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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Nov 12, 2008 20:59:04 GMT -5
Colette thought back to the night when Olaf had telephoned Jerome, Esmé, Emma, and Andrew with the threat that the villain wouldn’t hesitate to harm anyone who dared set foot out of the building. The contortionist simply shook her head, and was making to slip back into her room when Andrew said something that stopped her. “How is my mother?” “She’s alright,” Colette assured the stockbroker. “The redhead gave her some tea mixed with whatever it is that’s put Mr. Squalor to sleep.” To Colette’s surprise, Andrew frowned. “My niece has a name,” he said sternly. “It’s Carmelita.” The contortionist scowled. “Yes… I’m aware of that.” “Though I don’t approve, I can understand your dislike towards my sister-in-law. But I have no idea what it is that causes you to disrespect my niece.” “She was a most unbearable brat from what I remember,” Colette said, practically spitting out the word ‘brat’. Andrew— who hadn’t become acquainted with Carmelita until after she had been living with the Squalors for nearly a year —found it difficult (if not impossible) to believe that his niece could possibly be anything but sweet and considerate. Andrew was just as protective over Carmelita as he was over Esmé, and it infuriated him that the blonde woman in front of him had such a vulgar opinion of two of the most important people in his life. “I’ll thank you very much, Mrs. Widdershins,” Andrew said, “to refrain from saying anything further with the purpose of slandering those in my family.” “What on Earth could possibly make that insolent child so damn special to you?” demanded Colette, completely forgetting Andrew’s previous words. “She’s no more of a relation to you than Esmé Squalor is!” Had it been Jerome that the contortionist was speaking to, then for sure there would have been some tears. But the person Colette Widdershins was conversing with was not the billionaire, but his younger brother. Her words reminded Andrew greatly of his father, Maxwell, who right up until his death had stressed that blood was the most important thing when it came to family. But Andrew had never been afraid to argue when the need arose, and he took this as the perfect opportunity to do so. Holding up his hand, Andrew replied in a firm but under-control voice: “Enough.”Colette seemed to freeze slightly, inching her slender body partway through the door. “Blood is not something that makes a family,” Andrew continued. “The ties that bind us all together can be ones of a separate color just as easily as they can be solitary. It doesn’t matter who is related and who is not; what matters most is the love, and that is what I feel for my two nieces, as well as for my sister-in-law.” Colette nodded. Lowering her head, she slinked back into her room without uttering so much as a word. *** Olaf was just about to ask Esmé if she had finished in the bathroom yet, when he heard her sneeze from the other side of the door. “You’ve been in there for almost an hour!” the villain snarled. “How long can it possibly take you to warm up?” Esmé had just finished draining the bathtub, and was sitting on the edge of it while she blew her nose into a wad of toilet paper she had discovered in the cabinet underneath the sink. Pinching her nose as she felt another sneeze beginning to build, she uttered in as loud of a voice as she could conjure up: “I’ll be right out!” From the other side, Olaf banged his fist against the door. “Well, hurry it up!” he snapped. Esmé squeaked into her tissue, groaning as she felt beads of sweat break out over her forehead and back. She really was starting to feel particularly lousy, the aching in her legs and throbbing in her head intense.
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Post by Jenny on Nov 13, 2008 15:12:19 GMT -5
Esmé forced herself to take one last look in the mirror, and she was pleased to see that her nose had stopped running at least, if her lips was still very, very swollen, and she had begun to look paler than usual. Her lips, which were usually a dark pink, had paled along with her face, and turned a light, ill colour.
She supposed remaining in the bathroom--which was still very hot, especially for someone who very possibly had a temperature--wasn't helping her particularly, and with Olaf beating his fist against the door impatiently, she felt even more pressured to leave.
'Esmé, for God's sake!' the villain cried, and she flinched as she heard his voice turn so angry. 'I swear, if you don't come out now, I'll--'
She didn't give him the opportunity to finish his latest threat, and wrenched the door open quickly.
'Thank you,' Olaf said, though it was fairly obvious that he didn't mean it much. 'I was starting to worry you were trying to climb out of the window.'
'No,' she said quietly, and rubbed her eyes, which were feeling sore. She would have said more as he strode back down the corridor and into the room they had been staying in before, but she found herself unable to do anything but sneeze. Repeatedly.
Olaf began to chuckle on her second sneeze, and by the fifth was laughing raucously. She supposed it was a little funny that she was sneezing so much, but she hated the way he laughed at her. Why was he always mocking her?
Becoming ill had turned her unpleasant, and she felt less patient and scared than she had before she had begun to feel feverish.
'Funny, is it?' she hissed, and what difference did striking her again even make? This change of tone seemed to please Olaf even more, and he turned to grin at her.
'It wouldn't take you long,' he said. 'To turn back the way you were, would it? To how you really are, underneath it all.'
She just shook her head, and even that small movement made her dizzy. 'I don't want to have this conversation again, she said bluntly, providing him with nothing to mock her for, and turned the corner into the sitting room.
Emma, who had been standing at the window, jumped back awkwardly, but it seemed that Olaf minded little where she had been standing. 'Anything interesting happening?' he asked his daughter, who said nothing. She had seen Carmelita. Something was happening, surely?
Olaf apparently saw nothing. They had moved back from the window, which Emma was thankful for--else she feared what her father might have done to her.
