Gentle sunlight trickles through the open window to caress Violet into wakefulness. Her eyes open slowly but do not fixate on any particular feature in her environment; she knows it's alien and transient, just like every abode she has occupied in the last few years.

I suppose that also makes it familiar and constant, in a sense…

And as though to provide a testament to the regularity of her circumstances, she finds that she's unable to summon any sentiment of distress or unease at waking in an ambiguous place, thousands of miles away from her hometown, and with people whose very motives she distrusts. Stranger than that, the weight atop her heart that she has become so accustomed to seems to have shed some of its burden. Her chest is light, and she can breathe without being suffocated by the lump in her throat. For the first time in a long while, she feels like things might turn out to be all right.

She tentatively tests the fragility of this feeling, reviving the thought of her sister and adoptive daughter in a flashing collage of two trusting faces melding with the azure of the sea. A lurch in her heart, and then serenity. The distinct assuredness of curious optimism reverberates in her mind and quells down her doubts and the incredulity of experience and reason.

Olaf is dead. I have a friend, and I've found Klaus. Somehow, I'll find Sunny and Beatrice as well. This then will all be over. This will all be over.

"This will all be over…" she whispers to herself, eyes shut against any detail that might impede this dream of a conviction as she balances on the boundary of a grim realization: Count Olaf isn't the epitome of evil, he's just a bitter man who hid in its shadow.

She cuts the thought before it leads her into an abyss and throws her legs over the edge of the bed. A woman had placed some clothes for her on a nearby wooden chair. Violet picks up a shirt and traces its laced collar with a nostalgic smile, the pattern reminding her of years past, when she would watch her mother as she sifted through her elegant wardrobe, eyes vibrant and yearning. One day, my Violet, you and I will share our clothes.

Violet swallows at the memory of her mother's melodious laugh and straightens her stance. She dresses in that shirt and tucks it in a long skirt that reaches the middle of her calf. It's not a habit of hers to stand too long in front of the mirror, but surprise holds her captive for long moments. She realizes that she hadn't truly had the time to examine her appearance for a very long time, and that the marks of maturity aren't merely felt, but also manifested. But that's not what takes her aback. For a full second, she fancies she sees her mother staring back at her. Moisture gathers in her eyes and she scans her reflection for all the inconsistencies; the facets she so loved in her mother that are absent in her. Her eyes are a dark well of secrets where light doesn't reach, contrasting with Beatrice's glowing azures. Her hair is long and straight, concealing her frame from the hazards of the world, while Beatrice's descended in cascading waves, ready for the sways of the wind and storms. No, she is not her mother…

She wonders if she would be proud could she see her now.

Slightly shaking her head to escape her reverie, she smoothes down the soft fabric of her skirt and exits the room into the hallway, just in time for a small form to crash into her. A colorful flurry of butterflies clouds her vision and she instinctively raises her forearms to shield her face, stepping back in surprise as a child scurries anxiously, arms reaching high with a flailing net in a desperate attempt to retrieve the insects.

"Come back!" he exclaims, chasing fruitlessly. "Come back!"

Violet stares at the sight for a bit before her bewilderment clears, but her visage retains its confusion. "What are you doing here?"

The kid sighs, shoulders slumped with surrender, before turning to her. Quite quickly, his despondence turns into complacent glee. "I'm a volunteer! I put out fires both literal and figurative! Wanna see my tattoo?"

Without awaiting a reply, he reaches down to unveil his ankle, and indeed, on his porcelain skin is a black insignia of the three ominous letters forming an eye. A shudder runs down her spine and she stands immobile before the impatiently expectant kid.

"Nevil!"

Both Violet and Nevil turn towards the source of the voice, seeing a stubby man in a patchy vest and a bowtie rushing towards them. Nevil stiffens and sucks in a guilty breath.

"Nevil! You can't run amuck revealing such valuable information about yourself!" The man huffs out a tired breath after he comes to a halt. "You might only be a neophyte, but that doesn't excuse you from disregarding the basics of your teachings!"

"Sorry, Mr. Hoffmeier… But she's a volunteer, too, isn't she?" He now eyes her with suspicion unbefitting his young age — as if he has been privy to treacheries and deceits of decades past.

Mr. Hoffmeier regards her as well; eyes puffed and scrutinizing. "Are you who I think you are?"

The words bring back a distant memory. She sees fire and death passing in an elapsing glimpse. "Of course I'm who you think I am." The words come out quietly and monotonously from her mouth and she tastes their bitter tang. She hates having to fall into the same tedious pretense after she thought she had finally escaped it.

He issues a rasped 'hm' and quickly loses interest in her. Suddenly his eyes widen with realization, and Nevil shrinks instantly in his place. "My butterflies! What did you do with my butterflies?!"

