Chapter Twenty
Except…she didn't come the next day.
Wednesday had gone much like Tuesday had, except without the arguing. There was a loud silence throughout the entire house. His meals were brought up by Alec. He ate at the top stair and listened to their conversations downstairs. All the same except Violet had been remarkably more quiet than the day before, hardly speaking at all. And she did not come to apologize.
He waited in his office, unable to work on the edits for his play, for a plot he'd been so excited and selfish to act out. For just a kiss.
What if he had been wrong about her annoyance with Oswald? Were you so worried, Oswald? How those words scalded him. What if she truly did want that boy?
She could not have him. It was a scheme! And why hadn't she come to apologize yet?
When he looked out over the yard, it seemed she must have finished her work either through the night or early before he woke. The backyard was a picture of loveliness. The bushes were trimmed back and it looked as if she'd even scrubbed the rough, broken stones that made up the pathway. But he wished that she had not finished, wished that he could just look at her through the window and will her to come upstairs that instant.
He stayed in his office until the early hours once more. Violet never came.
She still had not come when he woke the next morning, slumped over on his desk. It was Thursday, the day of the party. Surely she would come up before the party to get this apologizing business done with!
But with each passing hour, Count Olaf started to feel a little more and a little more of a taste of despair. Perhaps she was not coming, after all. Perhaps Violet was not like most other women who would crawl back, sputtering anything he wanted to hear to make it better. Perhaps Violet only offered her apologies once. And with much dread he thought, perhaps, that word was now a permanent fixture, hanging over their heads - insignificant.
He could see it, then, a new play, a horrible, gut-wrenching three-act masterpiece. The banner curtain rolled down over the stage in his mind with a flap and the audience would gasp. On the curtain, in a fine painted script, was the title: Missed His Chance.
Count Olaf realized Violet was not coming with a second apology.
He could hear knocks at the door, probably the caterer, and reached for his key ring before he heard the front door open. That was right. He had sent the keys down with Alec. Then he heard her voice, sad and quiet, directing whomever had come to the door to the backyard.
He supposed he should begin dressing.
He heard her voice again when he was fully dressed, heading down the stairs. He froze mid-step, just listening to the tug in her voice. She was tired. She was tired and trying to hide it and he knew her well enough to know.
"No," she was saying politely, but with an edge. "I assure you, sir, we did not order a cake!"
Count Olaf sighed. He'd forgotten he ordered the cake. He put a stern face on (what else was he to do, he couldn't act like things were fine) and finished his trip down the stairs. Violet's back was to him, hand on the door trying to prevent the cake delivery man entry.
"Let him in," he said. "I ordered the cake Tuesday morning before you woke up."
Before you answered the phone and ruined everything.
He did not miss the way Violet's shoulders tensed at the sound of his voice, but she followed his order, back still turned, and let the man in. Count Olaf continued his steps, eyes on her, and went to follow the man through the rumpus room and into the kitchen, but she turned - only just - and peeked at him over her shoulder.
His fists clenched and he fought the urge to stop, forcing his eyes away from her and his feet forward through the house. Why did she look so exhausted? Her skin was dull, her hair mussed. Those dark circles were present once more under her eyes, as they had been when he stole her. Was she ill again? Had the wound become reinfected? It had looked well enough when he'd taken the stitches out.
Violet watched him storm by. Their eyes had met for the briefest of moments before she tore hers away. Just seeing him reopened the wound and she fought back the burning in her eyes.
She was tired - so, so tired, she had not slept in two days. It was making it all so difficult to keep her bottled emotions at bay. She couldn't hardly think straight, which was a relief in general, but not with the party. Her body was desperate for sleep, but her mind had become content in its muddled exhaustion. She could not overthink all the horrible things that had befallen her because she could barely think at all. Not coherent thoughts, anyway.
Oh! The party! She'd nearly forgotten, standing there in the foyer, staring off at the wall with exhaustion tugging at her mind. The guests would be arriving soon.
