ᅠᅠ @hvbris liked for a starter ! kit snicket / count olaf
she had spent the better part of an hour sitting very still in the center of the tent , though stillness was not her natural habit . she was a woman who , under ordinary circumstances , marked time by motion: by pacing , by turning pages , by tapping a finger against a tabletop while thinking of three solutions to one problem . but on this afternoon , with the striped fabric rising around her , she had forced herself into immobility again and again , training her body to obey her disguise before her mind could betray her . madame lulu did not pace . madame lulu did not wring her hands . madame lulu did not reach for the seams of her sleeves and find , to her irritation , that one thread had come loose and needed to be tucked in , then checked , then checked again .
she did all of these things in secret.
she had arranged the tent with extreme precision . the crystal ball sat where the lantern light could strike it at the right angle . the velvet cushions were placed just so , as if fortune itself preferred symmetry . a deck of cards lay near her left elbow , their edges worn from use and reuse , though she had not yet decided whether she would read them honestly or merely dramatically . she had already decided , however , that olaf would not receive honesty from her any more than he deserved it from anyone else . and yet , for all her determination , she could not entirely prevent the old feeling from returning .
not love . not anymore . not only . something sharper... more troublesome . memory.
it arrived in fragments , as V.F.D. memories often did: not as a full and orderly story , but as flashes of ash and ink , corridors and code phrases , hands passing messages in the dark . she remembered a meeting room with too many candles , the smell of old paper and rain-soaked coats , the serious voices of volunteers who believed they could name the difference between disaster and duty and then act accordingly . she remembered him in those days , when he still spoke as though the world that belonged to them both had been enough for him .
he had once been , she reminded herself , almost easy to admire .
that was the danger of him . he had never been monstrous in a simple way . he had been theatrical , vain , infuriating , brilliant , and persuasive . he had smiled as if betrayal were merely another form of performance . he had known precisely how to appear generous while keeping one hand on the knife behind his back . he had also known , with equal precision , how to make a person believe he was sincere .
kit rose , crossed the tent , and adjusted the veil hanging beside the entrance . then she returned to the cushions and sat again , because waiting was its own kind of discipline , and she had learned V.F.D. discipline long before she had learned disappointment .
the hours before his arrival stretched themselves thin . every sound outside became meaningful . a wagon wheel creaking in the dirt . a burst of laughter from the small gaggle of performers she'd gathered over the years , the distant , unsteady music of the carnival band, which seemed to forget its own melody every few measures.
each noise made her shoulders tighten . each pause made her think she heard footsteps approaching . she despised that he could do this to her still , that after all the betrayals and the separations and the ruins left behind by the schism , a single expected visit could reduce her to listening for patterns in the dark . she busied herself with small , exacting tasks: she aligned the cards into a neat stack , and smoothed the hem of her skirt . she touched the rim of the crystal ball , not because it needed polishing , but because it gave her something cold and real to hold when the rest of the world threatened to become a story she could not control .
then she stopped and laughed once , very quietly , at herself . she had been trained to recognize disguises , but not to enjoy wearing one .
she wondered , not for the first time , whether olaf would see through hers . he might notice the posture before the veil , the tilt of her head , the careful lowering of her voice . he might notice the tension she could not entirely remove from her mouth whenever his name crossed her mind . or he might , as he so often did , notice only what flattered him and miss everything that might have saved him . that possibility should have comforted her . Instead it made her angry.
she had practiced the lines she would speak . she had practiced the gestures , the pauses , the theatrical glance into the crystal ball that suggested hidden knowledge and ominous certainty . but beneath all the performance was kit , who had once sat in V.F.D. meetings and believed that there were still people in the world willing to choose the difficult good over the easy catastrophe . he had been one of those people once . that was what hurt most . not that he was coming .
at last she heard what she had been waiting for: the crisp interruption of footsteps outside the tent , several pairs at once , uneven and poorly matched . a voice followed , rough with arrogance and too fond of itself . then another voice , and another , each one smaller in meaning than the last , all orbiting the same dark center . she straightened her shoulders , placed her hands in her lap , and allowed madame lulu to settle over her like a second skin . only then did she permit herself one final private thought , a thought equal parts sorrow and resolve: the past had found her , and this time, she would be ready to meet it .
