The world was never quiet

Lie 15 : I don't want to protect the damned sugar bowl anymore

Mortmain Mountains are one of the only mountains near the city. There's nothing interesting about it, except two things: Olaf was there, Sunny Baudelaire in his boot and Klaus and Violet chasing him, and one of VFD's last safe place was perched on them. The Valley of Four Drafts. A lovely place, before fire ate it. But I'm digressing, let's go back to the point, namely the reason why I'm talking about those mountains.

This said, if you've followed the Baudelaire's story, you already know why I'm talking about it. Once my wounds completely healed, both physical and psychological (I never really recovered from any of them), Lemony asked me to help him with his search of the Baudelaire. It didn't take long before we understood they were climbing Mortmain Mountains looking for their sister. You remember when I said I took three useful documents in the Library of Records? Well, two of them helped me in this.

Well, one of them to begin with. When I was searching for the exact location of the HQ. If Lemony had been there, I wouldn't have needed it – I could have simply waited, to be honest, but I had no idea if he knew where it was. The answer's yes, no need to keep the suspense. The fact remains that I discovered the existence of a way to hide information under stains of coffee and I used it quite a few times afterward.

From what I'd understood, if we were to follow Olaf and the Baudelaire it was obviously to keep an eye on them. So we needed to go to the HQ, and we needed to be discreet. And not to die, even if spring was almost there.

"Cassandre? Pack your things," Lemony ordered me when he came back to the refuge. "We leave for the HQ of…

- The Valley of Four Drafts?

How do you know?

- You told me to trace the Baudelaire. Why did you want to go?

- I've got something to retrieve."

Obviously. Something. And I could only pray to know what. Instead of questioning him, I gathered my papers, stuffed them in my bag over my dear sugar bowl and went to the car. I waited for us to be far enough from the refuge and close enough to the mountains to finally speak, pretending to be thoughtful, my eyes pretending to admire the surroundings.

"Are we following the Baudelaire to protect them, or because they have something that belongs to you?

- They don't have anything that belongs to me.

- Then you follow them to protect them," I deduced. "You never said why.

- You just said it.

- We can make this last a while, you know.

- That'll keep our journey busy."

Cryptic, friendly Lemony. Because in the end, I knew that he was running after the Baudelaire like a dog after a car, but I had no idea why he was doing it nor what would he do with them if he caught them. Well, if he ever caught them. His behaviour rather implied that he preferred to watch them from afar and vaguely make sure they survived. Yeah, I still ignored many things. That does not mean I know everything – I don't think I'll ever be able to know everything about this man.

In simplest words, let's say I literally knew nothing about Lemony. If Jacques ever said anything about him (I don't even remember if he did), it was in such sibylline terms that I forgot everything. My father never mentioned the Snickets. Olaf simply said he couldn't stand them. Well, he doesn't stand anyone anyway.

"You're not the kind of man to run after kids for no reason.

- And what kind of man am I, according to you?" He glanced at me in the rear-view mirror. "I didn't know you were versed in psychology.

- And two weeks or so ago, I didn't know anything about you. I hardly see someone so keen to remain in the dark following random children. So if it has nothing to do with them, it must have something to do with their parents.

- And what would this something be?

- If you were close to Bertrand, I can't see a reason why it remained a secret."

He raised his eyes to the mirror and I saw a corner of his lips rising. Some sort of a smile, the closest he could get to amusement. I didn't know how much I was right – how much I was too right. Even if I knew there was something in him, something in his eyes that looked like what I felt, I didn't know what this thing was. You're never blinder to other's pain than when you're in pain yourself. And even if I was getting better, I was still in pain. A bit like him, I suppose.

I was going to continue my investigation when his smile vanished and his eyes fell back on the road. He sighed. The kind that said more than my stupid thinking. I turned my eyes from the scenery and stared at the mirror too.

"Unless things changed, I'm still dead for most of the world.

- Dead?" I blinked. I was expecting a lot of things – not that. "How…

- The thing I want to retrieve from the Valley of Four Drafts is what you called my file. It's actually Jacques'.

- The Snicket file? Why?

- I'm not doing all the work for you." He lightly frowned. "Why would anyone pretend to be dead?

- To avoid an awkward date. Or a sentence. What have you been accused of?"

He didn't reply, but opened the glove box to take a press clipping. Without looking at me, he handed it to me. It was old – the ink was fading. I unfolded it carefully even if it was already torn and folded. A dead murderer! the Daily Punctilio titled. It's evidently always been a rag. The arsonist and murderer Lemony Snicket was found dead this Monday in his flat… I didn't need to read more. The rest was a praise of a detective N.T Colafoue (seriously, Olaf?) that had conducted a quick and efficient investigation and came to the conclusion that the man died from a accident. An accident involving three bullets in the victim's back. The standard of investigation was as high as you can expect from this kind of newspapers.