Was she dressed? She couldn't remember. Violet looked down at herself and found she was in one of the first dresses Lucia had brought for her - the one in butter yellow that didn't fit quite right. Had she changed into this for the party? Everything was a blur. She supposed it worked well enough.
Her neck hurt. She rolled her head in a circle and felt her weight shift before she stumbled backward into the door. Tired. So tired.
The party!
Violet went through the rumpus room and kitchen, her stomach tightening as she passed Count Olaf hovering over the stove, inspecting the cake while the delivery man fretted. Had Count Olaf come downstairs? Oh, yes, that's right, he had. Her ankles suddenly felt cold and she remembered she'd shucked off his socks, but couldn't recall where she'd put them. She went out back and started directing the caterers on where to place the tables.
Count Olaf watched her through the back door, frown ever present on his face.
The guests arrived, one by one, sometimes two by two. The cheap folding chairs the caterers had brought were filled. The smell of salmon and rice pilaf filled the air and voices chattered and salad tongs tinked and the accordion quartet started up and it was a lot for Violet to process in her slowed mind. Alec was right on her heels as they stood off to the side, unsure if they were supposed to join the party or serve.
"Violet Baudelaire," said a familiar voice behind her, one she had not heard for many years. She turned, too fast, and almost stumbled. A gentle hand - or rather a hook - steadied her.
"Fer-Fernald?" she asked, eyes wide. Was he leering at her or smiling? She blinked hard, clearing the drowsiness from her eyes and thought…smiling, yes, he was smiling.
"No one here is supposed to know her name except me and Count Olaf," Alec said with a note of suspicion.
"Count Olaf and me," Violet corrected.
"Actually," interrupted one of the caterers, a young woman manning the rice pilaf station nearby, "Both 'me and Count Olaf' and 'Count Olaf and me' are grammatically correct. It's just a choice of sentence form and etiquette."
Fernald narrowed his eyes at the woman. "You look familiar, do I know you from somewhere?"
"I believe the young boy was asking you where you know Violet from," she said quickly, then turned back to scoop another spoon of rice onto the next person's plate.
"Yes, that's right," Fernald said, turning back toward the boy. "Violet is an old friend of mine."
"Acquaintance," Violet corrected.
Fernald sighed and scratched at his bald head with the side of his hook, so as not to cut himself. "Alright, that is fair, but Count Olaf brought you over to our side now, so we can be friends."
"Yourside?"
"Of the schism."
"What's a schism?" Alec asked.
"I never said anything about being on anyone's side," she said, too tired to explain the definition of words, which she thought was a sad thing because the definition of words were very important, but Klaus was always much more articulate in explaining them. "I'm not entirely sure either side is worth being on."
Fernald sighed, then gave the caterer woman a suspicious look. He turned back to Violet and offered her a hook and a little bow.
"Fernald?" she said, his name a question.
"Let's open the dance floor. Where we can talk without being overheard."
The woman caterer scowled and slumped a scoop of rice onto the next person's plate. Violet tentatively took his…hook and let him lead her out to the open space which had been assigned to dancing.
"I think that woman is a spy," he leaned down and muttered into her ear.
"Well, she's not a very good one," Violet said.
The accordion quartet, seeing someone finally approach the dancing area, sputtered off in disharmony. The leader - or at least she assumed he was the leader - barked a few orders and promptly they began a waltz. Fernald led her toward the center and then pulled her around to face him. Tentatively she put one hand on his shoulder and with the other sort of…grabbed the base of his hook. He brought his other hook to her waist, but was gentle so as not to rip her dress. Violet thought, perhaps, he had always been the most gentle of Olaf's henchmen. Which, she sharply reminded herself, was not saying much at all.
