Chapter Eleven

Violet never slept a wink. She was far too disgusted with herself to allow even a moment of rest. Why would she help him? Why would she help him carry that lifeless woman down the stairs? Or put her in the trunk of the car?

They were gone for ages. Despite the burning questions in her head, the two drove in silence into the early morning hours and then she helped him again, carrying Ursa and dumping her in a raging river. The second time, due to the lengthy drive, rigor mortis had set in and the pair had a terrible time maneuvering her from the trunk. All Violet could think of on the drive back were the dark bruises around Ursa's throat.

She was staying in a murderer's home. Although this was a fact she already knew, and witnessed, it was a different feeling. She'd helped him. Violet had never had to cover a crime up before. The fires she'd set left nothing to be covered up. Again she recalled Count Olaf's nasty tone – murderess he'd called her. When she tried to say the word aloud, it stuck in her throat. Murderess, arsonist, and liar. That's what he'd said. Now she was an accomplice, as well.

The sun was creeping over the horizon when they arrived. Violet was sent to her room, though Count Olaf left the door unlocked for once. Perhaps assisting him had instilled some new level of trust.

Finally, near lunchtime, Violet gave up on the idea of sleep and began with the day's work. She hoped having something else to focus on would clear her mind, but no matter how hard she scrubbed the kitchen tile, her thoughts darted back to those bruises around the woman's neck.

Was Violet any better than Count Olaf? She'd killed five people. Two were innocent, he'd said, and another turning away from his life of crime. Had she been right in delivering her own sense of justice?

It was nearly time for supper before Count Olaf dragged himself from bed. All day she was itching for him to wake up, so she could speak with him about Ursa, the hypnotism, and the sapphires.

He went straight for the wine and retired to his wingback chair in the living room. Violet felt a little disheartened that he never mentioned the shining tiles in the kitchen or the clean grout, which she'd scrubbed and bleached all day. Alec, luckily, had offered to start on the bathroom and she'd been more than happy to oblige. She'd only seen him briefly at lunch and he was still up there, no doubt still scrubbing at the same spot he'd started on. The bathroom was easily the most horrendous room of the house.

Violet made her way to the living room, then sat on the couch opposite Count Olaf. He only stared at her, not offering a single word. He seemed to be appraising her, as if she were something new and he wasn't quite sure what to do with her.

"Stand up," he said and she did.

"Turn in a circle," he said and she did.

"Sit back down," he said and she did.

After that, he appraised her further. "I'm not sure how to undo it," he said finally. Violet felt a bit sour, knowing her best chance at being returned to normal was now floating face down in a river somewhere. "It seems you're just meant to obey orders. Are you sure you can't remember anything?"

Violet shook her head. "Not a single thing," she said. The thought of Count Olaf with that much power over her made a chill slip through her stomach.

He only hummed in reply, then took another drink and seemed to get lost in thought.

"Why would you kill her?" she asked. "And why would you make me help?"

Again Count Olaf appraised her before speaking and it made her feel violated. "Because-," he said, pausing to take another drink, "- she messed with my plans by messing with you. We have no idea what unforeseen problems will arise from this. And you were there and will do anything I tell you. I wasn't putting her in the car by myself. I couldn't have gotten her down the stairs."

His dismissive attitude rubbed Violet the wrong way. "That was a human life," she argued. "You can't just go killing people when they do things you don't like!"

Darkness cross his eyes. "And what you did was different?" he challenged. "You killed people who did things you didn't like."

"They were bad people," she said, though it was more trying to convince herself. "I was trying to protect my family. I didn't know who set fire to my home, the only possibility was your troupe trying to get revenge. I had a reason."

Upstairs, they could hear Alec groan, then the sound of the bath taps being turned on and running water. "I remember being like you," Count Olaf said, looking toward the stairs through the doorway, still half-trained to the noises upstairs. "Questioning the morality of everything. The more you do it, the less of a reason you need."

"I'm not like you," she spat.

"Yet," he countered.

The two once again fell into silence for a moment and it was Violet's turn to appraise him. After his wine glass was drained, she said softly, "It makes me sad."

"What does?" he said, incredulous tone to his voice. "That you're a murderess? You should have thought things through before you went starting fires."

Violet shook her head. "No," she said, "That you were once like me, worried about the morality of your actions. Some part of you was noble at one point – that's what makes me sad. Had it not been drained out of you, we might have never met. I could be visiting with my parents right now for dinner."

Count Olaf turned his shiny eyes on her, lips curling into a sneer. "I have only set fire to one of your homes, Violet Baudelaire, and I pulled you from it."