I couldn't assimilate this information, no matter how many times I tried to. I didn't know Lemony – not well enough at least. But he wasn't a murderer, let alone an arsonist. We recognize each other, when it comes to lost souls. I couldn't believe he was either of these things, it didn't make any sense.

"The arsonist and murderer Lemony Snicket," I read again. "I understand better why you don't seem to care about my various achievements.

- Olaf made me carry the can of his crimes, god knows how. It has taken so such proportion that I had to run away.

- It was fourteen years ago." At least the newspapers dated from fourteen years ago. "I remember I was at the Baudelaire's wedding. It was fourteen years ago too.

- It's but one of the various things that stood in my way, indeed.

- This and the fact that Beatrice Baudelaire thought you were dead."

I put the cutting on the seat next to me and kept quiet. I didn't ask more questions about Beatrice – it was clear enough, even for me. He was following Beatrice's children because they were Beatrice's children and could have been, in a simpler world, his children. I wasn't going to rub salt on his wounds. Whatever you think of me, I had this respect. And I didn't want him to take revenge by mentioning Jacques. I never said I was selfless, did I?

"And what about the Snicket file?" I asked, directing the conversation as far as possible from our respective grief. "Would it clear you?

- It would at least accuse Olaf and his fellows. What would clear me has been hidden years ago. Hidden so well that no one knows where it is.

- The sugar bowl." I had whispered without wanting it. I'd been carrying for too long without saying its name. "The infamous sugar bowl.

- Yes, the sugar bowl. Lost in your house's fire."

Or not. I can't help being surprised that Lemony never resented me for hiding the sugar bowl from him, and keeping it under his very nose. I suppose he'd mourned this teeny tiny porcelain thing. It perhaps also explains why he never resented me for disposing of it the way I eventually did. We need to speak about it. We can't spend the rest of our lives pretending nothing happened in front of the High Court, can we? Especially since the world keeps on reminding us what happened.

Anyway. I spare you the trip. We drove for a long time, we went through roads smashed by snow and successive winters. But the HQ wasn't exactly accessible. I don't think it's useful to tell you how we reached it – given the place's state, I don't think anyone would find anything there, but still. I don't want that on my conscience.

When we finally reached the HQ, we found the place completely empty. No one around, while Lemony said we were supposed to find a dozen of people inside. There's nothing worse that being in an empty place when it shouldn't be. I mean, being alone in a bed is not sad per say, everyone know we sleep better alone. Being alone in a prison cell is not really pleasant, but there's nothing wrong about it. But being alone in one of the last place supposed to be used by VFD felt wrong and disturbing. And not only because I wasn't supposed to be there.

"Where are they?" I asked, going over the books of the library. "I thought…

- I thought too. Let's not loiter.

- I'm not searching for anything, personally…"

There was a gear noise. I raised an eyebrow and, after I gestured Snicket to do what he had to, I came closer. We both knew what it was but I couldn't help being surprised to find a piece of paper spat by some sort of technologic mail box. Appt Hotel Denoument STOP Friday STOP Last safe place STOP I analysed those words, frowning. I didn't know the Hotel yet, good for it, really, but it wasn't the problem. The last three words were the problem. Last safe place. We were supposed to be in a safe place.

Haha. Too late, it wasn't a safe place anymore. I called Lemony, my throat swollen and the gloomy feeling that we threw ourselves in the lion's den. Or the Arsonist's, but believe me, it's all the same. He didn't reply and forced me to look for him. He was in the middle of the living room, a file in his hand.

"If this is your damned file, let's get out of here.

- What was it? The Dispatch?

- See for yourself." I handed him the piece of paper. He tensed. "I don't know what happened here but…

- The fridge.

- The… What?"

Dumbfounded, I saw him rushing in the corridor. Of course I followed and found him kneeling in front of the refrigerator. I saw people doing very weird things, like running into flames instead of running away, killing each other for a sugar bowl, push women in a lake full of voracious leashes – well, a woman. But watching Lemony probing the refrigerator when we were supposed to leave, even taking into account everything I saw afterward, is one of the weirdest things I ever saw. He rummaged through the vegetables compartment and sighed, worried.

"They didn't leave dill.

- Dill. Maybe they didn't like it?

- It's a code, Cassandre. If they didn't leave anything, it's because they were supposed to come back.

- The radiators are cold," I indicated. "They left a few hours ago.

- Someone got them out."

