Chapter Seven
When they returned to Count Olaf's house several hours later, the two had barely spoken to each other. Olaf had spent his time with a satisfied smirk while Violet remained quiet, a pained expression on her face. The only time she'd spoken was at the winery when Count Olaf asked her opinion on wines and she simply said she preferred red.
After Violet lugged in the several bags of party supplies, Count Olaf only grabbing the canvas bank bag from the front seat, she was excused to help Alec with the remaining chores. The party was still a few hours off and the house, naturally, was still in great disorder.
"Here," Count Olaf said, holding out a white piece of fabric toward her. Once in her hands, she saw it was the apron Delia had tied on her earlier. Violet took it without a word and left him to go find Alec, tying on the apron as she walked.
She only needed to follow the scraping noises to find him. Alec was standing tiptoe on the kitchen chair, which was once again pushed up to the sink. There were several filth-ridden plates soaking in the water and he was attempting to scrape the grime off one with a spatula.
"You've been busy," she said, forcing a small smile. After the conversation in the car, she felt miserable and wanted nothing more than to call it an early night. As always in Count Olaf's home, there was work to be done, however.
When Alec turned around, she saw his face flood with relief. "You're back," he said, "I was afraid you weren't coming back."
Violet wished terribly that she wasn't coming back and would never see Count Olaf again. But wishes had the tendency to never come true, she'd found.
"I'm back," she said, smile faltering. "What is still on our list?"
Alec paused and reached into his back pocket, pulling forth a rolled piece of parchment which she was quite familiar with. Count Olaf would leave similar lists for her and her siblings. "I've still got to clean the rumpus and living rooms and mop in here," he said. "Plus dishes."
Violet nodded. "I'll start on those," she said, leaving him to the dishes and making her way into the rumpus room. It was every bit the disaster it was that morning when they left.
After an hour, she had it clean. Well, as clean as it was going to be. There were several things the room needed. The mattresses needed moved, for one. Or if he insisted on having them in there, the table needed to go. It was just far too crowded and had a rather suffocating effect. The window seat needed reupholstered, the mattresses needed sheets, and the walls needed a good scrubbing. These were all things that would have to wait.
For the time being, she cleared what she could of the mess. Several trips were made to the kitchen with arms full of wine glasses and plates. Bottles and trash were discarded. The mattresses were raised and propped against a wall. It was all very tiring, but Violet felt it was a nice distraction from her thoughts, which were lingering on what Count Olaf had accused her of being earlier in the car.
Before she left to the living room, Violet inquired with Alec about a broom and was told it was kept in the upstairs closet. As silent as she could, which was not silent at all due to the old wood, Violet crept up the stairs. She was careful to favor the wall, not liking that the staircase was missing a banister. Mentally she added this to the list of things Count Olaf needed in order to consider the home habitable.
At the top of the stairs, she paused. She could hear the deep voice of Viktor conversing with Count Olaf, though she couldn't make out the individual words. She saw there was a small alcove - which housed a black phone - and four closed doors. Violet had a moment of panic, wishing she'd asked Alec which door was the closet. The door farthest away seemed to be the source of the voices, so she tried the first door in the narrow hall. It opened to a filthy bathroom. Violet shuddered, looking to the mold and rust in the tub, and shut the door. The bathroom alone would need a to-do list longer than her arm.
The men laughed loudly and Violet paused, wondering if Count Olaf would be angry to catch her upstairs. The thought made her step with haste and she tried the next door, opening it to find an office of sorts. There was a desk, which was completely buried in stacks upon stacks of papers. This was not what caught Violet's eye, however. Hanging on the wall, there was a newspaper clipping of the home she shared with Quigley, burned to the ground. Hanging next to it was a photo of Uncle Monty's home, taken from the foliage behind the house. In the picture there were two people and Violet stepped into the room to get a better look. With a rise of horror she realized it was herself and Sunny, out pulling weeds. Above it there were blueprints of both houses, each room labeled in a messy scrawl of black ink. She saw their names written in each bedroom, according to where they slept. The room which she shared with Quigley at Uncle Monty's was crossed out, but she could see it once read: Violet and that boy.
