The Wicked Way Exchange
Hi ! The work after the cut is for the Jacques and Quigley prompt. I hope you like it :) @nothing-to-see-here-bye-yall @asouefanworkevent
A taxi of an alarming shade of yellow dashed through street after street in a seemingly nonsensical pattern until it crashed to a halt; out of it and past a row of serpentine hedges, a tall man with an aquiline face and a nervous energy bounded. As he slipped out of the vehicle, he whispered 'May the world be quiet here' and so fled the taxi eagerly. The building before him was somehow different now, confirming the terrible telegram he had received only yesterday, which hear means news of Monty's death. So many friends had perished of late- most of them by fire- but he held fast to the hope it would be worth it if they could finally extinguish the terrible fire that disquieted the world.
Within the house, Quigley was watching all this fearfully: the stranger and his bewildering actions. He had packed to leave and was almost ready before he was interrupted by turbulent sounds outside. It was with care that he threw himself into the cupboard from which he was to observe this unknown figure. Having lost his parents and siblings recently, he had gained a weariness toward those he did not know. So it was that he retreated into his mother's advice on being able to tell the true character of a person by their actions.
Jacques's activity as he burst through the door was frantic and frenzied and as full of fear as Quigley felt but what it did not suggest was a villain. For his part, Jacques knew both that the Baudelaires were not to be found here and that something was off but he had a file to find so got out his commonplace book and began leafing through pages 197-198 in all the books he could find, scrawling down notes as he went. This behaviour was enough to convince Quigley and so he stepped out of the cupboard with mock confidence and the sound of an incomplete tea set crashing, startling Jacques. Instinctively, the stranger reached into his lower left pocket and presented a blurry, unclear picture of three siblings whom Quigley did not recognise. They were at a dock of some sort with a sword dangled dangerously above them and they were not the Quagmires. 'The Baudelaires, have you seen them?' he asked a little too loudly.
Quigley was perplexed by this faintly familiar man and his strange actions. 'No I'm-'
'Quigley Quagmire, the third triplet!' Jacques realised with excitement. 'You're alive!' Something lurked behind his exuberant grin for an instant then flickered out. They conversed quickly, without pause, growing intrigued by the other's life. Both found common ground in having been considered dead by The Daily Punctilio.
'Siblings can be like that; I'm as worried about mine as you are Duncan and Isadora,' he tried to reassure Quigley. He knew how hard it was to be dragged from the world you know and felt he ought to offer Quigley what comfort he could.
Sharp as a stick drawn to a point, Quigley asked, 'How do you know who my siblings are. Who are you anyway?' He was a little defensive after the perilous series of events that had brought him here, feeling alone and wishing desperately that he did not sound so like a scared child.
'I'm sorry,' Jacques replied more to the tone of Quigley's voice than his words. He recognised a fierce courage beneath the temporary yet heavy coats of misfortune, which he found unexpectedly familiar. 'I was a friend of your parents. Actually, I think I've met you once before at a dinner party when you were just a few years old.'
With some strain, Quigley remembered the stranger who was not really a stranger and began to trust the unsteady hand that squeezed his shoulder. They had only met briefly but it was something, which here means enough for Quigley to be able to trust Jacques a little. 'How did you know my parents?'
'We were all once members of the same noble organisation.'
'Can they help me get to my siblings?' Quigley enquired.
'I'm afraid you mustn't go after them. It would be unsafe for you to be seen in public or you might be captured by our enemies.' Unconvincingly, Jacques tried to reassure Quigley what little he could. However, sensing Quigley's unaltered determination he made a promise that as soon as it was possible, they would go together in search of the other Quagmire children.
'Which organisation?' replied Quigley, attempting to gather information as his parents had taught him- he missed them a great deal.
'VFD, though it's not what it once was' Jacques said, gradually trailing off into the recesses of his own mind. 'Not since the schism.' Truthfully, he felt guilty for having told Quigley so much; he had slowly found the organisation less noble than he had believed- he thought it better not to reveal much lest Quigley find himself embroiled in the bitter troubles of VFD.
'What does it stand for?' questioned Quigley who was not certain what Jacques had meant.
'Tell you what, I've got a present for you: it'll help make sense of the world,' said Jacques with undue hopefulness. Research was a powerful thing but it would neither help them make sense of their sadness or what had happened. Regardless, he produced a purple commonplace book as if it were the calm after a storm, though the storm was hardly over.
'Is that a commonplace book?'
'Yes. You can use it to help navigate this murky world. For now, though, you ought to get some rest.'
And so, after a little resistance from Quigley who would much rather be looking for his siblings but was also extremely tired, he slept. Jacques watched over Quigley for a while, face flushed with anguish at another orphan, a victim of the firestarters. Tomorrow he would get to know Quigley.
*
Next morning early, Quigley started awake from a nightmare- the exhaustion gone, his memories of the fire amassed. The roar of shattering glass and the cloudy plumes of smoke and then the wretched silence.
It was bright outside so he must've overslept: he was eager to learn more from this person he had met last night. So it was that he leapt out of bed only to be surprised by the overly loud creak of floorboards that told of an eerie stillness. Hot with panic, he let himself downstairs with his newly gotten commonplace book and decided to make notes as he looked for signs of Jacques. It was oddly calming.
He was sad, alone again after the merest flicker of company. The house felt bare and abandoned as the walls started to swallow Quigley up, which here means left him in desolation once more. In his search, he became even more acquainted with the rooms and in particular the library, expansive and full of obscure volumes but what interested Quigley the most was a book entitled 'Remarkable phenomena of the Mortmain Mountains' that seemed to contain many maps.