"I didn't do anything! They — they escaped!"

"Escaped!" he scoffs. "I've personally trained them to be the most courageous and loyal of all the VFD animals! They wouldn't simply escape!"

Violet furrows her eyebrows and silently wonders how one goes about training butterflies. Then, as she notices the color on Mr. Hoffmeier's cheeks becoming more brilliant in its redness and the growing apprehension on Nevil's face, she intervenes. "It's my fault. I wasn't looking where I was going, so I collided with Nevil and the butterflies got away."

The man fumes but otherwise refrains from expressing his anger. "Well—! Nevil, your next mission is to devise a way to retrieve them all." He begins to walk away in a piqued march, with Nevil following close behind.

"But—!"

"No buts! This is in fact a perfect opportunity to hone your skills as a volunteer! You know what will happen if you prove yourself to be inefficient or otherwise lacking in ability."

The voices slowly ebb away.

"The fire-starters will get to my parents and murder them," Nevil replies in a toneless voice.

Violet sees the animated bob of Mr. Hoffmeier's head, and she hears his last sentence before the two disappear into a room: "Which is why you must learn to put out the fire before it's started. Kill it before it kills you, I say!"

Nausea couples the bitterness in her mouth and she can't help the sense of unease that prods her mind. Forcing herself to brush off the discomfort, she focuses on her initial intent and glides softly on the wooden tiles, looking at the portraits of past volunteers, honored in gold-rimmed frames, high and imposing. Most of them she doesn't recognize, and she makes a conjecture that they're some of the very first members of VFD. Much to her surprise, she spots famous figures, one of whom is her favorite scientist. Her eyes widen and her steps come to a slow halt.

"Just how far has this organization fallen…" she mutters under her breath, and decides that it must have been truly honorable at some point. Unless… her heroes were morally questionable themselves. She shakes her head and dismisses the latter possibility before resuming her walk. It seems that all the knowledge she has acquired about the origins of VFD was a mere extract from a very complex whole. It doesn't bode well with her to be so ignorant about something that bears an enormous influence on her life. Would Mr. Snicket be open to discussing this with her? She frowns. He probably wouldn't. His secrecy is so intrinsic and extensive that she suspects he doesn't play a conscious role in it.

However… Violet feels a small smile playing on her lips when she finally locates her intended destination. Libraries are made to offer knowledge without reserve.

She grips the handle and twists it, a colorful ray of sunlight falling on her face as it passes through a mosaic window. Her smile widens when she sees her brother hunched over a table, surrounded by dozens of books piled haphazardly, with Tesla standing on top of a stack. How she has missed this sight. Klaus looks up instinctively at sensing he's being watched, his features instantly relaxing and his eyes gaining a certain brilliance, but this ease is quickly dissipated into a guilt-ridden tentativeness.

"Good morning, Violet," he greets slowly. "About last night… I didn't mean to insult your friend. I just—"

"I know," interrupts Violet, moving to sit on a chair nearby him. "I understand. I'd react in a similar way if our positions were reversed."

Klaus hesitates, his eyes glued to the words of an unread passage and frowning. "But that's not to say that I've changed my mind about this — about him. He might turn out to be a treacherous person after all…"

Quietly, she says, "can't you afford to give him the benefit of the doubt?"

He faces his sister, and two pairs of dark, weary eyes meet. She reads exhaustion and cynicism in his gaze, and he reads sadness and pleading in hers. Klaus sighs and offers the smallest impression of a smile. "Of course I can."

If his words begot him any kind of discomfort, it is quickly eroded by seeing his sister's face light up with relief and gratitude.

"And in any case," he says, standing from his chair before withdrawing a book from a shelf and flipping through it, "I wouldn't be much of a researcher if I made judgements without looking into the case in depth."

Despite herself, Violet finds that she's greatly intrigued. Her need to analyze the inner workings of the elusive Mr. Snicket hasn't escaped her consciousness, but rather gained a guilt-inducing mien. Should she probe into his life regardless of his blatant insinuations that he would very much prefer to keep it private? She definitely wouldn't appreciate it he did it with her, but… this is her family's safety that is in question. She must be cautious for them.

Despite that assured conviction, her heart twinges for a second. I'm sorry, Mr. Snicket. But you must understand…

"Have you found something?" she voices at last.

"There's a book that provides extensive profiles on all volunteers—"

Violet sucks in a breath.

"—but it's written in a code that requires the ability to speak Farsi, French, and Fingallian."

She furrows her brows, head tilted to the side. "Fingallian?"

"It's an extinct language formerly spoken in Ireland—a derivative of middle English." He sighs, closing the book in his hands. "It will take me quite a while until I'm able to make sense of what's written."