This wasn't the first time he'd denied it, but it was still difficult to suspend your belief in something once you've believed it for several years.

"I did not kill your parents," he said at her unbelieving look. "But I congratulate those who did."

Violet's mouth popped open in surprise. "My parents were noble and loving," she said. "They were good."

"Good and bad is a matter of perspective," he told her. "Perhaps if your parents lived, you would know enough about them to not think so highly of their memory."

"That is a lie," Violet said, voice shaking in fury. She recalled, as she had many times over the years, a certain conversation about her parents and Count Olaf's, centering on poison darts. "My parents would never harm someone without good reason."

"Remember what I said, Violet Baudelaire – the more you do it, the less of a reason you need," he said with a dark look.

What was he implying? That her parents killed many people? It was an impossible idea. Violet's memories of her parents were warm and happy. They went to museums, to beaches, to ice cream parlors. Every night their parents tucked them in after dinner.

"I don't believe you," she said, shaking her head. "You're lying. I don't believe you at all."

Count Olaf stood and offered her a shrug. "Just because you don't believe in a thing, doesn't mean it isn't so," he said, then left toward the kitchen.

Violet felt confused again, her head spinning. It was possible, though, wasn't it? She thought herself noble, but she'd set fires of her own. Had her parents done terrible things with noble intentions, as she had? It would make sense. If her parents had orphaned Count Olaf, as he claimed years ago, then that was all the reason he needed to treat Violet and her siblings terribly. How would she treat the child of the person who killed her parents? It was difficult to say as she'd never known for certain who set the fire to the Baudelaire mansion. Violet liked to think she would treat the child fairly, but something twisted in her stomach at the thought which made her think otherwise.

Count Olaf reentered the room with two glasses of wine and offered her one. When she looked at it with suspicion, Count Olaf ordered, "Drink it." Violet's eyes glazed over and she did as she was told. It was red and sweet, just as she liked it, and apparently was not poisoned as she didn't start choking or flailing about.

"I doubt you'll ever know the full story," he said, reclaiming his chair. "But just know that while you can only guess at who set the fires to your homes, I know who killed my parents. I was there."

Violet, for some reason, felt a great sense of shame and buried her face in the cup, offering no reply. The atmosphere seemed too thick and she hurried to drain her glass, then stood to leave for the kitchen.

"You had a phone call," he said as she began to leave the room, as if in afterthought. "That Oswald fellow. We need to call him back."

Violet stalled, a nasty squirm going through her stomach. She wasn't sure she liked the way he said we. It made her feel as if he were making the two of them out to be partners, working together. Then she thought of the night before and stepped from the room without another word.

The empty kitchen seemed drastically less tense and it felt as if a great weight was lifted from her shoulders once she was out of eyesight from Count Olaf. The room had a far more pleasant smell and she remembered that she still needed to replace the P-trap, which she added to her mental list of things to do the following day. The tiles looked much better, white now instead of the grimy yellow. The grout was as clean as it could be, which wasn't perfect, but wasn't quite as dirty as before. Violet had done the best she could with the cabinets – they had been painted white ages ago and now were cracked and peeling. All that could be done was cleaning them, though she thought they would look best if striped of the paint and stained to match the lovely oak color on the inside. That, of course, was all dependent on how generous Count Olaf would be during their next trip.

It had all began as a way to get her mind off of things, but somewhere along the line it grew to be something more. Instead of simply wanting to do chores because she had to keep Count Olaf sated, she began aiming for a better place to live. Perhaps things would not be so miserable if they were surrounded by nicer things. And, even if he did kill her after they retrieved the sapphires, what would come of Alec? He would need a decent place to live, wouldn't he?

Violet still hadn't gotten to the bottom of Alec's story and wondered why he'd been kidnapped. It seemed that for every answer she received, another three or four questions popped up.

She washed her wine glass in the sink, dried it with one of their many new dishtowels, and returned it to the cupboard. Well, she supposed it was best to get the phone call over with. The moment away from Count Olaf had allowed her to clear her mind and that was all she needed. Though when she stepped back into the living room, her stomach gave a nervous jitter as he turned to look at her.

"Shall we call him?" she asked, looking away from his tense stare and down to her hands. "Then we can look over the maps of Mount Fraught again."

For whatever reason, Violet wanted to get the mess of the sapphires behind them. It was causing her a great deal of emotional distress and, though she knew it might end in her demise, she wanted to be done with it.

