If the two Baudelaires and Mr. Snicket thought that Vesper was a quiet, eerie little outpost, then Lucifer could only be described as a ghost town. The whistle of the wind is an almost welcome distraction from how silent everything is — if not for the warm lanterns that hang from the canopy of the fog-smothered houses, one might feel tempted to assert that no living being resides here at all.

In the monotony of grey that is interspersed with the occasional yellow, gloom looms like a faithful companion.

"I feel like gloom is looming over me," comments Violet uneasily, holding herself around the torso.

"Like a faithful companion," adds Lemony wryly, and she nods.

Klaus squints and cleans his glasses for the fourth time in the last ten minutes, even though this has proven to be ineffective in improving his sight.

"I can't tell if there is anybody behind those windows," he says. "The fog is too heavy."

"I can't tell if the curtains are even opened," Violet says. She looks down miserably at her feet that have become sore from the long trek that gives no indication of having an end in sight. "Will we just keep on walking? I don't think anything will look any different no matter how far we go."

Lemony gives her a cursive glance. "I'm pondering where we should take refuge. Perhaps this time we should seek something more… discreet than an inn."

Klaus frowns. "Like what? I doubt you mean we should try our luck in some stranger's house."

"No, definitely not. I would prefer it if we were to stay somewhere away from prying eyes."

"You mean… get a place all to ourselves?"

A twitch tugs up one corner of Lemony's lips. "You sound incredulous."

"Well…" Klaus shuffles and looks at Lemony squarely, "yes. I don't think we'll find any place out here for rent. We'd be lucky if we weren't driven out of the town with torches and spikes."

"We wouldn't seek to rent, not precisely. But if we were to find a shed that appears to be out of use… a trapdoor leading to an abandoned cellar…" Lemony trails off. "Something of the like."

And Klaus gapes and splutters. "How would… trespassing and staying in a drafty shed or a moldy cellar be safer than staying at an inn?"

"Coincidently this is how I have spent the last decade of my life," Lemony mumbles with no intention to further elaborate on that statement. "And no one would be spilling poison in your broth. Erm… ideally."

"No, I trust the mold and the bacteria would do the poisoning job just fine —"

As the two men continue to argue, they fail to notice that Violet is no longer walking by their side. Her curiosity has gotten the best of her, and presently she treads on the single porch step that groans loudly under her weight. She freezes for a second, anticipating the emergence of a threat, and when nothing compromises her safety, she walks to the window closest to the lantern and peers through the glass.

Dust and cobwebs obscure her sight, but she can clearly see the porcelain dolls on the windowsill. It is a solemn ensemble — a family dressed all in black, faces grey and lips painted a crimson red. The smiles are ill-fitting for their caved-in postures, but that isn't what piques Violet's confusion. It is the toddler that is expressionless and dressed in white. Its glistening eyes look through her, and for one irrational moment, she wishes the doll wasn't mouthless.

A black flurry advances towards her on the other side of the window, and Violet gasps loudly and stumbles backwards. Her heart drops to her stomach and she is paralyzed in fear.

But then the movement stops and she notices the feathers, and her heart begins to calm down. She cocks her head meaningfully to the side and breathes out an exasperated, "Tesla."

He only stares at her, fluttering his wings slightly as though in a sweet plea for forgiveness.

"How did you get in there?" she questions. Walking further out to the side and inspecting the house more thoroughly, she sees the chipped paint on the wooden canopy pillars and the atrophied planks of the walls. She touches one splintering protrusion, and, stung with a sharp pain, she quickly retrieves her finger and sucks it into her mouth, tasting blood on her tongue.

Then she notices that one window is wide open. She drops her hand to her side. "Oh."

There is no sign that the window has been so much as touched in a very long time — if someone had broken into the house, its residents must have not been there at the time, nor any time afterward.

