The world was never quiet

Lie 7 : I'm getting you out of here

I didn't miss the Prufrock's episode, in case you're wondering. More precisely, I knew the Baudelaire were there but only discovered later on what happened. But the whole time they spent between this venerable institution's walls, I was preparing the operation I'm going to tell you about.

Well, no. I won't indulge in a delirium of details – if you want them, just ask those who were there. Honestly, I won't dwell at length about this kind of things. This day was the worst of my life, the kind I want to forget at once. So it deserves better. What I can tell you, though, is that the Baudelaire were at the Auction at this point, busied with their own problems. Problems I completely ignored, back then. I didn't know anything about the Quagmire triplets, even if I would be lucky enough to meet one of them soon. And I didn't know that I could have, by mere minutes, saved Isadora and Duncan from their plight. Truth be told, even if I'd known, I don't think I would have cared.

I needed to act fast. My father's transfer was to take place at the end of the Auction and, when I reached the 667 Dark Avenue, it was just beginning. I could have used the secret passage of the Baudelaire's house, but Jacques feared it would be blocked and I would lose time. So I entered the residence using the main door. I recognised the janitor – he was the Hook-Handed man, one of Olaf's fellows. I had planned this much. I was dressed-up and disguised accordingly. It took him a second to recognize me.

"Andrea? Is that you?

- It's me, indeed," I sighed with Andrea Cretan's famous composure. "Olaf told me to have a look at Dupin.

- He didn't tell me.

- He just told me. Can I go or do I need to beg you?"

I frowned. I wasn't in the mood of discussion and I was in a hurry. I sighed an infuriated sigh and he finally walked away, hesitating. He was suspicious. I didn't have the time for that, but I didn't know whether or not cover would be of any use after at. I couldn't abandon or sabotage it. I rolled my eyes.

"You'll ask Olaf when we meet him after the Auction if you want.

- It's not that I don't trust you," he sighed. "But he told me someone was supposed to come and pick him up.

- I'm not picking him up.

- That's the issue.

- Are you really discussing the boss' orders?"

This argument. Always hit the mark when it's about some stupid sycophant henchman. He shook his head vigorously. I nodded with a smile and walked to the elevator – yes, I know, it wasn't In but I could care less. My ascent was quite fast and, and, once I'd reached the top floor, I walked to the second door. "You'll have to climb," Jacques had told me. I had everything ready: ropes in my bag, good shoes on my feet. I took a deep breath and opened the doors. The gap beneath my feet looked like it was dragging me in and it took me a few tries to finally decide to get down.

Once my rope tied around the stair's railing, I released the door of the empty shaft and took another deep breath. I was going to go down when I heard the other elevator's doors opening. I froze and saw the guy mentioned by Fernald Widdershins – even if I didn't his name back then. And he saw me too.

I don't want to go into details. All you need to know is that we fought, I stabbed him in the stomach with his knife when he pushed me in the empty elevator shaft, my knife in my shoulder and that I would probably have died if I didn't have the foresight to grab my rope as soon as possible. Instead, I managed to slow down my fall (burning my two hands' palms) and land almost smoothly on the shaft's ground.

By the way, I have no idea how I didn't bleed out from this point to when I left, really. Adrenaline, probably, or whatever hormones rushing in my veins. Hormone that wore out as soon as I saw my father behind the bars of the cell, in front of me.

"Dad?" I squeaked, both because it hurt and because I couldn't believe he was there. "Dad, is that you?

- Cassandre?"

His hoarse voice sounded as painful as mine. I got closer, my hand on my wound to try not to lose whatever remained of my blood. I was covered with it – even if it wasn't only mine. It wasn't mostly mine, to be honest. This detail will soon be important. One of the many instances where things could have easily been very different. If I hadn't gutted this guy, for example. Anyway.

I had my picking tools – thanks, Olaf, and a headlamp to shine some light in this hellhole – thanks, Jacques. Once the cell's door opened, I rushed to my father and, despite the pain, held me against me. He whined. He was hurt. Grievously hurt, looking back. He was covered with dry and fresh blood and his clothes were soaked in it. But stupid as I was, I thought it was an old wound. Nope.