Count Olaf nodded and stood. Together the two of them climbed the frightening staircase and went to stand at the alcove which housed the phone. The noises from the bathroom were louder on the second floor and Count Olaf went to quiet Alec. When he returned, he rummaged in his pocket and pulled forth a small piece of cardstock on which a phone number was scrawled. Violet took it and flipped it over, seeing that he'd written the number on the back of one of his Al Funcoot Productions business cards.

The receiver seemed heavy when she picked it up. She really didn't want to do this – it went against every fiber of her being to set the nice fellow up. Count Olaf seemed to sense her hesitation and plucked the card from her fingers, giving her a sharp look before dialing the number himself.

The phone rang twice before someone answered. Violet held the phone between her and Count Olaf as she had the first time and a shudder ran through her at the closeness of their bodies. That was the time she thought he meant to kiss her, before he struck her across the face.

"Langdon residence," said the man's voice and Violet swallowed thickly before answering.

"Hello," she greeted. "May I speak with Oswald, please?"

"This is he," the man answered. "May I ask who is calling?"

Violet smiled at his polite tone, a strange feeling fluttering in her stomach. Again, the guilt and memory of Quigley rushed in to sober the sensation. "This is Veronica," she said, feeling miserable at having to use a false name.

Panic leapt through Violet as Count Olaf rested his hand on the back of her neck. It felt as if his fingers were long enough to wrap around it entirely. Though he wasn't hurting her, Violet's thoughts fled to the bruises around Ursa's neck.

"Veronica," Oswald said and she could hear the smile in his voice. "I'm glad you called back. I was hoping you would like to join me for dinner again sometime."

As if on cue, her stomach let out a ferocious growl. Olaf gave her a great look of surprise and, despite the veiled threat that his hand posed, she had a terrible time trying not to laugh. Violet didn't answer Oswald immediately, instead covering her mouth to prevent a laugh from slipping out. Why, that to have been the most unladylike thing she'd ever done in front of Count Olaf and the shock on his face brought an unexpected jolt to her humor.

"Yes, of course," she said, trying to avoid Count Olaf's wide eyes. They would certainly make her laugh. "When were you thinking?"

"Well," he started, "I was hoping tonight. Of course, I understand as it's quite late in the day now."

Violet looked to Count Olaf, unsure what he wanted her to do. "I'll have to ask Count Olaf. Give me a moment please," she said, before covering the receiver with the palm of her hand.

There was a clock in the hall and Count Olaf looked over his shoulder at it, then took the phone from Violet's grasp. When his fingers slid against hers, it gave her a strange feeling in her stomach that she didn't understand. All of the sudden, she became extremely aware of his hand still resting on her neck and it was all she could think of.

"Yes, hello, this is Olaf," he spoke into the phone, pressing it up to his ear so Violet couldn't hear what Oswald was saying. It seemed pointless for the two to stand so close together now that they weren't crowded in over the phone, but when she tried to take a step away his finger's squeezed at her neck in just the slightest way. Violet wasn't even sure he meant to – when she gave him a questioning look, he was staring at the ceiling, nodding at something Oswald was telling him. He seemed completely unaware of her presence next to him and the small act was done unconsciously. Still, though, not daring to anger him, she stood in place.

"We were actually just about to head out to dinner ourselves," Count Olaf was saying, "And it is such a far drive. Perhaps another night would work best."

Violet could hear Oswald saying something and watched Count Olaf's brow crease just the slightest bit.

"Well, I suppose that would work," he said, looking down at Violet. "Yes, we could meet you there in an hour. Yes. Three. Veronica, myself, and…," Count Olaf paused, looking over his shoulder to the bathroom, "- Veronica's younger brother."

Oswald was saying something and Olaf was nodding along. "Yes," he said, "I've taken him as my ward. Perhaps she'll tell you about it when she's ready, but it was rather traumatic what happened. I wouldn't mention it unless she brings it up."

Clever, Violet found. That way she wouldn't have to remember a backstory other than Alec was her younger brother. Violet listened as they apparently worked out details and bid each other goodbye. When Count Olaf hung up the phone, he kept his hand on her neck and turned to yell over his shoulder. "Butler!" he called, "Get dressed! We're going out for the evening!"

The was the clatter of something – probably the scrub brush – being dropped against the porcelain tub and a ruckus as Alec ran from the bathroom, a smile plastered on his face. "You mean it?" he asked, eyes lit up. "We're going out?"

Violet felt sorry for him. Since her arrival, she hadn't seen him leave once, except working in the backyard. That was limited to two things – pulling weeds and tearing out what remained of the deck. Not exactly fun activities for a boy his age. Or any age, really.

"Yes," Count Olaf said, "We're meeting with my banker, who is interested in Violet. It's important that you call her Veronica, though."