"It doesn't make sense to keep a window open in the cold," she mumbles. "Unless…"

Violet perches her hands on the ledge and leans her torso into the house, looking this way and that. "… No one lives here…"

She looks behind her, and sees Lemony and Klaus staring at her in alarm. It is the kind of confirmation she needs to know that they will follow, even if they disagree with her decision to jump into a strange house with no means of self defense.

The first thing she notices is the dankness of the house. It is just as cold inside as it was outside, and the fireplace that takes up one half of a wall is bereft of firewood, but heavy with ash and cinder. Though it is difficult to tell for certain with no source of illumination — Violet did try to flick the switch that is connected to the chandelier but this amounted to nothing — the room has the colors of dark jewels. Deep burgundy and emerald green are interwoven in floral patterns on the tapestry, and the sofa and the two armchairs seem to be of similar shades of red and green. Everything else is a deep brown.

Then there is the central portrait of five people — the former residents of the house. There is the patriarch in his regal stance, with his hand perched on the shoulder of one seated woman whose gaze is faraway and leaden. Two younger girls are seated beside her, and in the lap of one girl is a small child.

"I wonder where they have gone," comes Lemony's soft voice to her right. Violet startles slightly, looking up at him to see him entranced by the painting, then she brings her sight to the family once more.

"They must have left in a hurry," she says. "All of their things are still here. They didn't even close the window."

Lemony turns his head to her. "I believe they left through the window."

He doesn't catch her questioning frown as he makes for the front door. She follows him, and once they come to a stop, her lips part in a perturbed shock. There are countless locks and bolts that bar the passage through the door, and there are just as many tokens of attempts to remove those barriers. Scratch marks on the wood and indents and bends in the metal of the bolt are the most noticeable.

"Was… someone holding them hostage?" Violet asks thinly.

Lemony contemplates this and says, "It's more likely that one of them was holding the others hostage. They escaped through the window, and the captor chased after them. What happened next is a mystery."

A chill runs down her spine. She holds herself once more, and blinks heavily when Lemony's hesitant hand falls onto her shoulder.

When morbid curiosity clouds her thoughts, she walks back to the window and looks at it anew. Her fingers graze the indentation on the side jamb where the locking handle must have been before it was forcibly removed, and she notices the shoe marks of a small foot on the sill. Something glistens on the floor, and she crouches down to inspect it.

Holding it up in front of her face, she murmurs, "The handle…"

"I have a sickening feeling about this town," says Lemony. "It's much worse than the one I had about Vesper."

Violet stands. "I feel this is where we're supposed to be."

"How I wish our feelings were mutually exclusive."

With a tired smile, she says, "They usually coincide though, don't they?"

He inclines his head down then walks away from her silently, lost in thought.

The sound of footfalls coming down the stairs echoes loudly, and Klaus soon emerges, slightly out of breath. "I checked all the rooms. No one lives here. At least… not anymore."

Lemony nods, though the siblings can't see his face. "It's as good a place as any. We'll stay here until our business is finished."

"And if someone notices we're here?" Violet asks.

"We'll improvise," he says. "Is it not your usual strategy?"

"I suppose…"

"Let's settle in, then. I'll search for food. You two can clear the dust, if you would like."

And he is gone.

Violet and Klaus stare at the place where he stood moments ago.

"Does he always do that?" Klaus says. "Turn mysterious and walk away?"

"No," she says uncertainly. "Not always." Then she thinks on it a bit longer, and, defeated, she says, "Yes, I suppose he does."

Klaus sighs but chooses to ignore that one extra fact about his unwanted companion. "I'll clean the hearth and get a fire going. I saw a firewood rack just outside the house so I'll get some logs and be back, okay, Vi?"

"Okay," she says. "I'll fix the window. We'd freeze anyway without proper insulation."

He smiles at her when she gathers her hair and ties it in a ribbon. Small, constant details are comforting when everything is changing all the time.

On his way out through the window, Violet says, "Be careful, please."

"I'll only be some 30 feet away, Vi," he says in good humor.