"Count Olaf sent word that you are going to take him to the Quagmire sapphires," he said, leading them into their first steps. She was relieved to find he was not an especially skilled dancer - she herself had not danced waltz since before her parents died and her sluggish mind was having difficulty recalling the steps. "For that I thank you, Violet Baudelaire."
She gave him a surprised look and stumbled, but he smoothed it over with a quick step. A few people were watching them as they ate their salmon.
"Thank me?" she said. "For what?"
Fernald's brow arched. "Did he not fill you in? I guess I thought he would."
Violet's head shook minutely, afraid she would fall if she shook it too fast. Around her, the colors of the party all bled together as they spun. "I have no idea what you're talking about," she said.
"The Quagmire sapphires are not just sapphires, did you know that?"
They…weren't? Surely she should have known that, but even as tired as she was, she never remembered Quigley once telling her so. "No," she said. "I don't think I knew that."
"They're largely sapphires," he said, pausing to give her a twirl. Everything danced in front of her and her stomach clenched at the sight of two shining eyes on her from the tables. "Those are all original to the Quagmire fortune. But they acquired more jewels along the way that were not sapphires and not theirs."
Violet came chest-to-chest with Fernald with a huff of surprise. "They what?"
"The other gems," he said, "The Quagmire sapphires that are not sapphires are all stolen."
"Stolen?"
Her head was spinning just as fast as their dance, trying to keep up with the music and the conversation and the shock.
"Stolen," he affirmed. "They were my mother's. The Quagmire sapphires that are not sapphires."
Violet's brow tucked, her mouth open in a question though she could not think clearly enough to know which question she wanted to form. Had the Quagmire's stolen the Quagmire sapphires that were not sapphires? Or had they come across them and added them to the collection? Were they stolen from Fernald's mother? Or was she gone and they had fallen to him?
Did…did Quigley know?
Of course he didn't. Violet shook that thought away as soon as it filtered through her mind. He had been just in the dark about his parents as she was hers.
Fernald, seeing the questions flash before her tired eyes, continued. "When Mother married Captain Widdershins, they were close friends with Gregor Anwhistle. My step-father arranged to have Gregor keep her jewels in his safe, since it would be too risky to keep them aboard the Queequeg should they be lost at sea. And after she died, Captain Widdershins…wasn't too keen on some of my lifestyle choices. He held them over my head, even though they were rightfully mine."
"Literally or figuratively?"
"Figuratively, but he was quite taller than I, so he could have literally held them over my head, too."
"So, did Gregor Anwhistle steal them?"
Fernald gave a sad shake to his head and led them in another spin. Two more couples had joined them, she noticed.
"I worked with him, you know. He would never give me the combination to the safe. I was so distraught when I found out what he was doing with the Medusoid Mycelium, that I had to make an impossible choice. And I admit his role in keeping me from my inheritance was a factor. I chose to burn down Anwhistle Aquatics."
Violet remembered this story. Remembered this was how Fernald had lost his hands and gained two hooks.
"Were the Quagmire sapphires that are not sapphires inside?"
Fernald nodded grimly. "The safe was fireproof. But after being seen for my injuries," he said, his hook jerking slightly in her grip. "I returned to the still smoking remains of Anwhistle Aquatics to find the safe had been drilled open and the gems removed."
Violet's mouth popped open in a little oh.
"But how did you know it was the Quagmire family that took them?"
"All fire-fighters and fire-starters bank with Langdon Financial," he said and Violet's eyes widened. "It's important to have a banker who can show discretion. And a banker who can give information, for the right price."
"But my parents banked with Mulctuary Money Management," she protested, which she supposed was neither here nor there, only she didn't realize it until it was out of her mouth.
"That's neither here nor there," Fernald said. "What is here or there is that through some rigorous-," he paused briefly, his eyes far away as if remembering the scene, "- negotiations, I was able to learn that the Quagmire's had submitted a collection of new gems to their safety deposit box until their appointment with an insurance specialist to insure private property. I tried to confront them the day they came to retrieve the gems from the bank for their appointment, but was distracted by a well-placed man in a banana costume."