Violet's eyes followed to the blueprint of her home that had burned down. Again her room had been labeled with those four words, while Beatrice's room simply read: Kit's daughter.
Other things were pinned to the wall: photos of Violet's apartment building and a myriad of handwritten notes. Next to a ripped piece of paper which held her apartment address hung the worn ribbon she lost.
"Little girls shouldn't pry," said a voice from behind her, but Violet didn't move, her eyes catching the most painful thing of all.
Count Olaf was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. While it was unexpected to find her in his private office, he didn't mind. This way she could see the hard work he'd put into capturing her and know what lengths he would go to if he needed to do so again.
What was most unexpected, however, was Violet's face when she turned around. It was stricken with tears and torn with pain. Olaf had never seen the expression on her face before, not even after he'd murdered her past guardians. She was painful to even look at and somehow managed to create an ache in his chest.
"I'm sorry," she said, eyes shining in agony. "I was looking for a broom and then I…I," she paused, looking over her shoulder as if in miserable pain. "Never mind."
At that, she attempted to leave the room, but Count Olaf stretched an arm across the door and blocked the path. "You what?"
Violet looked up at him, her dark eyes shining. The corners of her lips tugged down before she spoke. "I didn't expect you to have a picture of Quigley," she said. "I was relieved. I thought I'd lost the last one in the apartment fire."
Count Olaf looked her over carefully, the redness in her cheeks only amplified by her delicate features. "You shouldn't pry," he said simply, unsure how to answer. "The broom closet is the next door down." Then he pulled his arm back and let her pass, remembering how hysterical she'd been over the photos when he went in to pull her from the fire. If he hadn't have been there, she would have perished trying to collect them.
Violet nodded and left him. Olaf strode over and eyed the wall, his gaze falling to the photo she was talking about. He'd taken it from outside the home, looking in through the dining room window. He was trying to learn the layout of the home and the photo was not necessarily of her dearest departed, more that he was merely in it. The picture focused on the hallway beyond the dining room, which led to the staircase. It was merely chance that the boy was sitting in the foreground, off to the bottom left, smiling at something off camera.
Olaf understood, however. There were many times in his life he wished for a single photo of Kit Snicket, but he'd yet to come across one. All he had were a few photos of her daughter, who had looked exactly like her. But now she was gone, too.
Violet made her way downstairs with the broom in hand and began to sweep the rumpus room. As she did, the tears dried and her face returned to its normal coloring. She knew better than to ask Count Olaf for the photo, but now that she knew it existed, some weight seemed to lift from her shoulders. In all honesty, she wasn't sure she could handle looking at the picture again without having a complete breakdown.
Once she had the rumpus room swept, she began on the living room, which needed the same amount of dedication. Making a mental list, she noted that the couch needed new padding and reupholstered, the curtains which hung over the boarded windows needed mended, and the carpet either needed to be steamed or replaced. Again, there was nothing she could do about these larger projects at the current time and so she folded the array of blankets sprawled across the floor and put them away in a trunk. There were more bottles and trash in here than the rumpus room and it took her a larger amount of time to clear them. Not wanting to move the stacks of papers on the table, should they be important and she get in trouble, Violet straightened them as best she could and took to sweeping the room. There was only so much she could do with a broom, considering the room was carpeted, but a good amount of dirt came off the floor before she called it a day.
Back in the kitchen, Alec was still working on the same stack he had been when she entered. She noticed, though, that he'd cleaned the kitchen table and was sitting the clean dishes there for a lack of anywhere else to put them. There were three large stacks of plates, a handful of bowls, and half a table of wine glasses already clean.
"You're doing a wonderful job," she said, walking over to the sink and laying a hand on his shoulder. Alec looked over at her and beamed.
"It's just like you said!" he told her with a grin. "If you soak them in hot water, it comes off a lot easier!"
Violet only offered him a smile and took the plate from his hands. "You mop the floor, I'll take over the dishes," she said and he nodded, hopping down off the chair and disappearing somewhere into the house.