"I know, just…"

Gently, he says, "I know."

Klaus goes and comes back with an armful of lumber and Violet is still on her knees searching for the second screw that must have fallen when the handle was broken. Just when she comes close to giving up with a huff, Tesla returns from the other side of the window and drops an item in front of her.

Elated, she picks up the screw and says, "Smart boy, you've found it!"

He croaks boastfully and fluffs his feathers.

And as for the missing screwdriver, she easily fashions a makeshift tool out of a butter knife, and in no time, the window is fixed.

"Now maybe if I deconstruct one of those clocks, I can make a clockwork pulley system that opens the window from the other side when we wind the key…"

But when she straightens her stance, she becomes starkly aware of how low her blood pressure has come to be. She stumbles sideways and her vision is blurred, and for one moment, she feels certain that she is on a collision course with the floor, but Klaus rushes to her side and grasps her around the waist.

"God, Vi, you need to eat — you're as pale as a ghost," he says, face twisted in forlorn sympathy.

She hums, her head falling heavily on his shoulder. He guides her to the kitchen and sits her on a wooden chair, and her head lolls backwards as she tried to reign in her nausea.

Lemony, who was tending to a saucepan on the stove, abandons his ladle and drops to his knees beside her. He cups her face, and it droops listlessly in his palms.

"Violet?" he says tightly. "What's wrong?"

"She has to eat," Klaus says, rushing to grab her a glass of water. "She's running on nothing."

Taking the glass from him, Lemony nudges Violet's lips open with its rim, and she only accepts a small sip before she shuts her mouth closed and turns her head away.

"Yes," Lemony mumbles, eyes bright, and he gulps. "Yes, food is almost ready. No, it is ready — it's boiling, isn't it? It's ready…"

He springs up and turns off the stove before bringing the saucepan and scooping up a ladleful of beans onto Violet's plate. "There are some canned fruits in the cupboards as well. One moment…"

But Klaus stops him with a hand gesture. "That's alright, we'll have them later."

Lemony nods jerkily and fills Klaus's plate and his with what remains of the beans before sitting down.

Ever the diligent brother, Klaus brings a spoonful to Violet's mouth instead of feeding himself, but she straightens up and takes the spoon from him. "It's okay, Klaus, I can eat," she says weakly.

Both men observe her to gauge the truthfulness of her words, and when she swallows down her food and goes back for seconds, they begin to eat as well.

"There is no shortage of canned foods," says Lemony. "If either of you is still hungry, do let me know."

Violet and Klaus murmur their thanks, and the remainder of their dining is spent in silence. Everyone is thoroughly exhausted, and something about this horror-haunted house seems to lull them. With its unspoken secrets, it feels like a refuge; one that resembles them with its roughly patched holes and the screams trapped in its throat, never to be heard by anyone who doesn't possess the memory of witnessing them firsthand.

By all means, they should be scared. Unnerved, at the very least. But they aren't. They're sedate. They feel like they can fall asleep and wake up safe and sound.

The first to excuse himself is Klaus.

"I guess I'll turn to bed," he says, taking his plate to the sink. "I'll… choose a room at random. If no one has a preference."

Violet shakes her head, and Lemony says, "You make the first choice, then, Klaus."

Smiling thinly, Klaus bids them goodnight and ascends the stairs.

The silence, now that it encompasses only Violet and Lemony, turns tense.

She takes a sip of water, and he swallows his last mouthful a bit too hurriedly. The chair scrapes against the floor when he abruptly stands, and he says, "I'll have a brief doze before I meet with Moxie. Call for me if you feel ill again or if you need anything…"

His plate clinks loudly in the sink, and she observes all of this with patient disappointment.

"It's a recurring theme with you," she says, and he stops in his tracks before he can reach the doorframe. "Ignoring me, running away from me, turning cold on me. It's like you only actually see me when I'm in some kind of distress." She stands and walks up to him, a weary sigh trapped in her chest. "I'm so tired of embodying your guilt, Mr. Snicket. I don't want to be my mother's broken reflection."

