A distant noise in the background pulls Violet from her slumber. The sun is just rising, beaming in full effect after a long, dour night of rain. Her sleep ridden eyelids open slowly to take in a misty silhouette that is moving towards the exit, and the faint plea is out of her mouth before she fully comprehends it, "wait."
Lemony halts but keeps his back to her, silently berating himself for his lack of stealth.
"I didn't mean to wake you," he says, inclining his head slightly to the side in an apologetic manner.
"But I'm glad you did," says Violet, bringing her legs down the edge of her bed, "I want to come with you."
His eyes widen before he shakes his head, "that is not a wise idea, miss Baudelaire. I'm afraid I must refuse."
When he turns to face her, he sees that her gaze is mature and patient; resolution forming her disposition albeit expecting refusal.
He sighs and continues, "my every step is fraught with underlying danger, and my mere shadow is sought after. I have more enemies than I have acquaintances. I cannot subject you to anything of the like," he attempts to sound as determined as she, but his voice quivers with vehemence, resurgent prospects coming to the forefront of his mind with plaguing intensity.
"But Mr. Snicket," her voice is calm and rational, "I can say the same about myself."
Lemony sighs. He knows he holds no control over her, and if she wants to be actively involved in seeking her siblings, can he really blame her? But the reasons for his dreads are of a more personal, selfish nature. He has always been a solitary investigator who took refuge in knowing that while his form can be glimpsed from afar, he cannot be really seen. The inquisitive eyes of Violet Baudelaire are a too painful reminder that his undertakings have a real effect on other people. Can he really withstand such pressure?
He risks looking into those very eyes and knows that he cannot. Nor can he truly deny her a request.
Violet looks at the window and sees that it is opened, and Tesla is nowhere in sight. She spares a contemplative moment, in which she realizes that the raven is as mysterious as the man standing before her.
They walk alongside each other; separated by a few feet's distance and an abyss of two different journeys of the mind. There is a curious harmony between them, however; a synchronicity in the steps taken and the haunted impression in their eyes.
Lemony walks ahead doggedly, as if knowing all the routes that diverge from the cobbled road. Violet allows her eyes to wonder, absently engaging her thoughts and spirit of enquiry.
Their eyes never meet. They are as strangers who happen to have the same path; each minding their own preserve, never prying on the other's. Shadows fall upon them in obscurity, and gazes of passersby take them in, spying for a peculiarity that is not overt in their appearance, but is exuded nonetheless.
Violet gets to see the world as Lemony does; a plethora of hazed faces too muddled for any form of kindness to be discerned on their features, and objects that come and go in haste until they lack any clear distinction between their components. This is the world en masse as an enemy.
Every now and then, they would pause and Lemony would put forth a series of enquiries to disgruntled citizens, who would proceed to scowl, deny and walk away. Violet grows to find the process wearisome, but sees that her companion is all too accustomed to the jeers and the overall sense of hopelessness.
"Novels make the work of an investigator sound a lot more thrilling," she mumbles to herself.
To her surprise, Lemony quips with a faint chuckle, "they also make misery sound romantic."
"A virtue of the wise," says Violet with a smile.
"I think it a morbid sense of denial on the writer's part;" he says, grim yet again; "a desire to add an aspect to reality that does not exist intrinsically in it."
She turns her head towards him, "do you do that, Mr. Snicket?"
But he only offers her a sad smile and they walk on.
The meal they have is sparing at best, just enough to keep them going without feeling the impact of gravity too keenly. Every now and then, Lemony steals a glance at Violet and marvels at her unwavering dedication to her siblings. Her face is riddled with tokens of exhaustion and her body suffers the effects of malnutrition, but she keeps going without making the smallest of complaint, brown eyes searching and attentive.
He feels like a conniver.
He withholds information from her; information that is pivotal to their search of the missing Baudelaires. Uncertainty of the source's authenticity poses as the crux of his reticence; why would he strike fear into her heart that is already too leaden with despair? It is merely the basic maxim that every researcher has engraved in their mind; never draw conclusions from a source unless certain.
Certainty is meant to be derived by empirical means. But Lemony's intuition is more ardent and rather prone to impatience; it draws onto meanings before the external world's sensory endowment.
Somehow, he knows that it is true. He might deny it, and use this denial to justify leading the eldest sister into abysses of faux value, but he knows it.
How could he ever communicate that to her?
He is nothing but a coward.
