Violet woke to a lingering, familiar smell. Crumpling her face, she rolled around, trying to rid herself of the sense, but the stench—for there could be no other way to describe it—was inescapable. Olaf's sweat covered the bed sheets and the pillows and it was trying to cover Violet as well. Sighing, she flung her tired body out of the bed.

Pulling on a threadbare cloak, Violet padded down the hall to the bathroom. When the memories of the previous night tried to claw back into her mind, she wished there were some way to make herself forget it all. She turned the rusty handles of the bathroom faucet on and off, thinking about how clever it would be if her mind worked in the same way.

Violet happened to glance at her hands and at once recognized how dirty and rough they looked. Sighing once more, she walked to the mirror and contemplated the worn young face that looked back at her. Lazily, she wiped the sleep from her eyes and brushed at her bangs. It was time for a bath.

The footed tub had once been covered in a thick layer of grime, but Violet had seen to it that the bathroom eventually became tolerable. Though the pipes creaked and the showerhead in the tub was broken, the water gushed as hot and strongly as it had in Violet's own home that she had shared with her family not so long ago.

The rushing water held Violet's gaze, hypnotizing her into another one of her inventive states. As she watched the water level rise, she felt her cares drowning away, if only for a few merciful and fleeting moments.

The shoulders of her dressing gown fell down about her and she reached absentmindedly for the buttons of her shift. Over the sound of the water, Violet could not hear the creak of the door.

"Why aren't you outside painting the shutters?" said a voice. Violet jumped, grasping her clothing tightly to her. There, at the door frame, stood Olaf, slouching in his bedclothes. His arms were crossed about him and he held his head held low, looking dark and serious with displeasure. Violet's brain raced for a reply, but her mouth could only make hollow, gaping gestures. "Well?"

Violet grabbed her clothes tighter about her, like a shield. A demand for Olaf to leave the room danced urgently on her tongue, but it would not leave her mouth. Instead, she went with something more demure.

"I was cold," she said.

"I was cold," he said, mimicking her girlish tone. He sighed dramatically before adding, "You were more obedient when you were my daughter."

"I was never your daughter," she said, almost in a whisper.

"What was that?" he asked. Violet only shook her head.

"No," he said, approaching her. "What did you say? Come on, say it again." He closed the distance between them, coming so close as to make Violet take a step back. Her legs hit the cool rim of the tub, sending a shock through her. When she still refused to repeat her words, Olaf grabbed her chin and forced her gaze upon him. "Tell me."

"You're not my father," she said after silent deliberation. "You never were and you never will be." With that, Violet closed her eyes, knowing she would pay for this.

Olaf released her. "Turn off the water," he said to her. "The tub is almost full. I think I will take a bath. Go paint my shutters, and when you're done come see me. I'm sure that my bath will give me lots of time to think of more things for you to do." With that, he shoved her out the door.

Unwilling to antagonize Olaf further, Violet did indeed paint the shutters, as she had been ordered. She did not, however, do her chores happily. For each paint stroke, Violet laid a curse upon Olaf for the misery he caused. When she came to him for the rest of her chores she took them without complaint, even when he sent her off again with a patronizing pat on her head telling her she was his "good girl". Violet waited until he was out of her way to resume her curses upon him, throwing them out by the rhythm with which she scrubbed at the sink or mopped the floor.

When all was all done, Violet stood at the door of the sitting room, covered in paint and dirt, waiting to be addressed as Olaf entertained his troupe of morons. As his eyes finally fell upon her, Olaf eyes grew wide. Violet knew she had never worked so hard in one day in all her life, but she was not aware of how messy she actually appeared. Certainly, it took a rather haggard appearance for even Olaf—the Champion of Mess—to take notice.

"Violet! Get in here! What happened to you? Why are you so messy looking?"

"I'm done my chores," she said incredulously.

"Doesn't she ever bathe?" Esme asked with disgust.

"Yes, why don't you bathe? You look horrible," Olaf said, as if the thought had never occurred to Violet.

"Fine," Violet said under her breath, glad to quit the room.

A memory came over Violet as she angrily ascended the stairs to the bathroom, one she had tried so hard to banish. As she once again turned on the water and strip off her tattered, dirty work clothes, Violet remembered her wedding day.

She could only recall bits and pieces now; some words spoken here, a picture of a scene there, even the smell of the dress that she had worn that day. It was all a bitter thing to her, for it had not at all been an event that she had enjoyed.

When she had been little, she had thought about what would happen if she got married. She had pictured herself much older, and much happier. No little girl dreams of marrying a man like Count Olaf. Violet knew she had not.