"A…man in a banana costume?"
"Yes, he was giving out free samples."
"Don't all bananas taste the same?"
"Well, I don't know, I didn't bite him."
"No!" she said. "The samples!"
"Oh, no, he was giving out free samples of Last Will and Testament software. It is quite expensive to use a lawyer when you can just create your own will at home."
Violet gave an exasperated sigh. "And what about the gems?" she asked, trying to keep him on topic
"I lost track of the Quagmire's and, then, the gems. They never returned them to the bank after getting them insured,"
he said, giving her a doting smile. "But you're going to get them back for me. And that is why I'm thanking you, Violet Baudelaire."
Another question formed on her lips. "And…Count Olaf is going to give you back the Quagmire sapphires that are not sapphires once we retrieve them?"
Now it was Fernald's turn to look surprised. "What else would he do with them?"
"Keep them?" she asked, as if this were obvious. It was obvious!
"Keep them?" he asked with a hearty laugh. "Count Olaf would never do such a thing." Violet thought he very much would. "He's been dedicated to finding and returning the fortunes to where they rightfully belong and dismantling the VFD once and for all."
Her brow creased. "Fortunes?"
As in plural?
Fernald gave a delighted, unbelieving laugh. "Did you think he just found us all out on the streets? Everyone in Count Olaf's troupe has been burned, both literally and figuratively, by the fire-fighting side."
Violet hadn't really ever thought about where Count Olaf had found his troupe, but she supposed she would have assumed he did find them all out on the streets. "So," she began, pausing as he spun her again. "The White-Faced Ladies?"
"Hotel heiresses. Bad merger with the Denouement's."
"And the Bald Man with a Long Nose?"
"Caligari's needed funding for their carnival," he said, then paused as if he'd had a new thought. "Ironic that he lost his life there."
Violet shuddered, remembering how the lions had torn the man apart. It had been an awful, horrible, distressing thing for anyone to see, let alone she and her siblings at their young ages.
"And-," she asked, "- the Henchperson of Indeterminate Gender?"
"Their father created the VFD spyglass. Gustav Sebald stole the blueprints before it was patented and presented it as his own."
"That's horrible!" she said hotly, perhaps more affected by this tale than the others due to her penchant for inventing.
"Yes, it is," Fernald agreed solemnly, but then his eyes gave a mischievous twinkle. "Say, did you have one of those names for me? Like Painted-Face Ladies or Henchperson of Indeterminate Gender?"
"Oh yes," Violet said, only just then realizing that it probably sounded quite silly for her to be calling Count Olaf's accomplices by such titles. But Fernald was the only henchperson's name she ever learned. "You were the Hook-Handed Man."
Fernald puffed his chest, a smug little grin on his mouth. "Sounds quite scary," he said.
"You were," she said, but couldn't help the laugh bubbling out of her throat. "You all were!"
And they had been. They had done terrible, horrible, deplorable things, but perhaps they had not truly been as scary as she remembered. Fernald's hooks did not seem as sharp as she recalled. Count Olaf was tall and lean, but not the horribly disproportioned monster that she had recalled from her youth, that towered over her and grabbed at her with too-thin arms and fingers. His fingers were long and elegant, tracing up past her knee. And his arms - she pictured him rolling his sleeve and a flit ran through her stomach.
Insignificant.
And then she deflated.
Count Olaf had not seen her deflate because he'd had quite enough of seeing Violet Baudelaire dancing and laughing in the arms and hooks of another man, like some harlot. He had forced himself to look away and, when that wasn't an ample distraction, he made his way up to the band and sliced his hand through the air to cut them off.
The music halted in the same disharmony as it had before and Violet stumbled, but Fernald steadied her. They turned to see Count Olaf had made his way to the front and was already silently commanding everyone to look at him by his mere presence alone.
