What is it about a person sentenced to a life of fearful wariness that makes them instantly noteworthy? Suspicious and curious eyes hooded by furrowed brows swipe over Violet's visage beyond her ability to escape them. She shifts her focus from one point to another, unsure if it is the intensity of the commoners' gaze that guides her own, or if it's a futile attempt of hers to find a less hostile front.

"The best disguise, Violet," says Lemony unexpectedly, and she faces his untouched, aloof profile, "is one that is not donned at all. Instead, you convince yourself that you're no different from what you seek to emulate."

She breathes a discreet sigh, eyes downturned in introspection. "How does one go about doing that?"

"You locate your sense of identity, everything you are… and you lose it."

Her mouth opens for a second, but resigns to closure at the failure of her thoughts to be coherently expressed. How does she explain that her identity is something she hasn't been able to touch upon and identify for longer than she cares to admit? And should she come to find it, she would grasp it with the firmest of grips and refuse to let go, never mind abandon it! Yet how simply he states this claim, how apathetically… From the corner of her eye, she appraises his silent countenance — the grimly set jaw, the mouth drawn into a thin line, the sharpened edges. and the pale skin… but those are features she merely grazes. Her interest lies predominantly in his eyes, secretive and excluding as they are. No one is born with their hearts shut against the world. He must have built the fences and secured the doors with iron clamps endowed by scarring incidence. How many times did he have to lose his sense of who he is? And when did he forget where he had placed it altogether? Has he, even?

Her scrutiny must have been intense enough to cause him to view her momentarily, turning the very object of her inspection towards her in an involuntary move. Fleeting as it was, it acts as the line that connects the dots in her discerning mind. Traces of curiosity; a softening of tenderness; then alarm…

No, by no means is he as apathetic as he tries to make himself out to be.

But what is it about her that causes him to be so… scared? Is he scared of her? She doesn't know, and a slight prickling in her mind causes her to frown in frustration. She hates not knowing, but mostly she hates not understanding. Quite unfortunately for her, human beings aren't meant to be prodded and dissected as her precious clockwork automatons. Observation is what remains for her.

Despite herself, she feels a rush of excitement at the prospect of Klaus locating Lemony's writings. She hopes dearly they aren't void accounts of disinteresting phenomena. Again, the pang of anticipation is soon allayed by dreaded guilt. But why does her conscience torture her so if the books are present in a library and made available to everyone? It's not like she's infiltrating his quarters and ransacking his belongings. The answer shines in her mind in a flash of realization. If what you're doing isn't something you're willing to share, then the chances are you aren't supposed to be doing it.

And like a page in a novel filled with dismaying occurrences, she flips the leaf in contained vexation and clears her mind of the words, the question of her merit as a friend lingering softly in the premises of her thoughts.

Perhaps he isn't as opposed to sharing information about who he is now. Perhaps the flash of tenderness that arose and evaporated with equal swiftness in his eyes meant that he did think of her as a friend after all.

She decides to put the theory to the test.

"Mr. Snicket," she says to get his attention, her voice quiet with the ever-present fear that an unnamed enemy could be listening. "Tell me about the organization… before the schism." His eyebrows rise instantly, but he trains his features to regain their former mien. "You said you were friends with my parents, but I suspect that friendship ended around that time, since… they never really mentioned you. What happened?"

Lemony's posture is stiff, and the shadow on his face cast by his hat darkens. "You phrase your questions so simply, Violet, yet the answers are anything but."

Softly, she says, "I don't expect a simple answer."

He draws in a shaky breath and fixes hardened eyes that are made less severe by the impression of tears to the cobbled ground. "It is worth knowing that I was in better acquaintanceship with your mother than with your father. Indeed we were… held together in the warmest of rapports." His voice softens gradually and becomes more distant. "The schism was responsible in the breaking of this… companionship, but not in the manner you seem to have in mind. We did not choose different sides; opposing or contiguous though they may be. Rather, in a complex web of occurrences, I was forced to become distant from the organization, and my rumored death was broadcast upon all ears. I maintained the pretense, transforming the rumor into reality, since… it seemed to be the safer alternative. I chose to live in obscurity… as you have invariably noticed, I am a much sought-after man. Separation was inevitable, unavoidable, concrete…" A shaking hand rises to quickly clear away the descending tears, his neck craning as he inclines his head downward until his chin touches his chest.