The dishes were just as gross as she remembered. Whatever food had been eaten from it was now thick and hard, clinging to the plate for dear life. By the time Alec returned with the mop and bucket, she'd barely made any progress. Letting him take a turn at the sink to fill his bucket with water, Violet abandoned the plate she was on and looked around at the remaining stacks looming over them. In all honesty, she didn't think anyone could ever need so many plates and wished she had Count Olaf's keyring, so she could throw what was left into the backyard and be done with it.
Once Alec finished filling his bucket, she helped him get it to the floor and then returned to work. The water trapped in the sink was beginning to grow lukewarm and so she released the drain and emptied it. Once the water was gone, she saw with disgust that there were several chunks of food left in the sink and she swatted them down the drain with water. If they got stuck in the P-trap, well, it needed replaced anyway.
Drain plug back in place, she filled the sink with hot water and let a few more plates soak. There were several dirty wine glasses left, which she knew wouldn't be nearly as bad as the plates, so she turned her attention there. Alec finished the floor which looked no less dirty, not that it was any fault in his mopping skills, and he returned to standing on the chair by the sink. Luckily the sink was double-sided and he ran hot water on his side, too, placing a few more plates in to soak and helping her with the wine glasses. For the next two hours they worked silently, back and forth between glasses and soaking dishes, before they heard the first knock on the door.
Both paused and looked over their shoulder, then returned to work. Count Olaf could be heard creeping through the house to the front door, those keys jangling as he unlocked it. There were sounds of welcome which moved into the rumpus room until a second knock was heard and Count Olaf returned to the door, unlocking it once more.
Several times this happened – back and forth between the knocking door and the rumpus room – until the two heard Count Olaf announce, "I do believe this is everyone!"
The sound from the rumpus room could be described as a dull roar. There were several voices, all chittering at the same time, some loud as if to tell the entire room what they were saying and some hushed as if telling a grave secret.
Both became aware that someone was in the room with them and they again spun, seeing Count Olaf. "Where is the wine?" he spat in a hushed whisper. Violet pointed to the floor in the corner, where she'd sat the bags when they first brought them into the house. There were seven large paper bags, each filled with three to four bottles. "Then serve us!" he said, storming from the room with a furious huff.
Violet and Alec sighed, abandoning the dishes to soak a little longer. At least luck was on their side in that they just happened to have cleaned several wine glasses. "Here," she said, gathering up several glasses and placing them in his small arms. "You hand out the glasses. Keep track of how many people there are," she said, then sent him out to the rumpus room. Violet grabbed the first bag and set it atop the table, next to the stacks of clean dishes. Her eyes scanned the cabinets, wondering where a corkscrew might be. While every other utensil would be long forgotten, in this home a wine corkscrew was a thing used often. Her sight fell on a small drawer near the stove, its silver handle shining more brightly than the others, which indicated that it was used more often than the rest of the drawers. Violet crossed the room and pulled it back, revealing the corkscrew among various sharp knives.
"I need more," Alec said, entering the room and grabbing for more glasses.
"How many are out there?" Violet asked with apprehension, unwrapping the plastic seal from the first bottle and sinking the corkscrew into the cork.
"Eighteen," he said, proud that he remembered to count, and then took off with another armful of glasses.
"Eighteen," she muttered to herself, successfully removing the first cork and then moving on to the second bottle. Between Alec's third and fourth trips, Violet opened the first four bottles, then sent a wary look to the fridge. She and Olaf hadn't thought to buy any food and she hoped he didn't expect dinner. If so, there was no doubt that she'd be the one to get the blame.
"Alec," she said once he returned, "Look for anything that might be able to be used for snacks while I serve the wine." The boy nodded and she snatched up the first two bottles, weaving her way past the little butler and into the rumpus room.
What work she had spent earlier cleaning the room was already undone. The mattresses were back on the floor, littered with filthy looking people who didn't seem as if they needed more wine as they were already drunk. A few shady characters lounged on the window seat, laughing at some joke someone had just told. Count Olaf had dragged the wingback chair in from the living room and was sitting in the center of the room, a blonde woman occupying the space on his lap. At first glance, Violet had mistaken her for Kit Snicket – she bore a striking resemblance. But when she smiled, it was an ugly expression and Violet shook the idea from her head that dear Kit was also among those back from the dead.