At last, he came upon a small postcard sized note, though the paper was thin as papyrus, that attempted an explanation: 'I'm sorry to have had to leave you all alone, was unavoidably detained- VFD business. I promise to be back by half past one at the outside, for brunch.' Beneath it was a signature in a flamboyant hand that stretched up and down, carving out loops in which Quigley could find some precious little comfort. Eventually his attention wandered to a vaguely familiar symbol of an eye that, as he remarked in his commonplace book, seemed to be part of the page itself. Where had he seen it before?
But before he had time to find answers to his questions, Jacques vaulted through the door and towards him with slightly too much friendliness. What drew Quigley's attention, however, was the tattoo on Jacques's left ankle- the eye. Jacques gave a fraternal embrace as Quigley peered over his shoulder and let out a tear. There was a theatrical clock on the wall with green and purple hands, which Quigley soon realised were reptiles, most probably snakes, that informed him it was not quite yet one o'clock. People who arrived early were likely to be noble, his father had taught him, for they have little time for villainous deeds. Still, he decided that he would not mention either the monogram of the eye or the tattoo; he could make his own little research into the matter.
He took to the embrace with a little exertion and they each found a little comfort in the other's company.
Once they had managed to separate themselves, Jacques took his turn to look at the clock. This time, the silver snake hissed in fear as it indicated thirteen minutes to one. He was earlier than even he had expected to be, he realised, but felt guilty anyway for having left Quigley alone at all. He made an apologetic smile, which here means attempted to make amends for having already been unable to be as reliable as he would have liked. The tattoo on his left ankle seared.
'Since I'm back early, shall we spend some time together before brunch?' he asked, almost calling this place home. Was he really so lost in this loud world that he had already grown accustomed to this place?
Quigely nodded in assent as a singular concoction of emotions bubbled over in his heart- anger, fear, love.
'Tell me, have you ever heard of the piece La Forza del Destino?' He had remembered Monty's piano, an extravagant gift from him actually, which would help them pass the time together. The piece was one Quigley would need to know about at some point, perhaps already did, so he thought this might at least be a less painful introduction to it.
In fact, Quigley had: his mother and father had talked incessantly about it for a while. It was impressive with its dramatic, bellowing melody but it hardly seemed anything much special to him. Quigley's medley of emotions, however, had an unexpected effect. 'No,' he lied. 'I should be happy to hear you play it.'
Without another word, they both embarked toward the piano room. They remained silent, though not for lack of questions such as where have you been?, how are you coping with what has happened? and wouldn't it make more sense to just have an early brunch.
The piano was a rich maroon, patterned intricately with swirls and engraved reptiles: on his first day in the herpetologist's house, Quigley had noted this remarkable instrument and was glad once more of its comfortable grandeur. Resolutely, Jacques set himself before the piano and began to play this piece that had once meant only a fictional tragedy which here means was previously not associated with the fires that had torn apart his organisation. The noise swelled, rising and falling rhythmically to a climactic crescendo and Jacques let out a silent tear. How much had been lost? Quigley was reminded of his mother who had often played to him in the evenings before that awful event and he felt a shiver of loss arc across his spine. Once what felt like an eternity had passed, the strokes on the piano reached their conclusion.
'I didn't realise this was a sad occasion,' Quigley said quietly to Jacques, remembering indistinctly something he had been told by his parents. He felt determined to offer some comfort to Jacques.
'The world is quiet here,' Jacques returned. 'That is the reply you should give; it is part of a secret code- one used to identify noble people. But then I suppose your parents taught you that. They were good volunteers.'
'Volunteers?' Quigley asked. What could he possibly mean by using such an odd word. How did this man know his parents so well, he wondered. 'Yes,' Jacques said solemnly then broke off. 'I'm afraid I'm only here on my search for the Baudelaires and as such won't be here all the time. In fact, it's likely VFD will need me elsewhere soon enough.'
Unusually distraught at this, the usually brave Quagmire asked something of Jacques. 'Stay.'
I'm afraid, however, Jacques felt a certain responsibility to the Baudelaire children who were in gravest danger, which he explained solemnly, and he was therefore unable to stay as he wanted. If he had, it is possible he would have lived to grow close to Quigley, though in truth it is likely this would not have kept them safe from other fires. Instead he promised with the kind of lie reserved for those one loves that his absences would not slowly lengthen until he was gone entirely.
Their emotions overpowering, the two departed afterwards to brunch in silence.
At first, the meal was quiet but Quigley was determined to put on a brave face, here meaning hide his sadness much like his companion. Conversation, then, was not hard to come by.
At length did they talk about Quigley's parents, exchanging trivial bittersweet anecdotes until they began to feel time slipping away around them. They painted vivid memories of the happiness that their lives had held before descending into chaos. Within the glorious tales, Quigley noticed something about Jacques's stories- something of his parents that he did not recognise. Although he maintained a smile, he began to feel disoriented by the discovery that his parents had kept secrets from him. Jacques reacted subtly and gradually shifted conversation from their tragic pasts to a future that would never be realised.
Quigley learnt that Jacques had been up all night researching and, against Jacques's protests, offered to help him in this search for the Baudelaires.
Each night, they sat together on the carpeted floor of the library, in the radiant heat of the fireplace for hours on end, poring over countless documents together. This help, it turned out, was vital as Quigley's adeptness with maps allowed them to determine that the Baudelaires had moved on to Paltryville.