Violet stands in bewildered stupor, never having truly expected him to answer her question, and definitely not expecting the cold-mannered Mr. Snicket to be so quickly claimed by tears. A hesitant hand hangs in the air, hovering just by his shoulder in a semblance of a comforting caress. Somewhere along his monologue, the two halted their pace and stood immobile in a sea of hurrying people. A few passersby send them scornful looks, but at least they aren't marred by suspicion. A man collides with her, causing her hand to resign on the weeping man's shoulder.

"You loved her," she voices her realization, shocked by it as by everything else.

But he seems to not hear her. He seems to not notice her presence at all as he continues in frenzied, hushed tones. "It is of course my fault. My fault! I could have…!" He grunts, clutching his head in a sudden move, and Violet retreats by reflex.

"What was your fault?" she questions in haste, her need for answers propelling her.

"She died!" he cries. "It could have been preventable, but I… I am too cowardly, too dastardly, too selfish…!" He dashes forward, striding forward in haste, as though to escape his thoughts more than anything else.

Violet pursues, attempting to match her pace to his. "What do you mean? Mr. Snicket, who was responsible for the fire? Was it not Count Olaf?"

"No," he growls, a bitter laugh rising in his throat. "No, miss Baudelaire, that heinous crime was too calculated and methodical to be done by a person as impulsive and impatient as Olaf."

"Then who—"

"Count Olaf, as wretched and vile as he was, was by no means a mastermind in the schism," he interrupts, still feverish and frantic. "Our lives do not become easier, no, they never become easier… But I cannot fail again…"

Something sets inside Violet, and she finds that she is too tired of being led through mazes with nothing but dead ends. Her short-lived hope for a peaceful existence has been shattered in the span of a few minutes and the fear reignited inside her heart with alarming fervor. Exasperated, she says, "Mr. Snicket, just tell me! Tell me who did it! Tell me what happened, I deserve to know!"

His face twists in misery as his painfully shut eyes produce fresh tears. He holds his head in a white-knuckled clutch, shaking it against the vehemence of his thoughts. "Violet," he chokes out in a broken voice. "If you have an ounce of mercy — If you have an ounce of compassion, you will not ask me this again!"

Her mouth hangs agape. She is at a loss for words and her frustration has reached its limit. She wants to scream and demand for explanations. She wants to cry her heart out at how unfair the world is. Surprising and alarming her, she wants to kill everyone who has ever hurt her and her family. But this last desire freezes her in aghast horror at herself. An impulse of a moment. Nothing more. Nothing more! She would never hurt anyone. She doesn't have it in her. Does she?

Moisture clouds her vision and she swallows her fermenting scream. Her misery doesn't end with Count Olaf's demise… It extends beyond her scope of vision and resides in the hands of persons she has no knowledge of. And there is little she can do about it.

Violet's plethora of emotions mix and fire in intense bursts, but when it all ends, she is left with fear. The same fear that has followed her for years on end. She focuses her vision on Lemony's weeping form. The imposing and impenetrable shadow has become tangible, tactile, and utterly fragmented. She pities him. She understands him in a way that her intellectual mind cannot touch upon.

An invisible thread pulls her forward, and she feels her weight more keenly with every trodden step, a lump forming and residing in her throat.

Silently, she opens her frail arms and embraces him. In characteristic irony, his coat-clad frame is colder to the touch than her thinly-dressed, shivering person. He stands stiff and stagnant, and she compensates by gripping onto the fabric of his coat with all the ardor she can muster, like a child seeking refuge from an invisible monster in the arms of a brass figurine. But soon he yields, and the figurine gains a life and the safety is no longer conjured by the sheer power of imagination, yet that does not make it any less fictive. His clutch is stronger than hers, hurting her slightly as he encircles her middle much like a constrictor, forcing her to stand on her tip-toes to make up for the height difference. She makes no move to ease his clasp and simply allows him to unburden his heart as he cries. Violet herself feels her head pulsate with the pain of withheld tears, and she lets them escape in large, burning droplets.

Lemony mutters apologies and pleas for forgiveness. Violet shakes her head incessantly, silently imploring him to stop. She doesn't know why he is apologizing, and the whispers serve as nothing more than a proof for an obscure incrimination and a scape for her imagination to run wild. If he refuses to supply her with the crime, then she will not give the verdict.

But, a moment of furious clarity dawns upon her, her tears suspended in vehement brown eyes and her nails digging through wool, I will find out what happened. It doesn't have to be from him. I will find out!