Violet had gone unnoticed in the room and made her way to the piano where two women shared the bench, a third draped over the top of the instrument. When they saw the wine bottles in Violet's arms, they all reached their empty glasses toward her without a word and went back to the conversation about some new play.
The rest of the troupe was much the same. Aside from lingering looks from both Viktor and some other man she didn't know, no one acknowledged her except for sticking out their cups. By the time she'd finished, saving Count Olaf and his girlfriend for last, the women at the piano already needed refilled. Violet did a quick second trip around the room and then made her way back to the kitchen to discard the now empty bottles.
"There isn't much," Alec said when she entered the room. Violet wasn't sure what he meant and then realized she'd forgotten about telling him to find snacks. On the table sat a giant jar of olives, two large slabs of cheese, a bag of apples that were near going bad, a jar of peanut butter, a few small boxes of raisins, and a large tub of oats.
"It'll have to do," she said, moving quickly to grab a few plates. "Are there any toothpicks?" she asked, going to the drawer in which she found the corkscrew and selecting a knife.
While she sliced the cheese and apples, digging around the bruised bits, Alec scavenged for toothpicks. "Will these do?" he finally said, popping up from under a cabinet with a fist full of kabob sticks.
"They'll have to," Violet said, finishing what was left of the apples. "Come here, they're probably ready for more wine," she continued, beckoning him over and taking a kabob stick from him. "Put on an apple," she said, "Then cheese, then olive, then cheese." Showing him how, Violet skewered a few pieces onto the stick. "Every other should be cheese, we have more of it. Try to ration it out enough to make eighteen sticks, alright?"
Violet was feeling rather stressed, but she could see Alec was enjoying the fast pace. Grabbing the next two wine bottles, she made her way back to the rumpus room and found herself slightly jealous of Alec's ability to find any of this fun. While she refilled the cups of the troupe, she listened to Count Olaf speak and realized this was his casting party for the upcoming play he was putting on. It made her think of The Marvelous Marriage, which in turn made her shudder and spill a small amount of Viktor's wine onto his hand.
"I'm so sorry," she muttered, grabbing her apron and reaching up to wipe his wrist with it.
"It's only wine, pretty girl," he said with a sleazy smile and she nodded, trying to smile through a grimace. When she turned to the next person, she felt Viktor's hand slide up the back of her leg and she promptly side-stepped, throwing him a shocked look. Viktor and the man next to him only laughed and she quickly finished refilling the cups and returned to the kitchen. This time, however, she grabbed a clean cup and poured a glass for herself. It wasn't until after the wine was drained did she look to see how Alec was doing.
"Almost done," he told her, finishing up the last one. Violet was impressed – in the time it took her to do one round of refills, he had put together all those skewers.
"Take them out," she said, helping him put them all on a plate. It probably wasn't the most sanitary thing to let them rest on the table, but then again, Count Olaf's troupe was far from sanitary themselves and she sent Alec through the door without a single bad feeling about it.
While he was gone, Violet looked through the cabinets, pulling out a jar of cocoa and a small bottle of vanilla extract that was hidden behind a few rusted soup cans. In the fridge she found a small amount of milk and an untouched tub of butter.
By the time Alec was back with the empty plate, she had the ingredients simmering on the stove. Violet knew, of course, that it wasn't necessarily safe to allow small children near a stove unattended, but Alec seemed rather adept and so she ordered him to bring his chair over to the stove. Once he was next to her with the added height, she instructed him to keep stirring while she took more wine out. Violet opened another two bottles and went back to the rumpus room.
Things had grown hushed among the actors, all listening to Count Olaf tell the plot of his newest play. Violet hardly cared and zoned him out, intent on filling the cups and returning to the kitchen as soon as possible. There was a creeping feeling, right at the nape of her neck, that she was being carefully watched, however. As she made a second pass around the room, she noted it was the blonde woman on Count Olaf's lap who she assumed to be Ursa. The woman's eyes were narrowed, looking at Violet with great suspicion. When Violet went to refill her glass, the woman pulled her hand back a few inches, causing Violet to spill wine on the floor. "And who are you?" the woman asked, as if she'd only just seen Violet for the first time.