After her wedding, Violet cried to the point of sickness. When her siblings were taken away, she stopped eating altogether. "If you kill yourself, you'll kill them, too," Olaf had said to her then. After that, Violet knew she had to be strong and she began to eat once more.

Interrupting her stream of memories came a sudden thought: Violet remembered this time that she should lock the door before starting her bath. When this was done, she knew that she was safe, if only for a time.

oOoOo

The week passed without major upsets or unique remarks. And then it happened that Count Olaf came to Violet with a plan.

Something had clicked in his head when he had seen what she did with the radio, and he told her that he had use of her particular talents. At the time, he had not given her details, but it seemed that he had worked some out for her now.

"We're going to attend a party," Olaf told her. "There is a big one coming up at the house of an old friend of mine and I'm eager to visit them." All the time he spoke, Olaf's wolfish grin grew wider.

"Why do I have to go?" Violet asked the question innocently enough, though deep down inside she wanted to nothing more than to scream out that she would never, ever go.

"You'll see," he said.

"When?"

"Tuesday. Go do your chores now. It's getting late and I want that roast done by five." Violet nodded as he pushed her towards the door.

The following day was a market day. Outside of the house and away from Olaf and all of his dreadful associates, Violet took this precious time to loose herself in deep thought of what she might hope to invent very soon.

Her mind hovered over the idea of an alarm clock she thought she could fashion together from some parts of an old metronome, and Violet did not see Stanley perched on the step of the butcher's door.

"Violet," he said. "Hello!"

Violet, shocked back into reality, did not immediately respond. She glanced over at him with wide eyes. Stanley approached her, ready to shake her hand, but was paused by the look of her.

"Violet, are you sick?" he asked.

"Oh, no," she said, finally finding her voice. "You startled me."

"Oh, good. Er, I mean, bad. Yes, how terrible. I'm very sorry I scared you," he said, tripping over his words. For such an elegant man, Stanley did not always appear to be sure with his words.

"It's all right," Violet said. "What are you doing here today?"

"Oh," he said, shrugging. "I'm just people-watching. I love to watch people go about their business. It's quite interesting, you know."

"Yes, it does," Violet lied. She was too polite to tell him that the whole thing sounded incredibly boring to her.

"I was hoping I'd run into you today," Stanley said. "I wanted to let you know that the bookseller is having a sale this week. I saw that he had a good stock of mechanical books on his shelves yesterday."

Violet's eyes lit up. "That sounds wonderful! But how did you know I liked machines?"

Stanley removed his hat and scratched his head shyly. "Oh, well, you know…I was watching you one day. You had stopped in front of the booksellers and you must've stared at a book about car engines for at least fifteen minutes before going on your way. It was quite an odd thing to do, so I remembered it. You see, this is what I do when I people-watch--I make notes about the things people do. Everyone has their own way of going about their day. No two people are the same."

"Yes, I see that now. My brother used to—" Violet stopped herself before she could say more. The sudden reminder of Klaus made her too sad to speak.

"Your brother?" Stanley asked.

Violet could only nod. She could feel the blood rise in her face and she turned away. She did not want to cry in front of all these people.

"I'm sorry," Stanley said. "I didn't mean to upset you."

Violet turned back slowly, wiping at the corner of her eye. "I'm all right," she told him. "Thank you for letting me know about the book sale, but I'm afraid I only have money for food. I'm not allowed to buy books."

"Oh, that's very strange. Who would not allow you to buy books?"

Violet bit her lip, feeling a pain in her chest at the mere thought of Olaf and his opinions on books. "My…husband won't allow it."

"Your husband?" Stanley asked. Violet nodded, unsure of why she said it all. She could not fathom why she would speak of Olaf to others as her husband, or why she would admit to the trouble he caused her. Certainly, Stanley was still a stranger to her. She still wondered if he was here to spy on her for Olaf and whether or not he could be trusted.

"You look so young to be married," Stanley said with what appeared to be genuine shock. "Is it true?"

Violet nodded again. "I don't like to speak about it," she told him, hoping the subject would be dropped.

"Oh, yes, of course," Stanley said, grasping the point.

A silence hung between them for a moment until Violet spoke.

"I have to get along," she told Stanley. "I have a lot to do today."

The sadness in her voice must have struck a cord of pity with Stanley, for her offered his assistance no less than five times before Violet's wall of refusal stopped him for good. Instead, he was forced to be placated with offering her a good deal of luck.

"If you ever need to talk, I'm usually here in the market," he told her. Violet gave him the small pittance of a smile and a wave.