Chapter Twenty One
Count Olaf had woken the day after the party - and it was quite late in the day, indeed - with a grin.
He had danced Violet Baudelaire, quite possibly, more thoroughly than she had ever been danced before. No one else dared cut in when it was he she was dancing with and he did not once leave her side for another partner. And she had given in to him, as he knew she would. Once she was back in the middle of all the revelry, it took only a few songs for that smile to erase the look of irritation she'd shown him. And then she was laughing, relaxed, her hand in his, his hand on her waist or back, feeling her beneath the fabric of her yellow dress and she looked so deliriously tired when she blushed at his untoward comments.
Count Olaf and Violet danced until the accordion quartet had finally stopped because their third player had fallen asleep and they had only agreed to play until midnight and it was nearly three! The partygoers left with the music. The caterers asked where one specific staff member was and Count Olaf shrugged and said she must have quit. The tables were packed, the food carted away, and he led Violet back into the house not by a touch to her lower back, but by her hand.
He had fixed it, as he'd declared he would, and he hadn't even needed to offer her an apology for the cranioectomy plot. Things were back on track and he couldn't be more pleased with himself.
Until he remembered it was Friday.
Friday being the day Violet had made her plans to meet Oswald.
Count Olaf's mood soured and he grabbed the clock on his desk (he'd been excited enough with how the evening went that he'd spent several hours after the party working on his play before dozing off).
One o'clock.
They had two hours to get to the bank and it was quite a drive. He growled in irritation and left his office, stomping down the stairs.
"Violet?" he called out, agitation clear in his voice.
There was no answer. He stalked through the rumpus room into the kitchen and found her sitting at the table, staring at the wall, hands wrapped around a chipped coffee mug. Alec was at the sink doing dishes and turned to look over his shoulder when he heard Count Olaf enter.
"Violet," he said again, but still she did not answer.
"I think she's thinking really hard about something," Alec said. "She poured that coffee two hours ago and hasn't taken a drink."
Count Olaf approached and leaned down to touch the mug - cool. The side of his hand brushed against her fingers and Violet gasped, as if he'd scared her, and looked up at him.
The circles under her eyes were darker.
"Your date," he said, voice testy. "We need to leave shortly."
Violet stared at him as if she was having a hard time understanding his words, then nodded. "Yes, of course," she said quietly, looking back over toward the wall. "My date."
Alec gave Count Olaf a worried look, but the older man crossed his arms with a sigh. "I'll have to remember not to keep you out at parties so late if it makes you so witless the next day," he said.
Violet did not answer, just kept staring at the wall.
Count Olaf seethed and turned into the pantry, scanning the shelves for her things. He found a nice enough pink dress - nothing too fancy or revealing, the boy already had too many wayward ideas - and came back into the kitchen to thrust it at her.
"Violet," he said. "Go change your clothes. I'm not going to give you an order for every single thing you need to do today."
Violet looked up at him tiredly and nodded, taking the dress from his hands and shuffling back into the pantry where she had rested for hours with her eyes closed without sleep.
Nothing was really making much sense at all in Violet Baudelaire's mind. All she could do - before being ordered to change by Count Olaf - was stare at the walls, at the way they crawled around the edges. Anytime she would focus on one spot, the crawling would evade her vision, just out of sight.
She was so sleep deprived that she couldn't remember why she was sleep deprived.
On unsteady, wobbling legs she slipped off her yellow dress and pulled the pink one on. This one had a series of buttons down the front from waist to neck and her fingers fumbled helplessly over the tricky little contraptions. Her head lolled back, eyes closed, as she worked at the buttons.
She wasn't sure how long she was in there, but she must have spaced out. There was a sharp knock on the door and her eyes jerked open, too wide as if making her eyes wider would make her see more clearly.
"What is taking you so long?" Count Olaf seethed.
Violet gave a tired sigh. She could not keep up with his moods, not when she couldn't even think straight. First he was flirting, then he was telling her how useless she was, then he was dancing her round and round pleased with her again, and somehow she'd landed back on his bad side. It was a lot.
Count Olaf was a lot.
"Just…struggling with the buttons," she said, sleepiness tugging at her tone.