"Dad, I'm getting you out of here. Can you stand up?

- What are you doing here, Cassandre?" This calm, always this calm, even in an emergency situation. This righteous tone. "And… What is…

- Don't worry, I dressed up to make sure I wouldn't be spotted. We'll speak about it later, we need to go. You…

- Why are you covered with blood?"

He didn't move. And wouldn't. I sighed and took my wigs and glassed away. I swept my face with my sleeve to take as much make up as possible away. He stared at me with confused eyes for a while, but then his face turned into something I had never seen before. And still the last thing I would ever see from him.

I said it, my father never screamed. Never argued. Never got angry. And nothing ever disgusted him, nothing scared him, nothing reached him. And still, before my eyes, his face was nothing but anger. Disgust. Fear. As if I wasn't his daughter anymore but a monster. A true monster. Confused myself, I released his shoulders and shook my head.

"What? I fought, it's not…

- Your blood ?" His voice was harsh. It'd never been. But it would only this until the end. "It's you. Olaf's Andrea. That's how you manage to come here.

- I'm not with him, dad, I just needed to get close…

- You helped him. You killed Josephine Answhistle.

- Of course not!

- But you were there!"

He was screaming. At last he was screaming. As loud as he could. I must say that the only thing I managed to think about was that we didn't have time for this. I didn't realize I had already lost my father. He, on the other hand, understood it very clearly. And he wasn't sparing himself. Wouldn't spare me. His eyes had turned accusing, nasty. This man does not look like my father, I thought. And still he was my father.

"I told you to mind the eyes," he groaned, holding onto his stomach. "I told you I found find you.

- And I promised I would find you!

- And that's the way you keep your promise? By killing? Betraying? Do you even know what Olaf did?

- I wanted to save you!" My voice was on the verge of hysteria. I was on the verge of hysteria. "I'll explain everything, I promise but…

- I promise."

He mimicked me, bitterly. I stood still, frozen, my shoulders sorer and sorer and my thought going blurrier every seconds that went. I didn't understand. Rather, I refused to understand – because everything was very clear.

I don't know how to write what happened afterward. I don't even know if I want to write it. No one knows all that, I never told anyone. Not even my dear old friend Lemony (I know you'll read this sooner or later). Not even Jacques before he died. No one. It was too hard. It's still too hard. My father's look, the disgust in his eyes, his face distorted by pain and anger, the way he was staring at me… It's all a nightmare I do again and again every night, even when I think I fell asleep, but realize I am denied this privilege. And his voice, his innuendos, every he said still echoes in my head…

"I can't believe they have you.

- They don't have me! I was searching for you with Jacques Snicket, I'm on the right side of the Schism!

- You know nothing of the Schism," he spat out. Literally, he was spitting blood as he spoke. "And you know nothing of the "right side" of the Schism. The "right side" of the Schism doesn't kill people. It doesn't help Olaf. It doesn't help this side of the Schism. Don't you recall anything I taught you?

- You never told me about VFD! You hid the sugar bowl from me, you…

- You have the sugar bowl?"

I suddenly stopped and, without even realizing it, I took out the bowl from my bag. It was wrapped in several pieces of clothing. He stared at it and stretched out his hand. I took it away from him and stepped back. And the flames in his eyes danced again. I was protecting the sugar bowl since the beginning, and I still didn't know what was inside – I never opened it, never doubted my father's intentions. But now I doubted.

I recalled what I learnt. I recalled the teachers and their weird lessons. All those things I learnt to do. Write backward, speak all these languages, those ancient codes, and this golden rule. Never hurt anyone. And this trip we were supposed to do – trip that should have begun my apprenticeship under the direction of no else than Kit Snicket. It all made sense, except the last part I knew nothing about.

"You can't keep it.

- Why? I protected it for months.

- It's not safe in your hands," he retorted. Not the final blow, but almost. "Give it to me.

- No. I know how to protect it.

- You kept it around Olaf, you don't know how to protect it. You don't know how to protect anything.

- Then I'm like you. You didn't know how to protect me either."

