"It has been said that the hardest job in the world is raising a child, but the people who say this have probably never worked at a comb factory or captured pirates on the high seas." ~Lemony Snicket, Horseradish

Beatrice's husband found her by the punch bowl. She had just finished a conversation with R, reminiscing quietly about VFD training and the foul makeup used for disguises. R had laughed and passed her thumbs under her eyes, attempting to scrub away the memory of what wasn't there. Beatrice saw a quizzical expression uncurl on her round face as Bertrand approached, looking unusually serious. R excused herself as Bertrand came close, taking his wife's hand immediately. His hands were clammy and large where hers were smooth and tiny.

Before she could ask, Bertrand explained, "I'm concerned."

Beatrice frowned, squeezing her husband's hand and scanning the crowd before them, searching for a potential trigger.

Within a crowd of straight-backed scholars and erudite professors, well-dressed and chatting, was Klaus. Eyes bright and focussed, he was explaining something to the crowd, waving his hands in small arcs to describe an idea. The men laughed delightedly, one with a large mustache and glasses stepping forward to clap him on the shoulder.

"Aye!" the man crowed, causing Klaus to grin. "Of course that's how it should work! Aye!"

Sensing no unease, Beatrice again scanned the ballroom until she spotted Violet who was clutching a small drink and speaking with someone whose back was turned, obscuring their face from her line of vision. Judging by Violet's smile- a strange smirk, never before witnessed- she was enjoying herself more than she thought she would.

That left Sunny, who was presumably with her Uncle Monty. He had insisted on reuniting her with an incredibly deadly friend and had whisked her away before Beatrice had any time to protest, not that she would have.

With all of her children enjoying themselves, and only her husband with a problem, Beatrice was thoroughly confused. Several scenarios ran through her mind: Have our eagles returned? Did you see green smoke? Was that man in the bullfighter's costume who I thought?

Her questions easily dissipated, though. If it was really serious, Bertrand would have gotten straight to the point in any way possible.

"Why're you concerned? This has been nice." Beatrice said, as Bertrand stole a sip of her punch. He nodded towards Violet, who was grinning and shaking her head, vigorously denying a teasing accusation.

"She's having fun." He said sourly, glancing from his daughter to his mocking wife.

"The horror!" Beatrice smiled, bumping their shoulders.

"Look who she's being happy with!" He frowned, unamused.

Again, when Beatrice watched her daughter, she could only see the back of who Violet was speaking with, catching flashes of fabric and fingertips and shiny shoes. Through the crowd, Violet's companion was completely unidentifyable.
"Who-?" Beatrice started, raising onto her tiptoes to attempt to peer over the bowl-shaped hats, aquatic helmets, and jelled hair.

"It's Count Olaf." Bertrand stated, watching his wife, who saw Violet's face turn red as she rolled her eyes and fiddled with her drink.

"Oh..." Beatrice muttered, lowering herself onto flat feet and feeling thoroughly conflicted. She had history with Count Olaf, they both did. Memories of a sticky theatre floor beneath her knees as she took aim, her heart in her mouth, and cool darts in her hands made that fact irrefutable.

When Olaf was found on an island with only some bitter apples, a featherless birdcage, and a salty raft of books, Captain Widdershins brought him to the newest headquarters in the Valley of Four Drafts and gave him a role in VFD besides villainy. It had been three years and Olaf had been accepted warily.
There were still those, like R, who were cautious and accusational. Olaf took all the accusations with a roll of his eyes and a boisterous, "Do you think I would mess up your Verbal Fridge Dialogue? I'm far too important here than to meddle with the lowly correspondences of you and your... whatever. Maybe you should choose a less-public fridge before sculpting your love into a frequently-used jam lid."

Despite the caution, there had never been anything to warrant R's suspicion. Both Beatrice and Bertrand had avoided him as much as possible, speaking around him in meetings and looking in his general direction but not at him- they never instigated anything more than tacit recognition of each other.

Tonight, though, all they could do was watch. When the crowds began to thin, searching for their partners instead of mingling, Beatrice finally recognized Olaf, standing tall and formally-dressed before her daughter, who seemed amused and bold.

"What do we do?" Beatrice asked her husband, who was similarly conflicted. Instead of answering, Bertrand mused, "You know, she's been getting those letters. She built a little metal bird that flies to the mail slot below the door to stop the pulley she built from dinging. It carries all the mail to her and comes back with less each time. Figured they were from one of the Quagmire boys. Quigley always adored her. But now..."