The doorknob rattled and she heard Alec say, "Count Olaf!" before the door was jerked open and she was bathed in light. Violet turned, most of the buttons still undone and exposing an indecent amount of her slip beneath.
Her vision - the air around him - was dancing. But she could not look at how the space around him crawled, not when he was looking at her as he was. She thought of the Black Widow Quadrille, of a spider preparing to feast on his prey. His eyes lingered on the top of her exposed slip.
Count Olaf stepped into the cramped space, forcing her to take a step toward the corner, and closed the door. She was again bathed in an almost complete darkness, save for the light coming in from around the doorframe. She felt his hands at her waist, pushing her back farther until her shoulders hit the wall. He stood close, too close - she could feel him hardly a hair's breadth away - and began to button her dress.
"You should not drink so much," he murmured and she could feel the heat of his cheek near hers and the tickle of his words at her ear. "You're far too hungover."
Violet did not remember drinking the night before - the party had been the night before, correct? She couldn't remember, everything was just one big blur in her mind.
"I don't remember drinking aside from the toast," she said, unsure why her words had come out in a whisper.
"Of course you don't," he snapped, fingers working at her buttons. His tugs were so rough that he was jerking her forward into him. He was nearing her bust, but she couldn't bring herself to even care enough to act offended. "That's what drinking is for, so you don't remember!"
Violet sighed, reaching up and resting a hand on his wrist. Count Olaf's hands stilled on her dress.
"What have I done this time?" she said tiredly. "You're angry with me again."
"Perhaps I am angry to wake up on a perfectly good Friday and be reminded of your insolence by having to cart you around for a date I did not authorize on the day a snowstorm is supposed to hit!"
Violet sighed and leaned her head back against the wall, eyes drooping shut. "I can't keep up with your moods. I wish you would just choose whether you want to be a wretch or a pervert."
As soon as the words left her mouth, the air grew still and charged between them.
He was silent for too long and Violet wondered idly if she had been too crass, but was so tired she found she didn't care. The thought came and went, as unfiltered as her words, and was lost to the fog in her mind.
Then Count Olaf's hands left her buttons, one trailing down to her waist, the other up the exposed stretch of her chest and came to rest lightly around her neck. His thumb pressed into the hollow of her throat as he leaned himself into her, pinning her between his body and the wall. His mouth was at her ear once more.
"And which do you prefer, Violet?"
The heat of his words sent a pleasant shock through her belly. "I-," she stammered, but she couldn't make another word form. There he went, changing again, and she was left to try and keep up with his whims. His thumb at her waist brushed against the fabric of her dress.
"You what?" he murmured against her ear, his breath hot against her skin. His fingers were tracing along the side of her neck.
"I- I-," she stammered, mind in complete whirlwind from the sensory overload.
"Which do you prefer, Violet?"
"My head can't keep up with you," she whispered.
"That's not an answer, Violet."
Why did he keep saying her name? The way it rolled off his tongue made her toes curl. She reached up and again laid her hand on his wrist at her throat, tugging it away.
"I prefer when you treat me like an adult and not an annoyance," she said, forcing a slight firmness into her tone.
Count Olaf merely moved his hand to the side of her head, pressing into the wall. His mouth left her ear and traced down the side of her neck.
"I am treating you like an adult," he murmured, lips ghosting over her skin with each word.
Violet, delirious from exhaustion, made a little muffled noise from the back of her throat. Count Olaf grinned against her neck. He found that noise much better than a gasp.
"I don't know," she murmured back, but there was the lilt in her tone, the same she'd used with Oswald on the phone. "I think you would have treated me like this as a girl had you been able to get away with it."
"I almost did," he muttered against her with a hot breath. His fingers on her waist flexed, digging against her dress. The other hand left the wall and found the side of her face, tipping her face up toward the ceiling. His mouth traced up the side of her throat and over the edge of her jaw. "But a very clever girl outwitted me. Otherwise I would have had you every which way I wanted by now, Violet Baudelaire."
He enjoyed the tremble that ran through her. He did not enjoy the way her hands came between them, pushing against his chest.
"That's enough," she said, breathless. "I- I can't think straight right now and - and we're going to be late."