"Friends!" Count Olaf said, looking out over the tables. "Accomplices! We have gathered tonight in celebration."
From the back, an unseen man yelled, "Hear, hear!" Count Olaf smiled.
"If Alec and Veronica would please step up," he continued, spreading his arms wide in a theatrical fashion.
It took Violet a moment to realize he was speaking about her. And another few moments to prompt her feet to move toward him, leaving Fernald's side. Alec approached alongside her, looking just as unsure although much more awake. As they arrived, Count Olaf put a hand on each of their shoulders and spun them toward the crowd.
"We all know who he is," Count Olaf said, ruffling Alec's hair. There was a murmur of sinister laughs from the crowd. "And we certainly know who she is," he said, this time to louder jeers and laughter. Violet felt suddenly uncomfortable, like she was back in hiding, stuffed inside one shirt with Klaus as they faced the terrible reality of being in a freak show as a two-headed child. She was so tired she could not focus on one single face in the crowd, instead her eyes flitting from one to the next as if chasing the most frightening laugh. "But they are undoing the sins of their parents," he continued. "If it weren't for Alec's assistance with the vault during our business with the bank or Veronica's quick thinking, I would not be almost certainly in the possession of the Validatory Finding Dollar."
There was a rush of gasps and squeaks through the crowd. One woman with bushy black hair piled atop her head squealed and clapped her hands together excitedly.
Validatory Finding Dollar? Violet had enough experience, of course, to know this had something to do with VFD, but could not think clearly enough to piece together what each individual word meant in relation to the others. Did they rob an entire bank to find one dollar?
The caterer woman was walking through the crowd, passing out drinks on a tray and sending distressed looks Violet's way as if trying to get her attention. Violet creased her brow, trying to piece together why the woman was looking at her that way. But there were other waiters with trays, they all blurred together, and soon enough everyone - herself and Alec included - had a glass of champagne in hand. Count Olaf raised his.
"To Alec Erza and Violet Baudelaire," he said, calling her by her real name, though it seemed everyone in attendance already knew, "Fire-starters at last."
Violet's stomach clenched horribly at that and again when everyone raised their glasses and said, "To Alec and Violet, fire-starters at last!"
She forced herself to drink along with everyone else. Even Alec, who looked quite pleased with himself.
"Fight fire with fire! And now - cake!" Count Olaf said, signaling for the caterers to begin serving. "And, I think, the Black Widow Quadrille, if Fernald and Violet do not mind, as long as I have a willing partner, lest I find an unwilling one."
"Me!" came a voice from the crowd. All eyes turned to find the woman caterer approaching the dance floor, shucking her empty tray to the side. "I will dance the Black Widow Quadrille."
Count Olaf narrowed his eyes. "Do I know you from somewhere?"
"I have one of those faces," she said, stepping up next to Count Olaf.
He eyed her suspiciously for a moment before saying, "I suppose I will dance the quadrille with this…caterer." His eyes swung over to Violet and she stiffened. "I'm assuming your mother taught you the steps before she died."
She was frozen under his gaze, but somehow managed a nod.
"Good," he said in a sharp clip, then turned to the accordion quartet. "We shall dance a quadrille."
A quadrille, for the readers who may not know, is a fashionable French dance that requires four couples and consists of a series of dance formations and choreography that are often intricate and intertwining and it is not at all used to pass along secret messages. The Black Widow Quadrille, in comparison, is not actually a quadrille at all. The Black Widow Quadrille is a dance for only two couples and is so named for its complex footwork to reenact two Black Widow spiders - the men, or otherwise the leaders of the couples - weaving a web around and capturing two flies - the women, or otherwise the followers of the couples. It is also used widely among secret organizations to pass along secret messages amongst the other parties participating, as the steps require close contact with all the other dancers.
And sometimes it is merely danced because a terrible, wicked man wishes to trap a particular fly in his web.
