An Author's Note: I must give an honourable nod of thanks to NeoVenus22's story, "Snake in the Grass", for introducing me to the potential for Jealous!Esme Squalor. I have thus interpreted it here in my own style. I hope I do not offend. Thanks.

Weegie

Violet knew it was morning, just as she had known when Olaf woke up and the birds began to chatter. It was impossible to get proper rest on the hardwood floor, though Violet, to her credit, had given it an honest try.

Even before she sat up, Violet could feel her throat was dry and sore and that her shoulders ached thanks to the long night on the damp, wood floor, and she wished then that she could crawl up into the bed and fall asleep there for the remainder of the day. She felt in such a poor state that she would gladly have shared the bed with Olaf if she had to, but today, like every day, there were chores to do and egos to sate.

This sort of thing–being the regularity with which Olaf dispensed his own brand of particular cruelty­–had become the sum total of Violet's daily regimen. At first, as with all things that change as people move through life, the things Violet was subjected to came as a great shock to a girl who was used to a kinder and gentler lifestyle. As the days stretched into weeks and months, Violet felt herself adapting to the situation at hand, for she had no other choice.

The list Violet found in the kitchen today was long and crammed with scribbled, misspelled requests for things Olaf claimed he needed but was too busy to fetch for himself. Of course, to Violet, the truth was always blindingly obvious; Olaf was incapable, between the drink and his own inherent laziness, of going to the market on a regular basis and buying the necessities of life.

The regularity of her dismal shopping chores had given Violet a sharp eye for bargains and fresh foods. She walked among the busy stalls of the fruit market and onto the lane in the city where the best butchers and fish mongers sat, looking around at the people and wondering what would happen if she just decided to run away. The fleeting feeling of freedom in her mind quickly passed as the harsh wind of reality hit back and she recalled what would happen if she disappeared. In her hands lay the lives of others important to her, and they would perish if she did not obey. Violet continued on her path.

It was at this moment that Violet noticed the man in the bowler hat standing in a closed doorway. He held his arms tightly and straight to his body, burying his hands deeply in the pockets of his jacket. When he appeared to nod to Violet, she gave a very awkward turn of her head in return, the kind of movement made when a person is not confident as to who is being addressed. She turned quickly to see if there happened to be a person behind her the man could have been nodding to, but she found the street empty. Without pause, Violet again continued home.

Arriving home, Violet found Olaf returned home early­–and alone–from wherever it was he had left for in the morning. While she unpacked the groceries, Olaf took a moment out of his haphazard schedule to poke and prod the merchandise.

"They put dolphin in that."

Violet looked up from her groceries, her face filling with confused amusement.

"Excuse me?" she said, attempting to stifle a giggle from her voice.

Turning the tin of tuna in his hand, Olaf examined Violet's haul of goods, repeating his opinion with hilarious sincerity.

"I say we could do with less of those animals in the world, anyway," he said. "They're not good for much, other than eating and doing tricks."

Violet gave him a disapproving glare and could hear the front door opening. She sighed, assured from the sounds that Olaf's troupe had finally showed up to add to her daily torment. "I'm sure you think they're cute," Olaf said disgustedly, putting the tin down and moving onto the other items on the table. "Is this all you got?"

"It was all that was on your list," Violet said, opening a creaky cabinet.

Olaf frowned. "You must have read the list wrong," he said. Before Violet could protest, he added, "Nevermind. We'll go out to eat."

Violet nodded in agreement as the kitchen population swelled thanks to the invasion of Olaf's associates.

"Where are we going to eat?" asked a member of the troupe.

"This is a dinner for her and I, you idiot!" Olaf yelled at the offending individual. "I'm not married to all you fools!" Two women in white make-up who were seated together on a small couch exchanged annoyed looks at that remark, Violet noticed. She also saw a member--who appeared neither a man or a woman--make a strange reaction, but she could not be sure the person was expressing sadness or confusion: even their emotions seemed as ambivalent as their gender.

There was a moment of confusion as Violet realized Olaf had just announced it was her, and not the troupe, that would be joining him for dinner that evening. Violet followed confusion with revulsion, quickly envisioning the two of them at some dank and dirty restaurant filled with drunken men and painted women, the air thick with smoke and the smell of mould.

"Dinner? With you?" Violet asked him, only realizing after she had blurted the question out that it was bound to make him cross. Olaf looked down at her.

"Yes. How unfortunate that you should be fed at the same table as your own husband," he said, scowling at her, then turning away.

Olaf barked at someone to bring the car around and ordered Violet to change into something clean, an order that struck her as both odd and ironic since Olaf was not and, mostly likely, would not change into anything a sane person could remotely consider as clean. Violet did not question his orders, though, and obediently went to change.

As she was changing, Violet could hear people leaving the house and, upon returning downstairs, found no one around. She decided to wait and sat down, listening to the faint clacking of shoes she thought might be Olaf's. If he was looking for her he would find her, but she would make no move to help him in that. Instead, she starred at the floor until the feeling that someone was watching her overwhelmed her, and Violet felt compelled to turn around to face the door. Expecting Olaf to be standing there, she was instead met by the cool stare of a woman.