"Veronica," Violet muttered, pulling the dishrag that she'd been using to dry plates with earlier from where she had it hanging on the tie of her apron. "I'm the new maid."
Violet threw the towel to the ground and used her foot to clean the mess before bending and retrieving the soiled linen. Ursa appraised her with cool blue eyes before offering Violet her cup once more and allowing her to pour the wine.
Count Olaf turned his eyes to the two for just a moment, then held out his cup and continued speaking to his troupe. Violet refilled his glass and returned to the kitchen, where Alec was stirring in furious motions.
"It's boiling!" he said, a note of both panic and glee in his voice. Violet giggled and removed the wine from the remaining bags, ripping the sacks into sheets and laying them where she could find room on the table. Then she popped open the oats and went to stand next to Alec at the stove.
"Get ready to mix hard," she told him with a grin, then began pouring the oats into the mixture. The chocolate clung to the oats and started clumping, but Alec mixed like a professional. "Keep going," she urged, pouring a few more oats into the mix before putting the container back on the table. She let him continue mixing for another minute or so before taking over, making sure the mix was evenly blended before doling out spoon-size globs on the paper bags.
"What is it?" Alec asked, eying their handiwork with both suspicion and awe.
"They're called no-bakes," Violet told him, plopping the last bit she could scrape up onto the paper. "My sister Sunny taught me how to make them."
"Is she a chef?" Alec asked, leaning over to smell the cookies, a smile growing on his face.
"She wants to be when she's older," Violet said, "But, she's only nine."
Alec's eyes nearly bugged from his head. "She's only nine and she taught you how to make them?" he asked, as if it was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard in his entire life.
Violet chuckled and took the pan to the sink, rinsing off what bit of the chocolate she could before putting it on top of the plates to soak. "She's quite talented in cooking," Violet told him. "She was only five years old when she started making dinner every night."
Alec seemed like he could hardly believe it. "You let her near a stove all by herself?"
Violet went to uncork another two bottles of wine. "I let you near a stove by yourself, didn't I?"
"But I'm seven," he stressed, as if the additional two years made it all the more appropriate for him to be operating a stove on his own. "And I'll be eight next week!"
Violet pulled the cork from the second bottle and gave him a smile. "We'll have to do something special for your birthday," she said kindly, then went out again to pour the wine.
By the time she returned, uncomfortable with the way Ursa kept staring at her, the no-bakes were hard enough to peel off the paper and put onto a plate. "Here," she said, handing the plate to Alec. Then, thinking on it further, she took two cookies off the plate and put them on another. "Those are for us," she said, giving him a wink. "Take the cookies out and tell me how they're doing on wine." With that, he went back to the rumpus room and Violet took the opportunity to pour herself another glass of wine. At least with the snacks out of the way, things would calm down.
Once her glass was again empty, Violet pieced together two more kabob sticks. When Alec returned, the two ate standing at the counter, then went back to working on dishes. Every now and then she would return to the rumpus room to refill their cups, and she also had a couple more glasses of her own. Violet knew when to stop, however, as her cheeks had grown quite warm. In the next two hours, she and Alec accomplished quite a bit with the dishes, which were now in staggering, albeit clean, piles on the table.
Each time Violet left for the rumpus room, it was more and more quiet. By the closing of the evening, many of the troupe were passed out and sprawled across the mattresses. Violet wondered with dismay if they'd be spending the night. Ursa had been missing the last trip she made in to pour wine and Count Olaf's eyes, for the first time that evening, refused to leave Violet. When she looked at him, she could see a glassiness in his look, deep set against the ruddiness of his cheeks. He'd had too much wine.
At perhaps nine o'clock Olaf burst into the kitchen, interrupting the endless washing of dishes. "Phone call for Veronica," he said, that wicked smile in place.
Violet knew it could only be Oswald and, despite knowing Count Olaf's terrible plans, she couldn't help the flutter in her stomach. This was followed by a horrible guilt, her mind wandering to Quigley. It had not quite been a year since he left her and part of her thought that wasn't enough time.