This becomes another promise that she carves into her heart and lets run throughout her body with every drop of blood rushing through her vessels. No more will she be ignorant of what brings her and her family anguish.

White noise erupts in her ears and her eyes widen. If their troubles are truly far from over… then who is to say Sunny and Beatrice are not in harm's way right now? They are only two young girls, alone… So young… too young… my responsibility.

Violet withdraws in a jerk, causing Lemony to stumble forward in surprise. He quickly readjusts his stance but refuses to meet her eyes, his face flushed and twisted severely in abashed vexation; vexation at himself and his lack of impulse control. Her face is grim as well, but unbeknownst to him, it is not because of the plethora of negative adjectives with which he stones himself. His fist clenches at his side.

"… Forgive me for my indecen—"

"Let's go, Mr. Snicket. We must find Sunny and Beatrice."

Quietly and so serenely she issues her command, that if not for the look of pure fury in her delicate features, one would think she is merely seeking out the two girls from a playground. But Lemony hears beyond the quietude until his ears reach the austere abandon of a person who has little to lose, and it leaves him with a sense of unease.

She leads the way stoically, though she doesn't know where they intend to go. He takes her side, acting as a silent compass that insinuates the direction rather than dictate. No word is exchanged between the two, and the first glance they share is when Lemony stops before a ragged, musty inn. A few drunkards stand by the entrance, their faces bruised and bloodied from a brawl. Indistinct voices can be heard from inside; shouting and jeering and cheering in a molded mess of noise.

"The informant said he was to meet me here," mutters Lemony, scanning the contours of the place with clear distaste. "But he didn't specify just how unpleasant a locale it was for a rendezvous." Sardonic sarcasm drips from every word he enunciates, but his voice loses this quality as he inclines his head in Violet's direction, albeit still refraining from looking at her. "Are you certain you want to go in?"

But she doesn't answer. Her frail clean hand that contrasts with the stained and rusted door rises as grips the handle, turning it open. The smell that strikes them is many folds worse than the diluted impression that greeted them outside, and they raise their arms instinctively to act as a shield against the rancidness.

"Come," says Lemony in a muffled voice.

They make their way quickly through the tables, ignoring the stares and refusing to look in anyone's direction. He locates a darkly-dressed figure sitting in an isolated corner, face downturned and eyes obscured by a frayed hat.

"Here is our man," he mutters. Violet nods her head and strides forward.

The man raises his head to reveal yellowed, piercing eyes that scan the pair with analytical interest. He smirks to himself and gestures his hand lazily by means of greeting. "At last comes my client. Or should I say clients?" His gaze lingers on Violet, assessing her in a manner that makes her throat constrict and her stomach turn.

An arm cuts through his field of vision as Lemony extends it for a handshake. "Ceylon Ken Smit. And this is my colleague, Arielle-Eva Butoid."

Despite her bemusement by the pseudonyms, Violet doesn't blink, maintaining a blank, earnest facade. The man himself raises an eyebrow as he shakes Lemony's hand, giving a slow, suspicious nod.

"Mine is Lloyd Bernall. A pleasure! A pleasure, indeed, Mr. Smit and miss… Butoid? An unusual name," he muses, offering his hand to the girl, who shakes it quickly before he has the chance to bring hers to his lips.

"It's French," she says with a slight accent.

"French!" he reclines backwards, eyebrows raised in faux fascination. "How exotic! Oh, but never mind that! Let's get to business." Here, he leans forward and rests his chin on his linked hands. "Mr. Smit, you will be pleased to know I have the information you requested."

"Well, I certainly hoped we weren't brought here in vain," quips Lemony darkly. Leaning in to whisper to him, he continues, "how much do you demand?"

"Oh! I do not deal in cash. Much too boring for me! I enjoy a bit of a gamble." He issues a small grin, ignoring his interlocutor's desire for secrecy with his boisterous voice. Bending to retrieve something from under the table, he grabs hold of a wooden box and places it on the table.

"See this?" he taps an iron padlock hanging from the center of the box. "How this lock opens is a mystery; it either does, or it doesn't. It's almost like fate, and being a deeply religious man myself, I trust its judgement." In a swift move, he reveals a brass key of medium size. "This," he places it in the keyhole, "is the associated key. As you can well see, it fits perfectly well. But whether it functions or not," he turns it, and the lid of the box opens, "is entirely dependent on you."

After locking the box again, he offers the key to Lemony, who regards the object and its holder with complete suspicion. "Is that it? A mere game of luck?"