Count Olaf groaned from the back of his throat, his grip on her chin tightening. He pulled her face down and leaned over her, his own mouth so close to hers.
"No funny business today," he murmured, his thumb coming up to brush over her bottom lip, tugging it down slightly. "Say it, Violet."
"No funny business," she breathed.
He leaned even closer, his nose running alongside hers. Violet's breath hitched in her throat.
"That's a good girl, Violet," he said on a breath, his mouth barely ghosting over her lips. Then he pulled away with a suddenness that made her shiver at the loss. "Come," he said, opening the door. "Time for your date."
And that anger was back in his voice. Violet took a moment to collect herself, quickly finishing up the last few buttons he'd abandoned with much clearer focus than before. He stood in the doorway until she finished and when she looked up at him, there was an undeniable gleam of greed in his eyes.
Watching Violet Baudelaire shuffle out of the closet after buttoning her dress, face covered with that cherry blossom blush, was a sight Count Olaf did not ever want to forget.
He made her sit at the kitchen table and he braided back her hair before going upstairs to get himself changed into the day's clothing. He would not be leaving her completely unattended. Oswald would have to deal with his intrusion. He would not let the boy undo what progress he'd made.
But it seemed Violet was intent on doing that herself. She'd become alert enough to be angry not only with Count Olaf, but herself. The car ride was silent with disharmonious tension as they rode to the bank.
Finally, not taking his eyes off the road, Count Olaf sighed and said, "Now it is you who are angry."
"Of course I am angry!" she seethed.
In her vision, the road before them crawled. She felt that they were traveling too fast, which they very likely could be with Count Olaf driving, but she wondered if perhaps it was her exhaustion overwhelming her. Several times she swore she saw a deer or a rabbit or a bear or an antelope on the side of the road, getting ready to pounce in front of the car, and her stomach tensed up in a horrible, sickly knot only to realize it was her mind playing tricks on her.
"You did not seem so angry in the servant's quarters," he said and she could hear the smirk in his voice.
"Be quiet," she snapped, looking out the window sharply. He glanced over to see redness creeping over her neck. Ah, how he loved to see it. Count Olaf reached over to tuck an errant piece of hair behind her ear, merely to antagonize her, but she smacked his hand away with a grimace. "Do not touch me."
Count Olaf ground his teeth, his own anger flaring, and stomped on the breaks as he veered to the shoulder of the road. Violet gave an alarmed yelp, bracing herself on the dash as her body flung forward with the momentum of an abrupt stop. He snatched her chin in his long fingers and forced her to look at him, his grip digging painfully into her jaw.
"I will do as I please, Violet Baudelaire," he said through clenched teeth. "If I wish to touch you, then I will. And if you do not let me, then I will make you."
A cold dread spread through her stomach at his words, which could mean so many things and she was certain he meant them in every direction they could stretch.
His fingers dug deeper into her skin and she winced, sucking a breath through her teeth.
"You don't want me to have to give you more orders, do you?"
She glared at him, her own gaze rivaling his own. "No," she said through grit teeth.
Instantly he released his grip on her. "Good," he said, tone pleasant. His hand swept the hair behind her ear and he put the car back in drive and steered them onto the road as if nothing had happened.
The rest of the car ride was spent in silence, Count Olaf driving with a satisfied grin and Violet staring out the window, trying to keep her eyes from closing.
Oswald was waiting for them outside the bank.
"What time do you want me back?" she muttered to him as he parked, refusing to look at him.
"Oh, ho ho, no," he said with a broad smile. "I am not leaving you two alone to further your little plots. I'm going with you."
Violet frowned and finally looked at him. "He hasn't invited you," she said in a tone so snottish and unlike her that it reminded him of the dreadful Carmelita Spats.
"Ah, but if he's as much of a gentleman as you say, then he'll be far too polite to decline," he said, thoroughly satisfied with himself.
A little muffled and unsatisfied huff came from the back of her throat and as soon as he put the car in park, she was fleeing the car. Luckily he'd put her in the front, where the lock wasn't busted, like the back doors.
"Oswald!" she said in greeting, her grin perhaps too big due to her exhaustion.
"Veronica," he said with a smile that rivaled her own, stepping toward her to close the space. "You look lovely."