He winces, his face twisting heavily with grief; for her; for him. "Violet," he implores, shaking his head.

Heart pounding in her chest, she looks up at him. And as brave as she has come to know herself to be, she says with a voice that still wavers, "You matter to me, you really do. And… I care about you. A lot."

His burden feels infinitely heavier. He struggles to make sense of what she tells him — he almost spurns her care when it collides with the fortress of his self-hatred, but he bites his lips for her sake.

"So it follows," she continues, except that she now chooses to look down, away from his searching gaze, "that I want you to care about me too. Me. Not… the victim of your enemies. Not the daughter of Beatrice Baudelaire. Not an almost-initiate of VFD. Just me. Violet."

Her eyes rise to meet his own. They're as vulnerable as her bravery allows them to be. "Can you do that? Can I just be me and still be enough?"

But Lemony is the one who is not brave enough to look her in the eye as he speaks. "Of course you're enough, Violet," he says, voice shaking with restrained vehemence. "You always have been. And never more than now."

"Then… why are you so scared of me?"

"I'm not scared of you."

"You are, you keep running away —"

"I'm scared of me," he interrupts.

She stares incomprehensibly, shaking her head in askance for a clarification.

He says, exasperated, "I don't trust myself not to hurt you, Violet."

"How would you hurt me?"

"I would. Oh, but I would. I would find myself a haven within you and I would burrow so deep into you neither of us would know how to remove me by the time the damage becomes clear enough for us to see. Like some vile parasite —"

"Stop, Mr. Snicket, you're not a parasite, and I'm nowhere near as weak as you think I am —"

"It's not a matter of weakness — I don't think you're weak at all, God knows you're stronger than most — but I…" he pauses, exhales, and licks his lips. "I'm not strong enough. I'm not strong enough to see the damage I've wrought and accept it. I would resent myself, and I would resent you."

The lump in her throat is acidic. She swallows heavily.

He feels guilt for this, so he softens his tone. "So allow me to care for you the way I best know how. From a distance."

Violet feels defeated and so very confused. "I just don't get it," she says faintly. "Why do I bring out the worst in you?"

And his restraints almost break. He almost takes the two extra steps and holds her in his cold embrace and apologize for that look on her face that is there because of him. But he doesn't.

He only says, "Because —" and even then, he doesn't finished his sentence. He starts another one instead. "It's not your fault. Don't blame yourself."

"What does it matter who's to blame," she says quickly, the words too bitter to contain. "It hurts no matter how I look at it."

Because he is choosing his fear over her. He would rather that she not exist in his life at all than face the mire of his thoughts.

It is never easy, knowing that you care for someone much more than they care for you. Like all forms of heartbreak, the sense of helplessness that inevitably follows is damning, and Violet is still wearing her ribbon; she is still thinking at a breakneck speed, trying to fix a crack that did not come to be as a consequence, but was willfully plotted into the original design. And she can't fix it. It isn't hers to fix. She trembles at the thought.

"No matter what I do," she mumbles her realization, "it won't change anything. You've already made your mind."

"The pain will pass… Violet," he reassures her, but the desperation of which he reeks and the moisture in his eyes suggest that he doesn't believe his words either. After all, he is still a prisoner of his memories. "The memory of me won't always be so distinct."

"So once I have all of my siblings with me," she says, "you will leave. And you won't let me find you. And you won't try to find me. You'll be gone… just like that. Out of my life. Forever."

Violet sits heavily on the nearest chair, and she looks sightlessly at her lap.

And he should leave her there with the hurt he has already inflicted, but he doesn't. Because while the sight of her pain kills him, the memory of it will be torture with no end in sight.

So he sits on his knees in front of her and takes her hand in his.

Softly, he says, "I don't know what to say or do to make this easier for you."