Bernall clicks his tongue, shaking his head slowly. "I do need to make my living somehow, do I not? The deal is thus: If you do open it, then you receive your information free of charge. If you don't, then no information, and you give me something of your own. Like…" his eyes search Lemony's form before residing on a golden chain poking from beneath his vest. "That nice little pocket watch of yours. And please do not call it a game of luck, it is much much more than that! What do you say?"

The writer sighs and retrieves his watch, eyeing the object wistfully — the sole reminder of his departed sister. But then again, he doesn't believe in the principle behind the dealer's game. He is certain there is a ploy somewhere, but his choices are limited. Lemony places it on the table and takes the key into his hand.

"Very well." He examines the key and the box, attempting the evade the trick before falling for it, but he finds nothing out of the ordinary. Sparing a look at Violet beside him, he sees that she too is confused and suspicious, but otherwise passively pensive. He sighs again and puts it in its assigned place, turning it clockwise. Instantly he finds that its passage is barred. He tries in the other direction, but alas, nothing comes of it, and he ends up jerking the key to and fro with a silent plea for it to open.

Bernall lets out a dramatic breath. "It isn't fated. Pity." He grins widely, extending his open palm. "Your watch, please."

Lemony stares at him, his eyes glinting momentarily in irritation. "It is a trick," he grumbles. "Not by any means a legitimate exchange."

"No, no you can't blame your bad luck on my honest trade, Mr. Smit! That simply would not do, don't you think miss Butoid?" He glances at Violet patronizingly before returning to Lemony, his smile never leaving his face. "I gave the conditions, and you accepted. Now you must uphold your end of the bargain!" He snatches the watch before its owner can issue another protest, standing quickly and collecting his box. "Well, sir, miss, it has been a pleasure—"

"I would like to try," says Violet calmly and both men turn to her. Lemony puts forth a silent enquiry with his disconcerted eyes, but it is not answered.

"Delightful!" exclaims the man, returning to his position and leaning speculatively to examine the unyielding girl more closely. "But what could you have that I want?" he mutters to himself. "Nothing, nothing at all of interest…" An idea bestows a passing shimmer to his dark eyes. "Nothing materialistic of course, but not necessarily physical…"

Lemony's alarmed voice cuts through his contemplation, "what are you insinuating?"

"A night with the lady is what I demand," says Bernall simplistically, not at all perturbed by the aghast expression of the man before him.

"Absolutely no—"

"Fine." Again, Violet's voice begets the two men to shift their attention towards her.

"Miss Bau—Butoid!" Lemony's voice, although vehement, comes in a hushed, horrified timbre.

But her own lack of mortification causes the other man to rethink his offer, a simper distorting his harsh features unpleasantly. "Actually… there are two girls, yes? A night for information per girl."

Violet ignores her burning lids and falling heart, digging her nails into the flesh of her palm in an attempt to exude all the fear in the quietest way possible. She swallows and hates her voice that quivers. "All the same."

"Excellent!" Lloyd offers the key to her in a mockery of a curtesy. "My lady."

"She is a child, you sick miscreant!" growls Lemony, furious impressions of tears scorching his eyes.

This claim triggers an instant incredulousness in her, replacing fear with pique. "I am not a child!" she says, facing Lemony who fixates his fervent, imploring gaze on her. Her eyes burn ardently with the need for him to understand, just understand. Understand that after all she has been through, she transcended her age and societal propriety; that self-serving behavior is not and could not ever be tolerated by her; that her life is not worth living if her family is not there with her.

The emphasis behind her words is not lost when she softens her tone. "I will not have decisions made on my behalf, Mr. Smit."

Lemony feels so defeated, his shoulders falling and his voice becoming small and plaintive. "Don't make me fail to protect you. Not again. Not while I am right here."

"It's not your job to protect me," she says softly. "And if you hold yourself to it, then I ask you to relieve yourself from it. I am my own person, and I will act based on what I think is right."

"A touching exchange though it may be," Bernall's humorous voice cuts through, "I have other places to be and my patience is rather limited. Lady?" He dangles the key lazily and she takes it.

Running her thumb across the ridges, she grabs the box and peers into the keyhole pensively, but whenever she attempts to follow a thought to its finale, she is held still. Her hair falls across her shoulders distractingly and her hand itches to push it back. At last, she deposits the key and takes hold of the scarf around her neck, twisting it around her hair and tying it. Peculiar as it may sound, this seemingly inane gesture clears her thoughts and opens her mind, and she returns to her inspection of the key.

