The coded message had been very clear. "L, you must attend the masked ball. B survived the fire." Of course, Lemony's heart had nearly stopped. He'd thought Beatrice dead. Everyone had. The Snicket file was seen as little more than an optimistic pipe dream of his brother's. Suddenly, he had proof to the contrary. More importantly, with Bertrand suddenly ash under the Baudelaire Mansion, there was a chance for Beatrice to atone for the way she'd broken his heart with a 200-page tome so many years before.

He'd sent word of his attendance via carrier pigeon and began the weary trek to Winnipeg. He found himself continually picturing her form, older but no less beautiful, cloaked in a familiar silken gown with gossamer dragonfly wings, her mask adorned with crystal, her waist lined with silver embroidery. The duchess had told him once that Beatrice had entrusted the gown to her years ago for safe keeping, when she and Bertrand stepped away from the organization and masked balls fell out of fashion. Seeing as it was the Dutchess' own ball, Beatrice would be reunited with it at last.

When the night finally came, Lemony scanned the ballroom for dark hair and periwinkle skirts from his position on the veranda, hoping age had not done much to tarnish the golden threads on his matador costume. Lemony kept his hat low, to ensure added coverage of his face in addition to the dark cloth mask. Despite the measure, he heard a voice calling from behind him, a voice he had thought he had heard for the last time. Back from the dead, Bertrand Baudelaire whispered, "Lemony?"

Lemony whirled to face him, taking in the hasty costume. The sailor outfit was pulled straight from the VFD disguise kits, and the only addition had been a white domino mask. How on earth he had gotten his hands on it, when everything he owned had been lost in the blaze, was beyond Lemony's knowledge.

Lemony was not precisely aware of his own feelings anymore. His hands shook and he felt the pulling of tears in his eyes, but his soul itself had seemingly disconnected from his body, unable to handle the shock. He had been so close to having Beatrice again, like he'd dreamt of for years before she was reduced to ash. He'd spent every day since he received the Dutchess' note sustained by a newfound hope, an unthinkable promise that had suddenly become reality. All that hope had vanished in an instant, wiped away by Bertrand Baudelaire's face.

"You look like I just killed someone you care for very deeply," Bertrand whispered. "I always knew you would."

"Excuse me?"

Bertrand looked tired, burdened, even. Lemony could not think of a time when he'd seen such heaviness in his eyes. "I'm sorry for your loss, Lemony. I needed to tell you that. I know you never stopped loving her. I wanted to make it clear that I don't hold that against you."

Lemony nodded and thanked him. For all the ado, he was presented with mere forgiveness. He'd come all the way to Winnepeg just to accept an olive branch. The irony of it might have crushed him, the way he'd come expecting love and been given only civility, if he'd been younger and more naive. Now, the anticlimax was predictable. He was used to happiness fading to disappointment. It was still disappointment, but he'd learned to expect it. At least this case had ended with a volunteer unexpectedly alive, and the discovery that Bertrand still respected Lemony in a way few ever had. That made it almost worth the trouble.