"I understand you need this as fast as possi—"

"I don't think you do, Miss Baudelaire! I promised your—invention—to my board next Tuesday! I'll need three days to test it and give the okay on it, Miss Baudelaire! Then another day to get it up to the office and show it! I, unlike some people, Miss Baudelaire, intend to keep the promises I make to my customers."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Ferguson, but I will not be able to finish it and ship it until Saturday. My son has the chicken pox and I had to take today off for his doctor's appointment. If he falls asleep and stays that way, I might be able to finish it tonight and ship it by Friday. I just can't guarantee that it will happen."

And so my day started. It was only eight o'clock on a dreary Thursday morning and already I was being harassed by an incensed consumer. He'd made the mistake of promising to show his "board" one of my inventions before it would be done. He'd also made the mistake of yelling at me.

"Miss Baudelaire! I don't care what you have to do—drug the kid if you need—but I want this invention at my door tomorrow, just as you promised!"

I held my breath for a moment. "My dates are tentative at best, sir. If you'll read our contract again, it clearly states—"

"I don't care, Miss Baudelaire! If you ever want to do business with my company again—"

"Oh, sir, I wouldn't worry about that. I can assure you that your company will never have to deal with me again." With that I slammed down the phone. It probably wasn't the wisest thing to do, but my son was ill and Mr. Ferguson would rather me work than be a decent mother. His "board" could just stinking wait.

I heard Matt begin to cry. He had a doctor's appointment at eleven o'clock. He was covered in the little red bumps from head to toe. Apparently, Klaus, Sunny, and I were the only ones who'd ever had chicken pox. (Although how someone goes twenty-six years without getting a normal childhood disease is beyond me.) I walked into the bedroom and saw that he had scratched his arm until it had begun to bleed. I groaned. He had at least six scabs on his body now. I picked him up and carried him into the bathroom. He snuggled into my shoulder as I washed the sore and put a bandage over it. I kissed it and told my son, "All better. But you won't get all better if you keep scratching." He protested wordlessly, making a face and uttering several mean noises. "I know you're itchy, Matt, but you can't scratch. Do you want me to put oven mitts on your hands?"

He looked down and sighed. I kissed him and replied, "Speaking of getting better, you need to take a bath, then we'll go to the doctor and get you some medicine so you won't be so itchy."

I'd never understood why little children so love taking a bath. Matt was content to sit and play in the water until it got too cold for comfort. Then when I took him out, he'd want to get back in. Once, he'd crawled into the bathroom and had tried to run himself a bath. He had gotten very far, seeing as he couldn't reach for enough, but he'd toppled over and hit his head on the floor. He hadn't done it since.

This time, he didn't overly enjoy the beginning of his bath. I'd looked up ways to make the irritation less severe, and found a recipe that called for baking soda in bath water. As the bath progressed, however, I noticed he seemed to enjoy himself more and more and scratch much less. At one point, he offered me a handful of water.

"No, thank you, Matthew," I said softly. "Mama will take a bath later." He shrugged and went back to slapping the water.

As I sat there, I contemplated my one year old son. When he was born he hadn't looked too much like Quigley, which made me happy. Knowing my luck, though, he'd probably grow up to be an exact copy of his father. But for now, he didn't.

Thinking about my son's father was a dangerous thing to do, especially since I had to drive in a few minutes. I found, much to my consternation, that I couldn't stop.

I'd often imagined what life with a non-rapist Quigley would have been like. I visualized our wedding day: I was wearing the white and pale yellow dress that was now stuffed in the back of my closet, and he looked absolutely dashing, his crisp tuxedo looking perfect, his longish hair slicked back. He smiled at me as I walked up to him. I smiled back. I felt him lace his fingers through mine as the minister spoke about the significance of marriage. Then, came the vows. We both repeated the words, each of us promising to love the other, to cherish them, to protect and encourage them, until Death wrenched one from the other.

"I do," I imagine him saying, smiling.

"I do," I say, and he kisses me (for a moment I feel the tip of his tongue touch mine), and we're married. Our wedding isn't glamorous or fancy or overly huge. Our families are there, and a few close friends. The reception doesn't last very long, as Quigley and I both want to be alone. I imagine our wedding night as something violent. Understandable, some might say, seeing as my single sexual experience thus far was rape.

The feeling of cold water being splashed on my face brought me out of my reverie. I blinked and looked down at my son. He smiled, and I reached for a soft towel and pulled him out of the bathtub. He was feeling better.

He snuggled against my shoulder as I carried him into the bedroom. He shivered slightly. (I scolded myself. He'd been in the water for much too long.) I pulled a few of his softest outfits out of the top drawer of the dresser, and laid them on the bed. Immediately, I threw aside the little shirt-and-shorts number, which left me with two onesies. I couldn't decide.

"Which one do you like, Matt?" I asked the half-sleeping form at my shoulder. He lifted his head and looked at the choices. He wrinkled his little nose for a moment, as if in deep thought, and I smiled a bit. After much contemplation, he pointed to the green romper with a baseball-playing mouse on the front.