"We don't have that sort of time…" she says contemplatively before rising and examining the numerous tomes lining the aging shelves. "Isn't there another source?"

Klaus reaches for a file just beside her head, and Violet notes that his lips are curved upwards slightly; a gesture that parades itself whenever his research provides him with interesting information. "Not yet, but there will be," he says cryptically.

Violet glances upon the parchment in his hold and at first notes nothing of interest: A description of an occurrence at an Italian restaurant involving two obscure volunteers. It's only when her eyes reach the end of the passage that they gain a brilliance of realization. Scribbled in an italic, hasty handwriting is a signature — L. Snicket.

"Of course… Mr. Snicket is a writer…" she mutters, then surveys the expanse of the library. "His works must be present here — or at least, some of them."

He nods slowly, exhaling a long breath. "Finding them won't be easy. It's as if all the books here are arrayed in a way that's meant to derail anyone who isn't involved directly in the organization."

She turns to her brother then and takes a moment to examine him. He has grown quite a bit since the beginning of their ordeal; no longer is he the boy with the soft voice who stood a few inches beneath her. She finds that now she must look up at him rather than the contrary, and her chest swells with pride at what she finds. Her brother is a dependable, intelligent young man with an insight that rivals that of anyone she has ever known, and her ever-present trust in him resonates all the more firmly.

"But you will find them," she says, as though stating a simple fact.

"I must…" he mutters, lost in his thoughts.

A faint screech is heard briefly as the door opens, causing the two Baudelaires to turn simultaneously to survey the intruder. They stand in a silence as Lemony peers at them from beneath his hat with his intense blue eyes, holding Klaus a captive in his scrutiny before leaving him and fixating on Violet. The sombre gleam softens to a warm shimmer. He quickly averts his gaze then, regaining his aloof mien.

"Good morning, Baudelaires," he says, moving in purposeful strides towards a high shelf and retrieving what appears to be a compilation of documents.

"Good morning, Mr. Snicket," greets Violet with an amiable nod. "Did you sleep well?"

Lemony raises an eyebrow at her unprecedented attempt at smalltalk, but upon appraising her, he notes that her question is earnest. She's reading him again with unabashed browns. "I slept as I always do…" he replies ambiguously, clearing his throat. He looks at Klaus again and sees that his attention is entirely centered on the folder in Lemony's hand.

"Well," he says, instinctively tightening his hold on the papers. "I'm off to search for the two younger Baudelaires." Drawing his lips in a thin, strained smile, he quickly exits the library.

"Violet," says Klaus, voice hasty and hushed. "Go with him, and keep him away for a few hours. This will give me the time to locate his writings."

A frustrated lump forms in her throat, wishing to make an egress and assure him that such measures don't need to be taken, but such a reaction would be purely based on an emotional bias. She understands his precaution, and so primes logic over her sentimentality as she is wont to do.

With a nod that comes after a moment's consideration, she strides outside the building and follows Lemony's trail, finding his coat-clad form as it disappears into the darkness of an alley. Quickening her steps, she reaches him at last, her breath short and her lungs aching from taking in large gulps of crisp-cold air.

Lemony looks at her in what she interprets as dismayed curiosity. She answers his question before it exits his lips.

"I decided I would come with you," she says, gazing up at him with silent resolve.

He doesn't answer her immediately, and she fears he might attempt to send her back. But to her surprise…

A cloud of vapor forms as he exhales a breath. It hangs gently in the air before dispersing. "If only you wore something more befitting of the weather, miss Baudelaire."

She can't help the grin that claims her lips, her eyebrows slightly rising. "Don't worry, Mr. Snicket. I've dealt with worse things than the cold."

Unconvinced, he hums noncommittally and removes his scarf, offering it to her silently. She takes it and wraps it around her neck, having it fall to cover her frail shoulders. Lemony commences his stride then, with Violet picking up pace quickly. They soon fall into the pattern to which they have become accustomed.

"Mr. Snicket?"

"Yes, miss Baudelaire?"

"Please call me Violet."

Silence, then…

"Very well… Violet."

Ah. I've been wanting to update for a while now, but university is all too time consuming. In any case, here is the new chapter, and I hope you all liked it. :) Thank you for sticking with me, and thank you for reviewing. Reading your comments makes me very happy, and truly it's a motivation to continue.

I must admit, this story seems to be writing itself, which is a good thing. It means I'm not forcing anything to occur, but merely following the logical series of events that correspond to the characters' predilections and personalities.

I wonder where Violet and Lemony will take me (and by association, you, dear readers).

And to the guest that said that they are writing a Lemony/ Violet story, I can't wait to read it! I'm truly happy I managed to inspire you somehow. :D