Alec nodded, though – for some odd reason – his eyes grew just the slightest bit glum. "Alright," he said, "I can remember that."

Violet's brow furrowed and she sent her little friend a worried look. What would have taken away his enthusiasm?

"Get cleaned up," Count Olaf ordered him. "And wear something decent, we're going somewhere nice."

That was a rare treat, but still didn't seem to perk Alec up. He still smiled, then nodded and left, but Violet wondered what could be wrong.

"And you," Count Olaf said, "I want you to show me which dresses you have clean. I'm growing impatient with this Oswald boy and want him out of our hair."

Our hair. Again, like they were partners. Violet was beginning to feel suffocated with his hand on her neck and quickly nodded, then led the way down the stairs. Count Olaf stayed only a stair behind her the entire time and it felt much like her childhood, trying to escape while he was riding on their coattails.

Violet led him to the little pantry and, after going in the small room and grabbing her things from one of the shelves, emerged with an armful of folded fabrics. Count Olaf stood back and watched as she unfolded each one and held it to her front. Lucia had gone overboard and brought far more than he intended, but each was lovelier than the next. Some soft part of him, long hidden away, didn't mind that he'd spent money on such things for her.

"The white one," he finally said, fingers resting on his chin in deep thought. "It will make him think of marriage."

Violet nearly choked on air and shot him an incredulous look. "Marriage?" she asked, like he'd lost his mind. "It's only our second date!"

Count Olaf scoffed and waved a dismissive hand. "I'm not going to let him marry you," he said, now sounding as if she were the one who had lost her mind. "It's…what do they call it?" He paused, thinking for a moment. "Subliminal messaging! He won't even realize it, but it'll make him take you more seriously and hopefully divulge his secrets easier."

The secrets he was talking about, of course, being any information she could find out about his fortune. Olaf wasn't sure about all that subliminal messaging nonsense. All he knew was that the white dress made him think of Violet as a bride, so surely that Oswald boy would have a similar experience.

Violet nodded, though looked unsure. "Are you certain?" she asked. "I thought the blue might be more appropriate."

Count Olaf pursed his lips, an annoyed look clear in his eyes. The blue dress was more appropriate, sure, if she were a child. It was made more to her taste, with a high neck and baggy fit. "The aim is to woo him, Violet, not remind him of a ragdoll," he said with a scoff. "It's understandable that you know little of the art of attracting gentlemen, but trust me when I say, the white is far better than the blue."

He watched a smile twitch over the corners of her lips before she quickly reigned her face to a collected mask. "Well, you do seem well trained in the art of attracting gentlemen," she dared to say. Violet knew better than to say such a thing, of course, but couldn't quite help herself. Especially after he had the gall to say she knew little of the art herself. Violet knew, although being mostly uncomfortable about it, that men seemed to find her pretty. And while her only true experience was Quigley, surely she was capable enough without Count Olaf's coaching.

Count Olaf shot her a sharp look at her words, though didn't seem angry. In all honesty, he looked slightly taken aback as if he hadn't expected her to be so candid. "I only know what I prefer," he said.

"And you prefer the white?" she asked, eying it as if the concept were foreign to her. The poor girl had absolutely no idea when it came to the game of seduction, did she? Olaf had known many women and was quite skilled at that game.

"Next to that blue bag you call a dress?" he asked. "Without a doubt. It shows off more of your figure. I find it far more attractive on you."

That seemed to shut her up. A terrible flush crept over her cheeks and she took her things with a hurry and disappeared into the pantry while Count Olaf smirked in triumph. While he waited, he helped himself to another glass of wine. Every few seconds, his eyes darted to the door in anticipation. He'd only seen the dress on the girl when she was initially fitted, but it had been a sight, indeed. When he heard the doorknob give, he eyed the door in anticipation. Violet emerged, the image far better than in his memory, though she refused to look at him and glanced to her hands instead.

"Come here," he said and didn't miss the way her eyes glossed over before doing as he'd told her. It made a dark feeling flood his stomach, desire laced with hatred. Violet walked to him and stood within an arm length. "Turn around," he said and she obeyed. "You're trying to woo him," he told her, fingers unlacing the messy job she'd done with the corseted bodice. Violet stiffened under his fingers, clinging to the front of her dress. Olaf laid his greedy eyes on her flesh, exposing inch by inch as he undid the laces. The bodice laced clear to the small of her back and he took a moment to admire the skin before he began lacing her back up. "The more of your figure you show, the better."