"Come on," Count Olaf said in haste, crossing the kitchen and dragging her out by her arm. Violet struggled to keep up with his long strides, noting as they passed the rumpus room that many of the troupe had left. The others were snoring on the mattresses. In the living room, she could see the shape of Ursa on the couch, one thin arm draped over her face. Her rhythmic breathing told Violet she was asleep.
Count Olaf dragged her up the stairs to the little alcove, where the phone receiver was laying on the table. Olaf prodded her toward the phone and leaned against the alcove, his arms crossed.
Violet gave him a look for shoving her, then gently picked up the receiver and put it to her ear. "Hello?" she said, shuddering as Count Olaf put his hand over hers and drew the phone away from her ear and between them, so he could also hear.
"Hello, Veronica?" said Oswald. His voice filled the space between the two and Violet leaned toward the phone, disliking very much how close her face was resting from Count Olaf's.
"Yes, this is she," Violet said, feeling incredibly awkward with the close quarters she was holding to her ex-guardian. In order for them both to hear, their faces were nearly touching and her arm was pressed firmly to his side.
"This is Oswald," he said. "I was hoping you might like to meet me for dinner next weekend."
Violet hesitated, wondering how she might get out of it. Though going to dinner with him seemed lovely, she didn't want to see him harmed for his fortune. In those few seconds of silence, Count Olaf's free hand snatched her chin and forced her face toward him. Silent, he nodded with those flaming eyes in some unspoken threat.
"I would love to," Violet huffed, the sight of such fury taking her breath away. Count Olaf's hand relaxed around her chin and, to her utmost horror, his thumb reached up and brushed the corner of her lips. Violet's eyes shot back up to his, but his gaze was locked on her mouth, the glassy look of drunkenness back in his eyes.
"Perhaps you'll meet me next Friday at the bank, then? We close at six," Oswald said, the smile evident in his voice.
Violet was too horrified at the way Count Olaf was eying her lips to answer immediately, finally stuttering out, "Y-yes, that sounds wonderful. Count Olaf would be happy to bring me by."
The only light in the upstairs hallway was what filtered up from downstairs and Violet felt the dim light was far too intimate.
"Fantastic," Oswald told her. "I'm looking forward to it."
Olaf leaned terribly close and for a heart-stopping moment she thought he meant to kiss her. Violet's stomach twisted in a nasty way, then unclenched when he lowered his nose near her mouth and drew a deep breath. Then her stomach twisted back up, realizing he'd smelt the wine on her breath.
"Me, too," she said, not daring look away from Count Olaf as he stood back to his full height, eying her in the semi-darkness with that shining gaze. "I will see you next Friday, Oswald," she added, feeling nervous having Count Olaf look at her in such a way.
"See you next Friday, Veronica," he said, then hung up the phone.
Violet took the opportunity to hang up the receiver, then tried to step past Olaf saying, "I'm to meet him at the bank next Friday at closing."
Count Olaf side-stepped and blocked her from the stairs. "Your face is flushed," he said, eyes boring into her. "You've had too much wine. It's not polite to drink my wine without permission."
Perhaps it was the wine, perhaps it was being frazzled at thinking for a horrifying moment that he meant to kiss her, or perhaps, maybe, she'd just grown frustrated with the way her life lacked in giving her happiness. Whichever it was, Violet smartly snapped out, "It's not really your wine when it was bought with my money!"
Alec, in the kitchen unaware, heard the sharp crack and thud that followed.
Violet lay on the ground in the upstairs hall, a shuddering gasp finally heaving its way through her throat. There was a pain in her ankle and she looked down to see she'd caught a rusted nail sticking from the wall as she fell, creating a bleeding gash where there had been otherwise unmarked skin. This was nothing compared to the pain in her face. The back of Count Olaf's hand had flown out so quickly there hadn't been a chance to dodge it.
"Get up," he hissed, grabbing her roughly by the arms and standing her up. Violet could feel the blood drip down the side of her foot onto the floor and she lifted it behind her, trying to take her weight from it. "Watch your mouth next time," he demanded, giving her a sharp shake and pushing her toward the stairs. "Prepare Alec for bed, you two are done for the night."