"Shall we, fly?" Count Olaf asked the caterer, offering her his hand. She openly scowled, but took it.
What an odd person, Violet thought, but was distracted when a metal hook fell beneath her fingers and lifted her hand. "Shall we, fly?" Fernald asked.
This was the traditional start to the Black Widow Quadrille, after the declaration to dance it - the spiders offered a hand and asked, "Shall we, fly?" Memories wiggled free in Violet's mind, of her mother's insistence that she learn, of her father practicing with her and offering his hand much as Fernald had offered his hook, of Klaus joining as their mother's partner.
"I didn't realize this was a well-known dance," she said to Fernald as he circled around her, but he and Count Olaf pulled away from their partners and crossed paths, each passing to the other woman before Fernald could answer.
The count approached her, eyes gleaming, and began to circle her closer than Fernald had. "I didn't realize you enjoy flirting with all my men," he said nastily. Violet opened her mouth to retort, but he was already gone, crossing back over toward the caterer again while Fernald returned to her side.
Then it was the ladies' turn. Violet stepped forward, right arm outstretched as she'd been taught. The caterer mirrored her and they met in the middle, their arms twisting around each other while they took a spin. "I didn't realize this was a sad occasion," the caterer said quietly, then they were both off in opposite directions - Violet toward Count Olaf and the caterer toward Fernald.
Well Violet didn't realize it was so difficult to finish a conversation while dancing a quadrille that wasn't a quadrille.
But her heart hammered in her throat. That was code. That was Volunteer code, one that she actually knew. She tried to keep her face relaxed as she approached the count to this time take a turn around him.
"He was telling me about the Quagmire sapphires," she said quietly when she was near enough for him to hear. And as she rounded his back and came out on the other side added, "And that woman is a Volunteer."
Then she was flitting off toward the middle again, this time her left arm extended. She was not sure why she told Count Olaf. Perhaps it was because her idea of the fire-fighters was beginning to crumble with distrust. Or perhaps, more likely, she wanted to prove herself useful, to make him see that she wasn't insignificant. She linked left arms with the woman and they again took a spin. "The world is quiet here," Violet said, then they parted and she was off toward Fernald.
"Actually, it's quite a popular dance with secret organizations," Fernald said, taking another circle around her before he left her side. This time the men did not cross paths, but instead walked at a curved outward angle toward the opposite ladies, creating the outer perimeter of the spider's web.
Count Olaf approached, eyes shining as he took a circle and a half around her. "What makes you say that?" he asked. On the second half circle he stopped behind her, hands coming to rest on her waist. Violet stepped forward with her right foot and then spun to face him. His hands slid along the fabric of her dress.
"She told me she didn't realize it was a sad occasion," she said, letting him lead her two steps backward toward the center of the web. She knew behind her, Fernald was doing the same with the caterer. Count Olaf's eyes shone with anger as she took a step toward him to close the gap, turning her back to him once more. Then he was away from her, crossing paths again with Fernald. From here the dance repeated itself inward, alternating partners until the flies were trapped in the middle of the web.
Fernald approached for his circle around her. "Why would secret organizations use this dance?" she asked, but he did not answer before it was her turn to step forward again and meet the caterer.
"Klaus is coming for you," the woman said quietly before they parted, Violet heading toward Count Olaf.
Violet's stomach froze in terror. Klaus was coming for her? She wasn't sure what she expected to hear or how she expected to react to it, but hearing that her brother was coming and feeling terror at that prospect were not things she thought possible. She…she should be happy that he was coming, happy to be rescued from this terrible place, but all she could feel was a sense of dread.
"Did you know the proper answer to give her?" Count Olaf spat as she took her turn around his back.
"Yes," she whispered, feeling quite ill.
"Well?" he asked, but she was already heading back toward the woman.
"When?" Violet asked, heart pounding, as they linked their left arms and began to spin.
"As fast as he can. A few days maybe."