Violet knew she did not, in fact, look lovely. She had spied her reflection before they'd left and thought idly that she looked like a background actor in Zombies in the Snow. But, with only Count Olaf's company, she was happy for a compliment.
She smiled, but gave him a playfully solemn look. "I'm afraid our plot has been discovered," she told him. "He is now insisting on coming along."
Oswald grimaced, but quickly turned it into a smile as Count Olaf left the car and turned toward them, shutting the door.
"But of course Count Olaf will be welcome, as well," he said with a grin that was, perhaps, as forced as Violet's.
"So sorry to be an intrusion, my boy!" Count Olaf said, his last word coming out a bit like a snarl. "But with the snowstorm approaching, I do not feel comfortable letting a young lady visit your home where she may end up being trapped for the evening."
"Trapped?" Oswald said with a nervous laugh. "Surely you don't think me so dastardly?"
Count Olaf's grin took a sharp edge. "Surely not," he said. "But I would guard the reputation of my ward regardless."
"Of course," Oswald said, again with that nervous laugh. Violet offered him a kind smile. It was clear he didn't want to offend Count Olaf. The banker gave Violet an anxious glance. "Shall we all take my car, then?"
"One can never go without their getaway car," Count Olaf said, then cleared his throat. "That is, a car used for getting away from terrible snowstorms."
"Oh," Oswald said with a strained chuckle. "Alright, then. Veronica, would you like to ride -"
"Get back in the car, Veronica," Count Olaf ordered and her eyes glazed over as she stepped back toward his vehicle.
"Perhaps not, then," Oswald said, a bit deflated.
"Would not want to put her in an improper position," Count Olaf said with a grin.
"How…old-fashioned," Oswald said with another perplexed chuckle. "Alright, then, just allow me to pull around my car and you can follow me home."
Count Olaf said something in return, but Violet did not hear it as she shut the car door behind her. A moment later, he was sliding back into the driver's seat.
"You're being ridiculous," she said, refusing to look at him. She stared with heated intensity out the window at nothing in particular.
"I'm being pragmatic," he replied.
Pragmatic is a word which typically means sensibly or in a practical fashion. Violet did not, in fact, think Count Olaf was being pragmatic in this instance.
"I don't think that word means what you think it means," she said, watching Oswald pull his car near them, wave, and drive off. Count Olaf put the car in drive and followed.
"Of course I do," he said with a broad grin. "It means I am acting sensibly and in a practical fashion."
"That is the last thing you are doing."
He huffed a laugh through his nose and smiled over at her. "Is it not sensible to keep you in my car so we can discuss our plans?" he asked. "Is it not acting in a practical fashion to have a plan laid out before we enter his home?"
Violet turned to him, eyes wide. "What do you mean by our plans?"
Count Olaf theatrically waved a hand in the air. "To find his safe, of course!"
"You mean to rob him today?"
He tutted in response. "Of course not, Violet, that would be thoughtless. I mean only to locate any valuables and learn the layout of the house for a future robbing."
She sighed. "You're terrible," she muttered. "He's as nice as one can possibly be."
"Oh, Violet," he said grinning. "No one is as nice as they can possibly be."
Violet opened her mouth to retort that she was nice, though perhaps not to him, and remembered the feeling of a lit match between her fingers. She shut her mouth.
"So I was thinking -" he continued.
"Frightening thing," Violet muttered.
Count Olaf stopped and gave her a sly, sideways look, his lips tugging upward at the edges. "I was thinking that you would offer him all the distraction I need to poke around. And if not, I thought you might create one."
She currently felt like existing was taking up too much energy. She couldn't imagine having to think on her feet.
"You have far too much faith in me," she muttered, looking out the window. Her eyes felt so heavy and itchy.
"Come now, Violet," he said, smile still etched in his voice. "You never have been one to give yourself the credit you're due. You should own your cleverness. It certainly got us out of a sticky situation at the bank."
"It hardly counts, I saw a woman do it in a movie once."
"I didn't know you enjoyed the cinema."
"You'd be hard pressed to find a person who doesn't have at least one film they enjoy."
"And which is your favorite?"