Bernall taps his foot impatiently, boring his eyes into her. "Quite a dramatic girl you have, Mr. Smit," he drawls.

Lemony bestows upon him a glare from the side of his eye but soon returns his attention to the Violet, chin resting on a shaking hand and teeth digging into his finger.

The inventor takes one last glance at the key and its lock and becomes ascertained in one thing: It is impossible to reach any kind of conclusion without some probing. And so with hitched breath, she enters the key and examines its play, feeling for the tumblers that are meant to match the notches. It's too loose. The bolt is not swayed and the match is meretricious. She turns it slowly, vicariously feeling the bolt and testing it. If it's not the key that slides it open, then what is?

Far away from her speculative mind, the two men watch the display with contradicting emotions. Bernall has his teeth bared in a self-contented smile and Lemony has his mouth agape.

She failed.

"What a rightful shame, my lady! It seems like opening the box isn't fated for you. But a deal is a deal, and you will uphold your end." He grabs her wrist just in time when Lemony grabs him by the lapels of his jacket.

"Wait!" says Violet. "There are two girls and… two nights," she continues, shaken, "isn't it only fair that I get two chances?"

The vile man exhales a long breath, lips thinning. "One more chance. When you fail, you come with me." He jerks himself free from Lemony's grip, who in turn positions himself in a way that allows him to grab Violet and flee as quickly as possible.

The frightened girl nods slowly and takes the key again, thinking hard with all her might.

It's not the key. Then what is it? But the man did manage to open the box when he placed it, so the key is partly responsible… How? The tumblers at the back of the lock are hardly complementary — a light switches behind her eyes and they gain a telltale brilliance — because they aren't tumblers at all! They're bumps… with a metal-like consistency. Wires? Why wires?

"Any time now!"

The incessant tapping is grating her nerves. She shuts it out.

Could it be…?

She sucks in a breath and her grip on the key tightens. She notices that its base has a plastic insulator. It could be…!

"Do it already!" Bernall growls.

Violet looks at him, seeing his callous features and dead, hungry eyes, before turning to Lemony in an undisclosed imploration for support. He gives her a wavering, strained smile, and it is all she needs.

She places the key again and tests her theory, hand shaking uncontrollably. It nudges the interior of the lock here and there, looking for something to yield. Please, please let it be true.

The girl all but gasps when she manages to press a button-like structure and senses the familiar buzz of an electric current. It's an electromagnet! With hardly contained jubilation, she begins to work the key, picking the weakened lock efficiently under the influence of the magnetic field. The lid of the box opens, and a cloud of shocked silence hangs in the air for long moments.

"Impossible," Bernall hisses. "What have you done to the box?!"

"Clearly opening it was fated after all," says Violet, unable to help the sarcastic inflection that laces her still-trembling voice. She sits up straighter and raises her head, breathing heavily and grinning despite herself.

Lemony himself allows for a relieved exhale of breath. "Well?" he breathes, tearing his eyes off the box and onto the dealer. "It's your turn to uphold your end of the bargain, Mr. Bernall. Where are Sunny and Beatrice Baudelaire?"

Ire and disdain discolor Bernall's eyes all the more; his snarl twisting his lips in a sinister manner. "I will give you the location, Mr. Snicket. But don't deceive yourself into thinking you have bested me." A cold shiver runs down Lemony's spine, though he maintains a nonplussed facade. Bernall scribbles something on a paper and slides it down the table. Violet snatches it quickly.

The man stands and tips his hat. "Fare-not-so-well, Mr. Snicket, miss Baudelaire." He takes his contraption and disappears among the crowd.

Lemony stares on ahead, taking note of the man's behaviorism and manner of speech; his mode of dress; his voice; and most importantly his method of operating. He silently begins to sketch a plan to identify every last detail about him.

"Mr. Snicket," says Violet, who remains too occupied with the piece of paper. "It says they're in a church in the southern States. Do you think it's true?"

"… I don't know what I think, Violet," mutters Lemony. "I will have to do further research. But I have an uneasy feeling about this."

She thins her lips and nods solemnly, her spirits deflating yet again as she becomes acutely aware of how fatigued she is. A surprised yelp escapes her lips when Lemony suddenly crushes her to his chest, his hand holding her head protectively.

"You foolish girl," he whispers, eyes shut tightly. "You foolish, clever girl."