Violet was glad her back was turned to him because she knew her face was quite red. Though it was only her back, this was the least clothed Count Olaf had ever seen her and it seemed so indecent. Each time his fingers brushed the skin of her back, the redness crept further onto her cheeks. "You're making it too tight," she complained, feeing an ache in her ribs.

The words went unheard to Olaf. Violet was leaning away from him slightly, as the wearer of a corset often had to do when being laced up. It added leverage for a tighter lace. But Violet inches in front of him, her back turned, leaning away at the hips – it provided him with a mental image he couldn't quite shake. The fact that his hands were on her didn't help matters.

It had been a good while since he'd tied a woman back into her clothes, but his hands were still practiced. Once he was toward the top, though, the bottom laces began to loosen and he tugged in a sudden powerful motion, trying to save the laces from needing redone. Violet was not prepared and, subject to the whims of Count Olaf's tying, was pulled backward and slammed into his chest. There was a long moment that they stayed like that, pressed back to chest, until Violet took a quick step away and Olaf's hands lost the laces completely.

"Sorry," he muttered, shaking the feeling that had spread through him. Violet Baudelaire – pressed up against him, his hands on her corset laces. When he laced her the second time, she noticed the tugs were a bit more violent, but dared not say anything and expose her blushed face.

"Turn around," he said once he'd finished. Violet did as she was told and he looked over her with greed, crossing his arms over his chest with a smirk. "Much better than the blue bag."

Violet's cheeks were a lovely shade of pink, only amplified by the fact that she wouldn't look at him. The white of the dress shone in contrast to the black lacework on the bodice and hems. It was a smart looking dress. Olaf couldn't help but find the most enjoyable part, however, the bodice. The corset cinched her waist in to an unbelievably tiny circumference and her bust looked the fullest he'd ever seen.

"Now," he said, nodding toward the kitchen chair. "Sit. Your hair is a mess."

It was worth noting that her posture was much better when corseted, as well. While he assumed it was due to her hobby of creating inventions, he'd noticed she had a slight slouch. Not anymore. Violet sat, back straight, and let him undo the ratty ponytail she'd done herself. Olaf ran his slender fingers through the black mass of her hair, smoothing it the best he could. Somewhere there was a hairbrush, but both found his hands in her hair far more enjoyable, though neither dared to admit it.

Again, as he had the day at the market, Olaf crafted her hair into a sleek braid and tied the black ribbon to secure it. "There," he said, "You undoubtedly look much better than if I'd have left you alone," he said. "Go attend to Alec, make sure he looks appropriate. I've got to get changed."

Violet's eyes went hazy and she nodded, then left him. Upstairs, she found Alec still in his filthy clothes, trying to get his cowlick to lay flat. She heard Count Olaf come up the stair behind her and head to his room. The thought of his fingers on her back and in her hair had her arms covered in chill bumps and she shook the feeling away.

"Wow!" Alec said, turning around. "You look beautiful! You should wear that dress more often!"

"Told you!" Count Olaf suddenly yelled from the other room.

Violet pointedly ignored him, turning instead to Alec and giving him a smile. "Thank you, that's very kind," she said, walking to him and taking the old comb from his grasp. "The thing with a cowlick-," she continued, "- is that it makes the rules. Whatever it's doing, you've got to mimic."

Years with Klaus, who had not one - but two - cowlicks, had taught her this. With expert hands, Violet wet the comb and had Alec's hair looking decent in the blink of an eye.

"Come now," she said, "Downstairs. You need to get changed."

Alec nodded and crashed down the stairs in the fashion only children were capable of. Violet followed with a grin, clinging to the wall and taking a slower approach. The corset was so tight that it largely increased her bust in a way which she wasn't used to. It was quite a lengthy ordeal getting down the stairs when she couldn't see the next stair down without a great amount of twisting and leaning to the side.

Once at the bottom, though, it was smooth sailing. She'd instructed Alec on his outfit, much as Count Olaf had she. In the end, he chose the cleanest pair of trousers he had and the button-up shirt he informed her he'd been kidnapped in. Violet couldn't help but sigh at the smile on his face as he told her that little fact. It was ridiculous to think a child would enjoy being taken from their parents, but she supposed it beat feeling lonely or afraid.

"Are you ready?" said a voice behind them. Violet spun and felt a knot lodge in her throat. It seemed her fortune had done him well. Count Olaf stood, dressed to the nines. The suit was tailored well to his frame and new shoes shined from beneath his trousers. On his head was a smart looking hat, made of a rich fabric.

It worried her where her thoughts roamed. Violet felt, for the first time in her life, that Count Olaf looked very much the part of a stately count. And very much handsome.