All these inconsistent feelings I felt until this moment – frustration from not knowing VFD, anger from understanding nothing, fear, anguish, every thing came out in this single sentence uttered without any life, any tone. The final blow came at this point, this point when my father replied. I'm scared to write it. Until now, it was only words, sounds. And you can forget sounds. Words on a paper…

"You're not like me. You were never like me." It wasn't the final blow. "You're not my daughter.

- Dad….

- My daughter no longer exists. I don't know what you became, Cassandre, if you're this Andrea or if you lost yourself, but my daughter never killed anyone, even indirectly. My daughter never followed Olaf. My daughter wouldn't be covered with blood.

- Dad, please, I can't…

- I'm not your father anymore."

Not I'm not your father. No. I'm not your father anymore. My throat tightened to the point where I could barely breathe. I felt tears choking me. I lost myself – I did, but for him. All I did, all I accepted to do, was for him. All I lost, I lost it for him. All the blood on my hand was for him. For a father who was not my father anymore.

I closed my eyes for a second. It's ludicrous, a horrible cliché, but for me it's the truth. My father broke me. If he hadn't told me these horrors, maybe there would still be hope for Cassandre Dupin, for his daughter and the woman Jacques loved. But he ruined this hope in a few words. He finished what I'd begun. He pushed me on the other side better than Olaf. And no one would ever retrieve me. Not even Jacques. Not even you, Lemony. So I stared at him and my eyes were not blurry anymore.

And I saw the wound on his stomach, this dreadful, gurgling abyss. My father was dying – I wouldn't have been able to get him out of here. And I didn't want to. I wanted this man who was not my father anymore to die. So I took the knife that used to be in my shoulder, and that fell with me. And I stared at this man who was not my father anymore in the eyes. He didn't blink. He didn't move. I think he understood that I wasn't his daughter anymore either.

"I thought I could," he said with a strong, yet already weakened voice. "I thought I could stop you from following her example.

- Whose example?

- But felony runs in your blood." He wasn't listening. He probably didn't hear anything. "And felony always wins."

Felony always wins. Of everything my father told me in this elevator shaft, it's probably the only thing that still makes sense today. When I stood up, my father's blood was mixed with the guy from upstairs' and mine. I could feel tears running down my face, ruining what remained of my make up. And the only thing I could see, I could think of, was the body lying in front of me.

I stepped back and realized the ground was covered with some sort of dry straw, barely moistened by the blood dripping from my wound. The passage to the Baudelaire's house was open nearby. The door was open. I had to leave – I had to. Olaf's henchmen were on their way. The Arsonists were on their way. The Arsonists are on their way.

I burst out laughing, completely alone. A hysterical, maniac laugh. Terrifying, I suppose. There was a box of matches in my bag and nothing in my mind stopped me from lighting them. I lighted two of them. I threw one on the straw. I threw the other one on my father. And I watched the flames slowly eating away his clothes, the straw on the floor. And just like I did back home, I watched, fascinated, the flames destroying what remained of my life.

Some say I crossed the line of the Schism this day. That's what Jacques thought. For others, I was doomed from the beginning – that's what my father thought, even if I doubt he would have appreciated the irony of ending up in ashes. To be honest, I disagree with both statements. I was dancing on the line since the beginning. This day, I simply made the first of a dozen mistakes I would do on the Arsonists' side. But something is certain: I lighted my first fire this day.

When I struggled my way out of the passage in the Baudelaire's house's ruins, Jacques was already there. I lost consciousness in his arms, once again, and he brought me to safety. Again. The last picture I remember from this doomed day is the dark smoke in the sky above me, the flames that licked the other buildings and my reflection in Jacques' eyes when he forced me to turn away. Or, rather, my lack of reflection – I couldn't see myself. Maybe it was blood loss, maybe it was tears, maybe both but I couldn't see myself in his eyes.

But it was adequate. The Volunteer Cassandre Dupin died this day with the man who wasn't her father anymore. The one who walked out the 667 Dark Avenue's flames wasn't a Volunteer anymore - if she'd ever been. And she had started her first fire.