And then they'd parted and she was on her way toward Fernald.
"To pass secret messages," he said. "And sometimes, like this, just for fun."
Violet was not finding this fun at all.
Fernald left her, again making a wide arc, but this time several feet inside the first perimeter. The spider's were weaving their web. Count Olaf approached and she could see the fury in his every step. He began his turn and a half around her.
"And what did she say?" he hissed. He paused behind her and again laid his hands on her waist.
"She said Klaus is coming for me in the next few days."
He let out a hiss as she stepped forward and turned toward him. His eyes might have well been fire. She took two steps backward, then one toward him turning her back to his chest.
"I bet you loved that," he spat, leaving her to cross paths with Fernald.
"What sort of secret messages?" she asked Fernald.
"All sorts," he said before she stepped away.
"Tell him no," Violet urged the woman as they spun. Everything, the dance, the crowd, the lights, the music, the conversations, all spun too fast in her tired head. "I don't want my siblings in danger."
She didn't want them to know what she'd done. What she'd become. What she was becoming.
She approached Count Olaf. "I didn't," she said. "I…don't want them to come for me."
Under normal circumstances she would have never admitted as much out loud, but she was tired, eyes burning, and not thinking straight. Count Olaf did not reply before she finished her turn and left him.
She and the caterer linked their left arms. "I can't do that," she told Violet. "We need to extract you from this before you get killed."
Killed. A thing she would very likely be. Yet still she did not want Klaus to come, to learn of her own treachery, even if he understood that she did it for noble purposes.
On and on it went, the caterer trying to convince her she needed rescue, Fernald telling her about the dances of secret organizations, and Count Olaf's sudden silence. Violet began to feel as if she were in a fever dream, one thing appearing and then disappearing before it fully materialized, dancing endlessly to the hellish sound of a slightly flat-noted accordion quartet.
And then, with a jolt, she felt her back against the caterer's and they were in the center of the web, the men circling them, and she thought in her addled mind that they perhaps were spiders who had wound her in a web, who were circling to pounce on their prey, on her.
The men did pounce, as was customary to end the dance, joining their arms around the ladies and pulling them in to squeeze between the men's bodies. Violet was tight against Count Olaf's chest, her cheek pressed against his lapel. When the men pulled away to the applause of the partygoers, she looked up at Count Olaf's heated eyes on her, then quickly looked down at her feet.
Count Olaf stepped back, then promptly snatched the caterer by the arm and dragged her away without a word. No one at the party seemed to even pay him any mind.
"Another dance?" Fernald asked Violet.
"No," interrupted a short bald man with wing-tipped shoes. "It's my turn to dance with Violet!"
"No, it's my turn!" interrupted a dark-skinned man with golden hoop earrings.
"No!" cried the woman who had clapped and squealed at Count Olaf's earlier announcement, "Me!"
It seemed, as Esme Squalor would have said, that Violet's induction to the fire-starting side of the schism had made her very in.
Alec grabbed her hand. "No, she promised me the next dance," he lied, but Violet was very grateful.
"I'm afraid I did," she said to the crowd, a couple of which audibly grumbled. She tugged Alec back to the dance floor and they…had a marvelous time, despite their differences in height, attempting to dance a tango. But then the bald man with wing-tipped shoes cut in two songs later. And then the dark-skinned man with golden hoop earrings. And by the time the woman who'd applauded Count Olaf cut in, Violet was…enjoying herself. She danced polka, she danced swing, she danced salsa. And after a few songs, Violet began to smile. And - after a few more - laugh.
The colors and music and faces all swirled around her in her exhaustion, but she laughed and danced as she hadn't laughed and danced ever before. And Count Olaf admired her from the edge of the party. Admired the grin on her face and the sound of her laughter and the way she almost fell twice. Even if she was dancing with other men and women, even if she was lifting the hem of her skirts as she danced, exposing her bare ankles.