Lemony walks ahead with tightly shut eyes, his steps gaining momentum with the rising intensity of his thoughts.
His mind projects the face of a beautiful woman who's very close to his heart, and it clenches.
Is it possible that he has indeed failed her? Has he desecrated her only wish and his promise?
His reprieve halts his steps, as if struck by all the implications they hold. Violet does not seem to notice the manifestation of his inner turmoil, although she, too, stops just just a few feet in front of him, midst the atrophying pillars of what used to be the entrance to a castle of humble proportions.
The rays of the setting sun land gently on her face to illuminate the awe that is inspired by the rich engravings on the stones and the sophisticated swerve of every crevice that separates elegant inscriptions, written in a language she does not comprehend.
Lemony allows himself the distraction and takes in the structure before him with equal fascination, although perhaps from a different viewpoint.
"Isn't it peculiar that this place should withstand the curse of time and various destructive elements, yet somehow retain its beauty?" he says distantly.
Violet glances his way before continuing her inspection; tentative fingers rising to caress the ancient words on a pillar, "I think it makes perfect sense. Shouldn't beauty be adaptive?"
He stands unmoving for a moment, lost again in his thoughts, "do you think it loses something along the way?"
She shrugs, "should it lose something, it will gain another. What truly matters is the concept behind it; the idea," her eyes gain a glint and they travel further than her senses can take her. "It is like a system of deduction, in a way, with integral components that aid every effect that goes on to become a cause. It's too sturdy to be broken by superficial blows. Do you know what I mean?"
"Its inner composition does not collapse, and so it gives the impression of endurance," he suggests, and she nods. "To the outside observer, its beauty persists, albeit in a different form…" his voice trails off before he faces her, "but what about the structure itself?"
Violet furrows her eyebrows, tilting her head to the side, "how do you mean?"
"This impression of beauty and endurance is for the benefit of the observer. What does this place think of all the change it was struck with? Can it reconcile its authentic nature with it, or is it suffering in earnest?" he says.
"I don't really know," she admits after a pause. She raises her head and turns slowly in her spot, assimilating the form and design of the antiquated castle, and a thoughtful smile rises to her face, "but don't you think that adds to the intrigue?"
"Think of all the ideas that were left to fester with the abandonment of its people," she continues, her voices gaining a dreamy undertone, "all the potential for innovation that couldn't be realized at that time still resides within these walls; in rejected ideas and inspirations, in works of art unseen, in literature unread; it is all here, waiting to be acknowledged."
Lemony smiles despite himself and decides to engage her imagination, "perceive being able to witness the events that have unfolded here with your mind's eye."
With genuine curiosity, she asks, "do you mean by imagining?"
He shakes his head, "not quite. There exists a theory in paranormal studies that suggests that all objects and places have energy fields that can be sensed by a special kind of people, who would proceed to tell the tale of the object with immaculate accuracy upon contact therewith. Joseph Buchanan termed it psychometry. He said, the past is entombed in the present. The world is its own enduring monument; and that which is true of its physical, is likewise true of its mental career."
Violet considers for a moment, "that sounds like a fascinating theory. I would much like to believe it."
"But the logical mind refuses it?" he says.
She smiles and quietly says, "the logical mind seeks further inspection before deciding whether to accept or refuse it."
Lemony averts his gaze and walks about, "I believe in it," he stops in front of the doorway and traces its metallic handle, "I find it inane that great depths of emotions can be exuded only to be tarnished upon conveyance. They must leave an impression; a semblance of the creation that roamed about and touched upon the place."
"Isn't that what books and paintings are for?" Violet says.
"And yet we know of suffering that predates the invention of words, or any form of expression for that matter, by millennia. It is there, left for the intrinsic perception to catch it," he mumbles.
She steps beside him with a small grin, "Mr. Snicket, are you a psychometrist?"
His lips twist slightly upwards mirthlessly, but his eyes face the ground below him, "no, miss Baudelaire. I am merely a pretentious romantic," and he turns his back to her, walking away. "I don't believe we will find any helpful lead here, despite the place's external appeal," he mumbles.
Violet blinks, processing the sudden change in demeanor. She gazes up the towering structure with a curious frown, "but doesn't an investigator inspect all places?" she mutters before turning to catch up with the speeding man.
She is definitely not lacking in mental capabilities. She can tell that Lemony is hiding something.
But what?
Thank you to all those who read and who showcased their support. Your feedback greatly urges me to continue. :D