Chapter Two
Deceased, as you may or may not know, is a word that is a synonym for dead, meaning that they have the exact some definition. Something unusual about synonyms, however, is that even though they mean the same thing, people have a tendency to use different words for different occasions. For example, old and superannuated mean the same thing, but are more likely to be used in completely different contexts. Old would be used in the context of "this milk is too chewy to be considered anything but old". Superannuated, on the other hand, would be more likely to be used in the sentence "Superannuated is a very obscure and unused word".
This is the same situation for the words "deceased" and "dead". Dead is typically used when someone is describing a person, place, or thing that has ceased to be full of life. Deceased is a word that seems to only be used on forms and documents, as if the formerly living thing were some number or inconvenience. It is a cold, emotionless word, without life or hope.
But that was the word that Edgar had used. He had abruptly turned to Beatrice and told her that her three guardians were deceased. Effectively, he had told her that they were now names on forms he needed to fill out and nothing more. It was shocking. It was hollowing. More importantly, it was more than Beatrice could take in.
"This is absurd," she retorted.
"Absurd?" said Edgar, turning back to his paperwork. "No, Ms. Baudelaire. Cats juggling jellybeans is absurd. This is very much real."
Beatrice sat on the bed, trying to collect everything that she knew about her guardians. She had an endless supply of questions to ask and had much difficulty deciding the first. For these moments, only the scrapping of a pen across a desk could be heard, as Edgar continued his work. Finally, she came up with a question.
"How do you know they are dead?"
He did not look up from his work.
"I know that they are deceased, Ms. Baudelaire, because I heard it from a reliable source. Additionally, it has been reported in multiple newspapers across multiple cities."
She was silent again for a moment, as she turned this over. She knew, as I hope you know, that just because something is in a newspaper does not mean it is true. She also knew, as I hope you also know, that newspapers can also be correct. Even more mysterious than the reliability of the newspaper, though, was Edgar's source. She decided to ask about this.
"And who is your source, sir?"
"My wife, Rue."
This confused Beatrice greatly, as she did not know how Rue came across this information.
"How did they die?"
"I do not know, Ms. Baudelaire. Mine is not to reason how, mine is to process anyhow. This refers to your estate, in this instance."
This upset her more. This man who sat calmly in her hotel room and changed her life did not seem to care about the details at all. He was formal and uncomforting. He was, in short, the opposite of what she felt she needed at the time. He was, though, the only person that could help her right now. In response to this, she decided to change her questions to ones that she supposed he could answer.
"Did you say 'estate'?" she asked.
"Why yes, of course. I need to sort out all of the forms regarding their estate and its new ownership."
A deep pit formed in Beatrice's stomach. The estate. The fortune, she thought to herself. She was thinking of the Baudelaire fortune. It was a vast amount of wealth that had been in her family for many years. It had belonged to her three guardians for quite a while, and had caused them seemingly no end of trouble. Many suspicious people had wanted the Baudelaire fortune, and many people had died because of this. The fortune, as it appeared, had caused their family great pain and anguish.
"I don't want the fortune," she stated, with a strength and finality surprising for her age.
Edgar stopped writing and once again turned to her with a very serious expression.
"That is a rather foolish decision to make, Ms. Baudelaire. I don't think you understand the value of money. Don't worry. In full time, you will."
He returned to his work and began scribbling away furiously. He then spoke, almost as an afterthought.
"Either way, it was not your decision. It was the decision of your now deceased guardians, who, for some reason, chose not to give you the fortune."
"What?" she asked, incredulously.
"You will not be receiving the fortune. It is going to a different party altogether. Did you annoy them?"
"No," she replied honestly, "I did not."
She wanted to ask him what estate she would be receiving, if she wasn't receiving the fortune. When she opened her mouth to ask, however, she could not bring herself to do so. Her guardians were dead. It felt somehow wrong to discuss inheritance just yet. Instead, she looked out the window. There was dust on the window, and drapes blew across it. The view of the city was not unlike the view in her life. While moments ago, when she was standing on the street, the world looked relatively decent and steady, now everything was different. The dust of sadness had been spread across the window of her hopes of finding her guardians again. The drapes of confusion blew across in almost random ways, leaving her with nothing but questions upon questions. Why did her guardians not give her the fortune? Who received it instead? What did happen to her guardians? Where would she go now? When would she be at peace?
At long last, Edgar finished writing. With a final scrape, the pen signed his name to the last paper. He then put the papers back in his briefcase.
"Finished," he stated, glancing at his watch. "It took five minutes and thirty two seconds. It would have been quicker, but you insisted on your pointless questions. Now, if you will come with me, please."
Beatrice turned with a start.
"Go with you where, sir?"
"Your new home, Ms. Baudelaire. What did you think I was writing out this whole time?"
"My new home?"
"Ms. Baudelaire, please consider the obvious. Your guardians are now deceased. You are a child. Children cannot possibly take care of themselves. You will need a new guardian to take care of you, won't you?"
"But, I don't want a guardian. I can take care of myself."
Edgar looked her grimly.
"Ms. Baudelaire, you may feel that way now, but you cannot possibly care for yourself. Children are incapable of such things. Now please, come with me," he responded. Impatiently and unsubtly, he looked at his watch.
"I've been taking care of myself for quite a long time now!"
Edgar looked at his watch again. He seemed to be unconvinced.
"I know for a fact that this is not true and I have no time for your contradictions."
"I'm not contradicting you, sir."
"Yes, you are."
Realizing that there was no point in arguing, she looked around her dusty, lifeless room. All that belonged to her in the room was one suitcase that she had carried with her for years now. She then turned back and gazed out the window. It is a sad fact of life that, sometimes, you are put in a situation in which nothing you do will please you. She did not want to be given to a new guardian. She wanted to leave, find her former guardians, and live a life of happiness and peace. This did, however, seem possible. Her three guardians were now dead. She now needed a new home. There was not much else it seemed she could do. With much reluctance, she turned to Edgar.
"Very well, sir. If there isn't another option, I will go with you to meet my new guardian."
Edgar nodded and led her out of the room. As they stepped in the elevator, Beatrice thought of one more question.
"Sir, what is my guardian's name?"
He pressed the button on the elevator for the lobby floor.
"Lady Audrey."
"Lady Audrey..." she murmured to herself.
She had never heard of a Lady Audrey, and wondered very much what she would be like. Would Audrey be cruel or kind? Would she be absent frequently or always present? More importantly, would Beatrice be safe around her? Beatrice and asked Edgar more questions than with which he was comfortable already, and she felt too scared to ask him any more. The elevator slowly lowered, and, as it did, so did any hopes Beatrice had of happiness.