Meaning, it's a trap. Yes, I know it's already clear but just in case, you're not supposed to know what happened after. I know you can get the feeling that I don't care about what happened – and it's a bit true, I admit. But you have to know that VFD was, back then and still today, some sort of a mysterious nebula that only caused me wrong, sadness and too many grieves for a girl my age.

So when we heard the smash of a shattered door, Lemony ordered me to find a way to leave a message to VFD that the Arsonists wouldn't be able to find, and vanished. To slow them down, not run away – even if he was skilled in the matter. However, he did leave me with a simple yet unfeasible command. I knew nothing about VFD's secret codes. Nothing, but remember, I had a few pages from a file regarding Verbal Fridge Dialogue. It was a miracle, truly, that I remembered I had them: I went through my bag, got the papers and read them quickly while I heard footsteps, voices and hit noises getting closer and closer. Volunteers will know such a code is being used by the presence of Very Fresh Dill. Thus Lemony's obsession regarding dill. As quietly as possible, I rummaged through every cupboard to find the said dill, then threw it in the vegetable compartment before resuming my reading. I had to engrave the receiver's name in the darkest of jam.

"VFD is fucking with us," I groaned while grabbing the boysenberry jam and a knife. I had no idea who was the receiver of this message. I knew no one from VFD apart from the Snicket. Lemony was with me and wasn't even a member of the organization anymore. Kit was god knows where. I took a deep breath and carved the initials J.S in the jam, hoping they would understand the message was geared towards VFD.

I now had to leave the actual message using olives for the date of the next meeting, and use their rigged spice-based condiment to refer to an encoded poem. I was going to write a post-it when I saw a book had been left in the kitchen – The Garden of Proserpine by Charles Swynburne. That would do. The jar of mustard mentioned it, so I put it in the fridge.

My paper stopped there. I had no idea what I was supposed to do. I had to do with what's in the fridge – haha, and doing it quickly. Namely, writing on the poem's page (sorry, I did write on a book) that the meeting place was the last safe place. I was almost sure the Volunteers would get it. As for the Arsonists… I was left with Lemony's saying: people who read are good people. It's your saying, right? I stuffed the book in the oven and spread what remained of a coffee on the said oven. The coffee stain technic, you know? A bit upgraded, but still.

I bounced back on my feet and walked to the door. It led to the library that overlooked to the Stricken Stream, completely frozen at this time of the year. It also and mainly led to two people, one of them reminding me of painful and distant memories. The man with a beard but not hair who chased me around the city. I gulped. I had to go through the library to find the exit, and I absolutely didn't want them to see me. He and his colleague, the woman with hair but not beard, were talking about the sugar bowl and the Snicket file. Mostly about the sugar bowl. I was searching for another way when I saw Lemony, at the other side of the kitchen, gesturing me to go. If I'd had another choice, believe me, I wouldn't have gone there. Even for him. Especially for him.

But I didn't have the choice. I took a deep breath, took Olaf's knife in my pocket and what looked like a porcelain sauceboat – quite similar to the sugar bowl, to be honest. I had to divert their attention at any cost. If it meant throwing this thing through the window and making them believe I was sacrificing their precious sugar bowl, so be it. I infiltrated the library, behind them, the sauceboat in my second pocket and grabbed a desk lamp. As strongly as possible, I threw it against the bay window that cracked before it broke in a huge broken glass sound. The two intruders turned round. Strangely enough, I think I never felt more confident that this day.

"Are we searching for something?" I asked, getting my decoy out of my pocket. I shook it to make sure they wouldn't understand my trickery. "Something related to sugar?

- Dupin." The man with a beard but no hair smiled and drew up. "Be a good girl and give us the sugar bowl.

- It so happens that my father really liked it.

- You killed him.

- I did." Said with such a lightness that I had a hard time being so natural. "And I don't want to protect the damned sugar bowl anymore."

Their eyes lighted up. I just had enough time to gain momentum and throw the sauceboat through the broken bay window. When she realized what I'd done, the woman with hair but no beard screamed and ordered her colleague to kill me. I already fought with stronger than me, but my wound was still fresh and I couldn't chance opening it again. I avoided his blows as much as I could, until I found myself cornered against a wall.

I don't like this kind of memories, really, and telling them is even worse. They confirm the already very-much confirmed fact that I am a murderer desperate to save herself – and ready to risk other lives in order to do so. The problem with this kind of affirmation is that we forget to remember that I only killed those who tried to kill me beforehand. Alright, the 667 Dark Avenue excluded.

Let's go back to our Arsonists. I managed to unfold my knife and stab him in the thigh. I struggled my way out of his grip while he yelped in pain and stepped back. I pushed with all my strength against the nearest sofa and rushed to the kitchen where I hoped Lemony had found a way out. But since my life is a disaster from end to end, you won't be surprise to learn that…