Count Olaf was, unsurprisingly, without the caterer. She had been left in the trunk of his car, motionless in the way that she would remain motionless forever. Well, until they dumped her like they did Ursa, then she would be riding the current downstream.
Meddling women.
So little Klaus was coming to rescue his beloved sister and steal her away from him? He thought not. Violet was his now.
Oswald would not take her from him. Klaus would not take her from him. And the only one who might have been capable of swaying her away - Quigley Quagmire - was dead and could not take her from him.
Count Olaf watched Violet break away from the crowd with a thoroughly exhausted Alex in tow. She tugged him toward the table where he crawled into her lap and wilted against her like a flower. Violet didn't seem to mind. She seemed exhausted herself, had seemed exhausted since he first saw her at the front door with the cake delivery man. She placed a gentle hand on Alec's back and watched the other partygoers dance with a small smile.
He approached. Because now he had a reasonable explanation to speak with her, to break his moody silence. And he couldn't let her think he was going soft on her.
"I am proud of you, Violet," he said when he was near, capturing her attention. She turned her tired eyes, red from exhaustion, up to his.
"For what?" she asked, voice a little uncertain.
"For telling me about the Volunteer."
Violet looked at him for a long time, then finally nodded her head, but the motion was sloppy and her eyes drowsy. Alec let out a little huff of a snore.
"Come," Count Olaf said, "Let's put our boy to bed."
Violet's eyes clouded, but it wasn't noticeable due to her eyes already being clouded. She tried to stand with Alec, but Count Olaf closed the gap and pulled the boy into his own arms.
For one blurry moment, she thought he could have been Quigley pulling a sleeping Beatrice from her arms. But it was Count Olaf and Alec instead. Even still, it made her heart warm - a curious and questionable thing that she was far too tired to examine.
She stood fully and walked beside him as he carried Alec back toward the house. They were both silent, letting the discordant accordion music fill the space between them. Violet held open the door into the kitchen, as his hands were preoccupied, and followed him in. Count Olaf disappeared into the pantry and settled Alec in before reappearing at the door. He found Violet staring tiredly at the wall, lost in a thought.
"Violet?" he asked.
She turned to him and he could see in the better light of the kitchen that her eyes were lidded with tiredness.
"Count Olaf, there is something I must speak with you about," she said, blinking her eyes hard to clear her vision.
She must speak with him about sleeping. She didn't know how much more of this she could take.
But Count Olaf held up a hand to stop her. "Don't speak another word tonight, Violet. I know you are gearing yourself up for a second apology and I do not want to sour the party with another argument, which is all we seem capable of doing. I am proud of you for telling me of the spy, your second apology for your bratty behavior Tuesday morning is accepted, and now you will go with me to enjoy the rest of the party and we will leave it behind us."
Second apology?
Violet opened her mouth to protest, to tell him she needed sleep, but no words would form.
Don't speak another word tonight, Violet.
But she could not protest. He'd ordered her out to the party and, unable to disobey, she let him lead her - one hand on the small of her back, as always - outside.
He steered her toward the dancing area, despite her obvious exhaustion, and then removed his hand from her back, offering it to her instead. He had seen the argument start to form on her lips in the kitchen - an argument when she was just about to apologize - and he wanted terribly to punish her for it.
"Dance with me," he said, relishing in the way she could not argue against his orders, in the way she slid her delicate hand into his and let him lead her to the floor.
He would make her his, through sheer force of will and, perhaps, hypnosis if he needed it. He would make her dance through her exhaustion as a punishment for that argument that had formed on her lips. He would make her smile and laugh as he spun her around as a punishment for making plans with another man. He wanted to dance with Violet Baudelaire and so she would because he was the one in control, he was the one who commanded it, and he would enjoy it. He would make her see that there was no use fighting him so it would be the smart thing to just give in. And she was a smart girl, he knew.
He led her to the center of the dancing crowd. A fly in the spider's web, indeed.