One down, one to go, I thought, catching sight of myself in the mirror. I was still in my pajamas with my hair pulled back. I gave my son his toy fire truck and walked over to my closet. I honestly had no idea why I kept the grey and black dress I'd worn during our escapades with Olaf. Surprisingly, I could still squeeze into it. I wasn't much bigger now than I had been then. That wasn't saying much, though. I'd often been the one that had gone without food when there wasn't enough. Sunny would eat her fill, then Klaus, and if anything was left, it would go to me. The dress had been falling off of my frame when we'd finally returned to normal life.

I shook my head slightly, clearing the distressing memories, and turned to check on my son. He was asleep, nearly on top of the fire truck. I sighed. Neither one of us had gotten much sleep these past few days. Regarding my clothes once more, I reached for a simple, knee-length white skirt, and a lavender-colored tank top. It was supposed to be very hot and humid. The lighter, the better.

Reluctantly, I woke my son. "Are you hungry, Matthew?" He nodded, reaching for me. I started to pick him up, then stopped. He'd forget how to walk if I went on like this for much longer. I set him on his feet and held his hand. My son liked to walk, surprisingly enough, and did it every occasion possible. Except, it would seem, when he was ill.

He protested to not being held by Mama. Well, he was sick, after all. I picked him up with a little more effort than I thought would be necessary (he was getting so big!), and carried him into the kitchen. We both ate some pieces of apples and bananas, and shared a glass of water.

I heard the phone ring in the next room just as we finished eating.

"Hello?"

"Hello. This is an automated message, reminding you that…Matthew Baudelaire…has an appointment with…Dr. Johnson…at—"

"Eleven o'clock, yes, I know," I finished, hanging up the phone. I looked at the clock hanging in the kitchen. Ten thirty: time to go. I gathered up everything I needed, picked up my son, and left.

I secured my son in his car seat, reminding myself that he needed a bigger one. My son was smart—he knew that when the car was on and he was in it, he could listen to his favorite song or watch a movie. I was partially glad of this knowledge—it kept him occupied, at least—but on the other hand, he could get pretty loud when he was unhappy.

"Three," I counted under my breath, "two, one…"

Right on time, my son said, "Beast, Mama?"

I fished "Beauty and the Beast" out of the movie box and popped it in. I found it quite ironic that the heroine in my son's favorite movie fell in love with a beast. It reminded me of myself and Quigley. Although, to be fair to Belle, hers was a very misunderstood beast who was really very sweet and truly loved her.

In all honesty, I couldn't say that Quigley had never loved me. He had. I could remember a handful of times when he was very attentive to me, very loving and sweet. (I honestly believed that he'd raped me, not for the sex he wasn't allowed to have, but because he wanted to assert his power, strength, and superiority over me.) I thought back to a time when he hadn't acted like the Quigley I was more familiar with. I'd been very upset about nine year old Sunny. I'd been called to her school one afternoon. Sunny had beaten up another student. She'd always been a strong young girl, but I hadn't realized what anger and strength could do when used in combination. The student, a fellow classmate, had a black eye, a bloody nose, and was missing a tooth. She limped slightly as she entered the principle's office.

Sunny had no injuries, except a severely bleeding conscience. She really was a good child; she simply had a horribly short fuse. In that moment, I'd thanked God she'd grown into her teeth.

I'd given her a strongly worded lecture, had punished her, and sent her to her room. Quigley had found me sitting cross-legged on the couch, crying my eyes out. He'd wrapped his arms around me, and I'd turned into him, seeking that spot where his neck and shoulder met. When I'd stopped crying, he'd laid his hands on my waist and lifted gently.

(I hadn't felt entirely sure of what he'd wanted. He had always been more than a little possessive and controlling. Even before we'd been engaged, he wanted to control things about my life, like the bills and money in general, and my social life. He would interrogate me about who I was with, why and what we did. I'd always known he needed to assert his possessiveness. I just never thought I would take the form of rape.)

I'd stood with him and he had silently led me out of my apartment. Threading his fingers through mine, he'd starting walking down the street. A few blocks passed, and he'd finally asked what was wrong. I'd told him. He'd nodded and listened attentively as I purged my rage and confusion and feelings of inadequacy. We'd ended up in a nearby park, sitting on a bench. We talked until the sun began to set and then walked silently home again. There had truly been no need for words: he was here with me and loved me, and I was with him and loved him. That was enough for now.

Sunny had left me a note saying she was spending the night with Duncan. Quigley backed out of the apartment, and I'd gone to say goodbye. Leaning against the door, the cool autumn air around us, I kissed him goodbye and couldn't stop. I sunk into a fuzzy, dreamlike state. It was only when I realized where both sets of hands were located that I pulled away.

"Stop," I said.

"I'm sorry," he replied sincerely.

"I love you," I told him, giving him a hug.

"Love you, too, baby." He hugged me back. I didn't want to let go.

I was yanked back into reality when I heard screeching tires and my son's cries.