"There's nothing you can say or do." She removes her hand from his. "You did try to keep me at arm's length, didn't you? All this time… But I thought… I could fix it…"

"Fix… me?"

She shrugs weakly.

"I should've listened to you," she says. "I should've kept my distance."

"I'm not exactly faultless, am I?" he mumbles. "I let you get closer. No, I encouraged it. I wanted it."

Violet looks him in the eye. "Must you truly leave?"

Lemony gives her a rueful smile. "You will thank me for this one day."

"Don't pretend you're doing this for me. If you cared for me at all, you wouldn't make decisions on my behalf. You're doing this for you, Mr. Snicket — the least you can do is admit it."

He flinches as though slapped, but once the pain settles and numbs his nerves, he lets out a self-derisive snort. He nods in acknowledgement before standing up to his full height.

For a moment he wishes to better explain his motives, but he sees the futility in that desire. It's better for her to have more reason to hate him than to like him.

"I…" he clears his throat and thinks. "I should head out and wait for Moxie." The prospect of the cold air and a bitter walk is more palatable than sleeping in the warmth of this house right now. Not that he would be able to sleep a wink.

"Yes, do that," she says, standing up and heading to the doorway. "I'll… get back to working on that window. You should be able to open it from the outside when you get back."

"Shouldn't you rest now? You almost had a fainting spell."

Her eyes do seem infinitely tired when she turns to look at him, and she soon drops her gaze. She only says, "I'll be fine."

"Alright," he says uncertainly. He gathers his coat and his hat.

Violet escorts him to the window and waits until he has climbed the ledge and stepped outside the house.

"I'll leave a key on the windowsill once I'm done with my contraption," she says. "Look closely, okay?"

There is little sense in trying to seem reassuring when she makes a point of avoiding looking at him. But he nods awkwardly anyway, ponders his words, and clamps his mouth shut. He dons his hat and stuffs his hands in the pockets of his coat, and he is on his way.

Violet stares after him until the fog smothers him whole. Then she leans on the windowsill, head hung low and palms grazing the edge, and she breathes out.

Solitude becomes Lemony. At times like this, when he is given the taste of its freedom, he learns to appreciate it. He has missed it, he decides. But he has also come to hate it more than he ever did. It nourishes his fears; instills a paranoia within him. The further he distances himself from the two Baudelaires, the queasier he feels.

And the growing darkness lifts the veil of the fog ever so slightly. He can see the houses with much greater clarity now — they perch precariously on weak foundations, one huff of wind away from collapsing to the ground, with the protruding tiles of their roofs pointing upwards as though they were clawed up at the base. The body of each house was once painted white, but it is now a bleak grey, marred by grime and dust. The black of the bricks lining the roof has also become faded with time.

It is a relentless pattern, stretching on with the length of his trek to the town's frontier.

But there is also an unexpected splash of color. Growing along the sidewalk are shrubs of various kinds of berries. Lemony plucks a blackberry and hums, brows furrowed. Could it have been that Tesla ventured all the way to Lucifer and came back bearing his fruits? But a bird can only carry so many berries. He highly doubts that Tesla made the round journey four times or more.

Lemony looks around him and finds nothing but the houses, the lanterns, the fog, and the shrubs. He listens intently, but there is only the faint whistle of the wind.

And there is the unnerving feeling of being watched. It follows him everywhere and from every direction. All he can do is continue walking.

At the town's frontier, things are ever silent. Lemony stands for a time indistinct, his head tilted down for his hat to obscure his face. Nothing about him is sharp enough to warrant recognition — he is blurred around the edges and drowned by the length of his coat, but since he is the only vaguely human presence in sight, he has no doubt that Moxie would be able to discern him.

And if an unwanted person spots him instead… well, he has always been good at running.

Though his intuition tells him that this dead town will remain dead until something is stirred, whatever that thing might be.

And so he waits, and waits, and waits.

Until he hears a familiar voice.

"What's the news, Snicket?"