them psychology. Chapter Fifteen of "Herbert's Hanneman's Hinting Human" explained all about wayward meanings commonly present in actor's voices, how people are generally unaware of the power of stressing speech, and etc.
Because of this prior enlightenment, Isadora's sharp ears picked up the slightly over-stressed vowel in the word, "not" and a lilt at the end of the word, "your".
None of which seemed to comfort her.
"What a handsome boy." She changed the subject, gesturing to the child.
A thought suddenly struck her at the same moment the boy crept up on his tiptoes (since the counter was far too high and he, far too short). Her lips moved without conscious permission. "Is he…"
She replied curtly. "Yes."
"Oh."
An expected silence once again ensued, and Isadora found she had nothing else to say.
They continued picking at their respective meals in silence, the metal clattering of the fork's prongs against china the only audible noise. Each were lost in their own thoughts, varying from "What the hell have I gotten myself into" to "I can't believe she's being such a difficult bitch."
And though the last thought is completely inappropriate for little sisters to think about their older ones, Sunny felt that the current situation deserved it.
As Isadora stood up to refill her glass of water, the blonde girl scooted closer to her sister and hissed, "What is wrong with you?"
Violet's eyes never left her plate and she continued pretending to eat, making haphazard stabs with her fork.
"Nothing," she replied coolly, impaling a defenseless piece of broccoli.
"Vi, this is so unlike you! She's only trying to do her best…don't you remember? You used to be friends with her!" Sunny watched as her sister slowly met her semi-pleading gaze. She couldn't identify many of the emotions swimming in their depths, but there was a specific one she immediately recognized from years of living with Violet.
Violet's eyes went soft across her knowing sister's expression.
"You know what she wants."
Sunny resisted the urge to hug her older sister and instead whispered, "Vi, please don't be like this. What's done is done. You can't keep on wishing-"
"Shhh." Violet lifted a finger to her lips.
Sunny quieted as Isadora returned to the dining table, carrying a bottle of red wine.
"I couldn't very well leave this lying around, could I?" She addressed all of them but kept her eyes on the boy, who at this point, had returned to his seat with second helpings.
Violet, in turn, narrowed her eyes a bit, noticing that her host's absence took a bit long. Isadora quickly covered herself, announcing, "Klaus should be coming about now. Apparently he passed out in our bedroom during the afternoon, and I've just gone to wake him up."
Sunny didn't even need to look to see her sister tensing. She hurried, "Do I get a taste of wine too, Izzy?"
That did the trick.
Violet frowned. "Sunny, you're a little too young to drink, don't you think?"
Sunny stuck her tongue out. "As if. I wasn't asking you."
"Me too! Me too! Can I drink some too?", the boy chimed in, his mouth full of garlic potatoes.
"James, chew with your mouth closed." She let out an exasperated sigh, shooting Isadora her most complimentary look all evening.
'Kids', the look clearly said.
Isadora involuntarily chuckled as Violet ran her hand through her hair. "You don't even know what wine is."
"Do too. It's grape juice!"
"Fermented, darling. That means you can't drink it."
"But Auntie Sunny says that's it's yummy and you drink it!"
"Yeah, right. Nice try, mister." She tousled his hair, glaring at Sunny, who, in the meantime, took to filling "Violet's" wineglass. "And you put that down."
Isadora was watching with such great amusement at the strange turn of events that even she did not notice the audible click of a door being forced open from the outside.
When he stepped into the room, all talk abruptly ended.
Completely oblivious to the change, he immediately addressed Isadora and embraced her, a glass bottle present in his left hand. She stood stiffly in his arms.
"Hey, Izzy. Sorry I'm late." He kissed her on the cheek before spotting Sunny. Sunny waved her hand meekly.
"Hey."
"Sunny! God, I haven't seen you in such a long time, how is my baby-"
A strangled choke and Isadora reacted to it by shifting a bit left. Someone was clutching a wineglass while engaging in a coincidental coughing fit.
Klaus Baudelaire, self-proclaimed intellectual and dutiful normal boyfriend, made the unfortunate mistake of glancing up.
And, as quick as the last couple of years had been, time flashed backwards again.
He could feel his whole house crumbling to ash like the previous home before it, and the one before that. Klaus Baudelaire never thought he'd see his homes again, and now, by some form of wicked luck, was staring straight into familiar windows.
It was as if nothing else existed, that every one of the lamplights extinguished, and they were, by way of memory, eleven years back in the dusty confines of Count Olaf's literal darkness.
They were all orphans again, every single one of them. So unlucky.
His breath hitched in his throat as his mind feebly began to process everything. His mouth moved by no command of his brain.
The past four years, his semblance of normality, a feigned affection, the carefully constructed life…
He forgot.
He was never the great inventor.
His
"Sister."
Was.