Violet did not even need to think for a moment. "The Dawn Patrol," she recited. "1938."
Count Olaf gave a dramatic sigh. "Of course you like a dull war movie."
Perhaps it was her excessive exhaustion, but that was all it took for her irritation with him to flutter away forgotten.
"Dull war movie?" she sputtered, unable to stop the surprised laugh from leaving her. Count Olaf's hand, unseen to her, flexed against the steering wheel at such a delightful noise. "But the aerial fight scenes! And the dialogue! And Errol Flynn!"
"Errol Flynn?" Count Olaf said with disgust, scrunching up his nose. Violet let out another laugh at the sight, so delirious in her exhaustion that she felt at that moment, it might have been the funniest thing she'd ever seen. "Errol Flynn was a womanizer and a drunk."
"Well, he was quite charming," she added.
"Did you know-," Count Olaf said, trying his best to keep his grin at bay lest he give himself away, "- I once beat Errol Flynn for a role, but I had a schedule conflict so they cast him instead."
"You are such a liar!" Violet said, outrageous laughter bubbling up from her stomach.
Count Olaf could not help laughing as well, turning to her with that broad, boyish smile. Her stomach flitted at the sight. "Well, I thought it might impress you," he said.
"Consider me impressed," she said, grin wide. "And let me guess, you can't be too hard to figure out," she continued, spreading an imaginary banner in front of her with outstretched arms. "Your favorite movie is…something dramatic. Something…Shakespearean."
He gave a noncommittal hum, glancing back over at her. Her mouth was pursed in thought as she looked off at nothing through the windshield, but a little smile tugged the edges of her lips. Something in Count Olaf's stomach tightened as he admired her. He wanted her - terribly - and would do many terrible things to get that. But he wanted her in a softer way, too, he realized. In this way that she laughed and smiled and bantered with him, rare as it was.
Violet turned her narrowed eyes to him. "Hamlet," she finally declared. "1948. Laurence Olivier."
"Wrong play," he said with a smile, tearing his eyes from her to watch the road. Oswald was only two car-lengths ahead, but was slowing. "Wrong year."
Violet gave a hum. "As You Like It. 1936," she said, then added. "Also Laurence Olivier."
"Your preoccupation with Mr. Olivier troubles me," he said. "Wrong play."
"But, correct year?"
"Correct year," he said, slowing further as Oswald turned on his right signal.
"1936," Violet mumbled to herself in thought, trying to recall other Shakespearean film adaptations from the same year. "1936 - ah!" she said, giving him a triumphant smile. "Romeo and Juliet."
Count Olaf again hummed in appreciation, turning the car to follow Oswald down a brick paved drive. At the end was a stunning three-floor Victorian home. Wooden. He smirked at that.
"Yes," Count Olaf said. "That is my favorite."
When Violet said nothing in reply, he looked over at her to find her nose scrunched up in disgust.
"What?" he asked, unable to stop a laugh at her expression.
"Romeo and Juliet?" she said, disbelieving. "Really?"
"Well, what's wrong with it?" he asked defensively. "That version has marvelous set design."
"It's just-," she said, trying to think of the right words. They slowed as they approached Oswald's home. "I guess I just never cared for the story. I never found it romantic at all, I always thought it was quite silly."
Count Olaf tutted, bringing the car to a stop and placing it in park. "Violet, Violet, Violet," he said. In front of them, Oswald stepped from his car. "Romeo and Juliet isn't meant to be romantic. It is about the dangers of new, unchecked love and obsession."
Violet's mouth popped open in thought. "I suppose I've never looked at it that way," she admitted. "Everyone always bills it as the greatest romance of all time."
"Well," Count Olaf said, popping open his door, "There is something I can't resist about two people coming together from opposing sides."
He gave her a knowing grin, leaving her with a slight blush as he exited the car.
Damn him, she thought, trying to straighten her little smile before Oswald, walking over, opened her door.
Damn him, damn him, damn him.
The butterflies in her stomach were a problem that needed fixing. And a likely solution was opening her door and offering her his hand.
Violet reached up and laid her fingers in Oswald's grip, flashing him a bright smile.
If Count Olaf wanted a distraction, she would give him one. And she would give herself one, too.