"So, you're the orphan," the woman said, addressing Violet in a manner just slightly less patronizing than a person might speak to a dog.

Violet could only stare, wondering where this tall and strangely dressed woman had come from.

"Olaf said you orphans weren't very bright," she said. She unfolded her arms and came towards Violet, walking in a manner that was supposed to tell the world just how great and mighty she was.

Violet's continued silence made the woman frown. She placed her hands on her hips, displaying her long, ornate nails like a collection of sharpened daggers.

"You're not so pretty," the woman said, sniffing and turning her nose up at Violet as if she were Olaf's sweat socks.

Mulling over an answer in her head, Violet could not find anything to say in response that wasn't either rude or would make her seem like a doormat. Olaf saved her from making the decision.

"Esme," he said.

The woman turned to the door, turning ever so slightly with false elegance, and raising her hand as if the claws she called "fingernails" that sat on the tips of her fingers were frail stems of glass.

"Oh, Olaf, I was introducing myself to your—"

This woman Olaf called Esme looked down again to Violet, a thin veil of pleasantry painted over the disgust on her thickly painted face.

"Wife," Esme said. She gave Violet a faint smile as she spoke the word.

"That's all very well, but I've been looking for you. Instead I find you here engaged in idle, girlish chit-chat," Olaf said impatiently, earning himself an icy glare from Esme for his last remark. Violet, though she disliked both of these strange people, watched this exchange with curiosity, like a crowd watching a car wreck.

"I needed to speak with you, Esme. I suppose we can chat here," said Olaf, looking to Violet and adding, "Alone". Violet, being a clever girl, understood she was not welcome in the room where she had originally been told to wait, and promptly left, feeling Esme's and Olaf's eyes burning into her back.

" How could you marry her?" Esme began squealing and stomping her feet as soon as Violet disappeared from the room. "She's a filthy little orphan child!"

"She is heir to a great fortune, a fortune we need." Olaf appeared cool and unconcerned at Esme's outburst. He strolled to a musty window and leaned calmly on the sill, crossing his arms.

"There has to have been another way—"

"There was no other way," Olaf said bluntly, cutting Esme off. "What could I do? If I waited until she was of age to claim the fortune she could have been out of here, dragging those other two brats and that money off with her. I could have killed them, too, but there would be so many more questions and so many more complications in getting that money. This way, I own the fortune, and no one may doubt me. It was the easiest answer."

Putting on her most injured façade, hoping to draw some sympathy, and began a different strategy.

"What about me?" she asked, her voice quivering. "Does she stay with you? In your bedroom?" She tried not to make it sound too much like an accusation. Olaf merely sighed.

"Don't try to use my own acting techniques against me. I was the one that taught you to cry on command!" said Olaf, pointing at himself. "And she stays with me. But she's more like a cat. She's just…there."

Esme wasn't pleased. "She's still there. And I'm not. What happens next? Is this how its going to be? She won't be nine years old forever." Olaf scratched his head at the remark, quite sure Violet wasn't nine years old but unsure of just how old she really was. Wasn't she at least thirteen? "One day she won't be a disgusting little child anymore, and she might learn a few things. And the fortune could be lost!"

He assured her that was not the case with a dismissive tone. "Violet is as ignorant as any other girl about these things. All she knows is that she is married to me and spends every night in my bed. That should be enough to convince her."

Esme's eyes narrowed and her mouth curved into a cat-like grin. "Women talk. Even stupid girls grow into women who talk to other women. And we learn things, like what wives and husbands are supposed to do with each other when they're married."

Her plotting aside, Olaf became curious about Esme's allusions. "Just explain this to me already!"

"Its very simple," Esme began, taking delight in understanding something someone else didn't, even if that someone happened to be Count Olaf. "In this community, there are certain rules that apply to marriage that help in ending one that isn't going so well. In this case, that bratty girl could figure out your marriage hasn't been consummated and have the whole thing annulled."

Olaf stood silently, staring back at Esme. Clearly, her words had not registered with him, so she offered help.

"You do know what the word 'consummated' means, don't you?"

"I know what that word means!" Olaf snapped back, but quickly added quietly, "But I believe I could use a reminder as to its exact meaning."

"Look it up in a dictionary," Esme suggested.

Olaf scoffed. "What would I be doing with one of those things? I don't cook!"

"Very well. 'Consummated' means you would have to spend time in your bedroom with Violet doing things other than sleeping," Esme said, closely watching for Olaf's reaction.

"I see," he concluded. "Then there's no problem here. As you said, Violet is still young and naïve about many things in the world. She doesn't know what it all means, and we shouldn't strain ourselves explaining it to her."

Esme looked Olaf straight in the eye and felt no hesitation in seeking her answers, like always. "Why are you keeping her here?" she asked.

The suspense and build up to what Esme considered a monumental question fell flat as Olaf shrugged dismissively in answer and walked away.