Violet didn't look back or bother to answer him. Her eyes were brimming with tears and she didn't want to let a single one fall while he was in earshot. Some door behind her slammed and she made her way down the stairs one at a time, clinging to the wall for support. Once downstairs, she passed the many sleeping people in the first two rooms, then finally made it to the kitchen and burst into tears.
"Violet?" Alec asked, face furrowed in alarm. "Violet, what's wrong?"
It wasn't hard for him to put together that she'd been hurt. A blue bruise was already forming on the side of her face and there were drops and smudges of blood on the floor.
"Violet, you're hurt," he exclaimed, hopping down off the chair and running to her side. "Where are you bleeding?"
Violet limped to the now empty chair and took a seat, hoisting up the hem of her dress to take a look at her ankle. The cut was at least a half inch deep and every bit of three inches across. The mess of blood pouring from it made her stomach turn. She felt quite unable to speak and instead kept sobbing, the side of her face throbbing with her every heartbeat.
Alec, undeterred by her silence, found the cleanest rag he could and soaked it in cool water from the tap before returning to her side. Violet took it and held it to her ankle, another sob working its way up her throat.
Upstairs, Count Olaf stood in his room, breathing ragged. He clenched and unclenched his fist, trying to rid the sting in his knuckles. The girl had a smart mouth, after all, just like her brat of a brother. Anyone else in his position would have struck her, too.
Then his mind fled to her lips and the way she'd just stood there, letting him brush the corner of her mouth. Perhaps he should have been more kind. Now she probably wouldn't let him touch her again so easily.
With an irritated sigh, he left his room and took the stairs two at a time. Near the bottom, where there was more light, he could see droplets of dark liquid on the stairs. In the front hall, against the light tile, he made out that it was blood, the smears and drops creating a trail through the living and rumpus rooms into the kitchen. There he stood in the door and watched Violet, face bruised and swollen with tears, hold the bloody rag to her ankle.
"Butler, go to bed," he demanded, striding into the room. Alec gave him a defiant glance, stepping nearer Violet. Olaf offered a look of warning in reply and the boy ducked his eyesight away, then shuffled into their bedroom. The boy minded most of the time and Olaf had yet to have to strike him.
"Let me see it," Olaf said then to Violet. When she didn't acknowledge him, he took a step closer and she froze, muscles tightening. "Violet, let me see."
Silent, she tore the blood-stained rag from her ankle and kept her eyes glued to the floor. "You need stitches," he said evenly, watching how the blood poured from the otherwise clean wound.
"It's fine," she said under her breath, her face made of stone.
"It needs stiches, Violet," he said, taking another step near her.
"Do not touch me," she said, voice ragged in some sort of disgust. Her mask was beginning to break and he could see that delicate brow of hers beginning to tuck, tears threatening to once again spill over her cheeks. Like earlier, when he'd seen the same expression of pain on her face in his upstairs office, looking at her created some strange ache in his chest.
Olaf called it, knowing she wouldn't allow him to touch her. Part of him felt she deserved the pain, while the other part felt helpless and childish, wishing for nothing more than to grab her by the wrist just to touch her out of spite.
But, Count Olaf did nothing. He simply stood there and watched as she got the bleeding to slow. At one point he offered to get her a different rag, but she ignored him.
Once the bleeding was as slow as it was going to be, Violet took the sharpest knife she could find from the drawer and sliced the fabric of the rag into thin strips. She tied them together the best she could and wrapped it around her ankle several times, securing it finally with a tight knot.
"You'll get an infection if you keep that dirty rag on it," he prodded, trying to get her to say anything.
Violet, at first, seemed intent on ignoring him. She stood and limped to her bedroom, opening the door wide before saying with her back to him, "What would you care?"
Then she closed the door behind her. Olaf didn't move for the longest time. He stood there and listened to her crawl onto the mattress. He heard Alec try and soothe her, the best a child could. He heard her small sobs. It wasn't until both she and Alec grew quiet that he locked the door and retreated to his bedroom, not even bothering to wake Ursa up.
That ache in his chest was too distracting.