Both parents watched as the lights dimmed and the tinny music spiked. Couples waded into the middle and began to dance, twirling rapidly, colors of bright dresses blurring together. They saw Count Olaf turn to examine the crowd, shiny eyes surprised. He obviously hadn't expected the dancing.

Olaf joined Violet against the wall to make room for the dancers, their backs flat, their eyes locked. He said something and nodded at the dancing couples. Violet shrugged, rolling her drink around and muttering a quick response that made the Count laugh.

He peeled himself away from the wall and held out his hand with a smirk and a slight bow. Beatrice could almost hear him drawl, "I suppose I could give you the honor of dancing with me, mighty inventor."

And Violet hesitated. With fingers outstretched to grasp the Count's, she felt the distinct pressure of familiar stares. Her dark eyes cut immediately through the crowd to where her parents were craning their necks to study her next move.
When Beatrice met her daughter's stern eyes, she felt strangely guilty. As if she were watching some intimate, wholly human act as a completely unwelcome bystander.

Noting the young woman's drastic change in expression, Count Olaf turned to see the parents watching with utmost attention. Bertrand's shoulders were square and defensive while Beatrice knew that her narrowed, protective glare was enough in itself to unnerve him.

Olaf froze.

With one last warning glare to the pair of concerned caretakers, Violet took his hand and led him to the edge of the swiftly-moving crowd, disappearing from view.

"Well. Looks like she made her choice." Beatrice said, proud for a reason that had no why.

Occasionally, she and Bertrand would catch glimpses of Violet's dark hair swirling as they danced. After a few songs and hearing her laugh over the music, Bertrand leaned his head against his wife's shoulder and muttered, "I'd rather face the Bombinating Beast or battle a battalion of Lachrymose leeches on a full stomach than see him hurt her."

Beatrice reached up to pat his cheek fondly and smile, "I know. But I don't think you'll have to."

The couple stepped obliviously into view then, twirling across the ballroom floor, Olaf shouting to anyone who happened to hear, "Get out of the way! I must dance spectacularly with this charming young woman!"

He was pointing to random people, to her, to himself whenever he had a free hand and saying things that had her laughing so hard she could barely dance. Eventually, he tightened an arm around her waist and and made her stand atop his shiny shoes so he could insult people and she could laugh all she wanted.
Watching them dance, Beatrice and Bertrand were both thinking the same thing, 'She cares about him; she's seventeen...'

The lights blackened while Bertrand's back was turned to fill their cup of punch.
Only Beatrice saw the remaining light pinpoint into nothing as every light dropped for a few seconds, marking the ending of the evening. But what she saw in those few moments was imprinted behind her eyes in technicolor.
Violet on her tiptoes, hands on the Count's cheeks as he tilted his head and pressed their lips almost desperately together. He was moving his hands to her waist before the blackness took over, concealing the scene from any and all potential witnesses.

Except one.

When the lights popped back into casting shadows and the crowd cheered and the room swelled with noise, Beatrice saw Violet wading back through the crowd on her own, heading in their direction in search of beverages.
"We're going to have a talk tonight." Beatrice told her daughter seriously, handing her two glasses full of neon blue punch that could have been used as anti-venom should the need ever arise.

Violet didn't blush or avoid her eyes like Beatrice had predicted, just smiled and nodded, taking the glasses gratefully.

"I suppose we've got a lot to talk about." Violet agreed, glancing back in the direction of the center of the ballroom and peering quizzically at her Dad. Beatrice waved her hands, shooing her daughter back to where a man doubtlessly waited.

When his daughter was gone, Bertrand sighed and said, "A boy I could deal with. But he's a man. How do I deal with my seventeen-year-old daughter being with a man?"

Feeling better about the situation than she thought she would, Beatrice took a gulp of her drink and smiled to her husband, taking his hand.
"Don't worry, Mr. Baudelaire," she teased, "You'll figure it out."

For those of you (Okay, all of you.) who have read my WIP, I Will Love You As, you may notice some distinct similarities, like Violet's ornithopter or Beatrice discussing the VFD makeup with R. Those were entirely intentional.

The man that was speaking to Klaus in the crowd was supposed to be Captain Widdershins. The man in the bullfighter's costume was a nod at Lemony's infamous disguise.

This is what I did today in school instead of French.

Let me know what you think!