'Isn't this nice?' Count Olaf enquired, and turned to look at his daughter, who was frozen in fear of doing anything to upset him, and his ex-girlfriend, who was growing paler and paler as the moment's passed, and who had invited herself to take a place on the couch, which was a lot more comfortable than the floor had been. 'Like a big family get-together.'
Nobody said anyhting for a moment after that, until Esmé sneezed another couple of times, and Emma went over to sit beside her and lay the back of her hand over her mother's forehead.
'You've a temperature,' Emma said, and drew her hand away, shocked at the heat. 'You're ill, Mother!' she said, as if Esmé herself had not realized this long ago.
Olaf seemed to have heard. 'Ill?' he enquired, and Esmé sighed heavily. 'I did think you looked a bit weird.' Then he grinned, and Emma frowned back at him. 'Well, you should have said something, darling. You know how good I am at looking after you.'
Emma didn't know whether he'd said it to be ironic, but she certainly couldn't picture this violent brute holding a cold cloth to her mother's head and fetching her more blankets or more tea at whatever time of the night like her stepfather did.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Nov 13, 2008 21:10:53 GMT -5
Glaring across the room at Olaf, Esmé replied, “I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” the villain retorted. “You haven’t been on your own once your entire life.”
“So? That doesn’t prove anything.”
Esmé’s voice was beginning to sound stuffed-up, and she could see a smile creeping its way around the corner of Olaf’s mouth. “It proves that you’re weak,” he went on. “It’s no wonder why you went crawling back to that pathetic billionaire.”
“I am not weak!” Esmé snapped, as she felt her temper and fever clash together at Olaf’s words. Rising unsteadily to her feet, she continued: “And I’ll thank you very much to leave my husband out of this! He has nothing to do with… with…” Waving her long-nailed hand wildly in front of her face, she tried desperately to hold back the sneeze that was coming faster than she could blink. Unsurprisingly, the sneeze triumphed seconds later; she squeaked loudly, falling back onto the couch in a way that Jerome would have deemed absolutely adorable.
“Gesundheit,” Olaf said, chuckling as Esmé let out a little whimper of embarrassment. “You sound as if you’re coming down with a cold, my dear. Perhaps I should go into the kitchen and search for a remedy, hmm?”
Rubbing at her nose, Esmé scowled. “I wouldn’t trust you to take care of a goldfish,” she spat, “let alone a human being!”
Olaf strode across the room, stopping just inches away from the couch. Emma inched closer to her mother, and the financial advisor felt the long fingers of her daughter wrap tightly around her slim wrist. “You’re forgetting, sweetheart,” Olaf said to Esmé, “that had it not been for me, then you might not be alive right now.”
Esmé’s reply was another high-pitched squeak.
“You’re no fun to argue with when you insist on making sounds equivalent to a wounded animal. Lucky for you I happen to have a strapping immune system.”
Esmé felt like crying out for Jerome, but her throat was starting to hurt, and so she chose to lie down on the couch instead. Maybe if she could get a little sleep, then it might help her to feel a bit better.
To give her mother more room to stretch out, Emma perched herself on the armrest of the couch. Turning to Olaf, she asked, “You wouldn’t happen to have anything to bring down a fever, would you?”
“I offered before,” Olaf said. “And your mother— being as stubborn as ever —simply refused. So I don’t see any reason why I should bother asking her a second time.”
Emma wanted to point out there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for this, but she was running out of options. The last time she had seen Esmé this bad was when Emma had been four, and her mother had caught pneumonia. Esmé had been so sick that it was necessary for her to be admitted to the hospital. She wasn’t coughing now as she had been then, but she had a fever, not to mention that her sneezes were becoming worse. And it was very possible for a cold to transpire into pneumonia.
“Please,” Emma said. “For once in your life, Olaf, do something noble.”
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Post by Jenny on Nov 15, 2008 10:24:09 GMT -5
For a short moment, Emma had thought her father might just have agreed, and just when her eyes had started to look hopeful, the Count could no longer contain himself, and let out a long, raspy chuckle.
'Noble,' he laughed, as if the concept was ridiculous. 'Noble. The problem is, dear, I'm not noble.'
Emma felt her hatred for the man in front of her steadily growing. Esmé, however, merely turned her head towards the back of the couch, as if she had expected nothing less.
'But,' said Olaf. 'If something happens to her, I'll have nothing to bargain with. So, if you're both very good, I might consider giving her some asprin with her lunch.'
It wasn't the best Emma could've hoped for, but she was pleased nevertheless. 'Alright,' she said, and placed the grey blanket over her mother, whose eyes had closed. 'Alright, we'll be good.'
Olaf looked pleased with this, though as he reached out a scraggly hand to pat his ex-girlfriend's hair, his daughter slapped back his hand, and he made a noise of annoyance.
'You're going to have to get used to me, Emma,' he growled. 'I've been nothing but kind to you.'
Emma had to bite her tongue, hard, to keep from laughing or crying, or something else. Maybe this was what he called kind. How had her mother survived him?
'And besides,' he continued. 'I can promise that I'm not going anywhere.'
~
'Colette,' Fernald Widdershins tapped a hook against the room she had been seen retreating into. 'Colette, are you in there?'
There was no answer, but there was a little sniff, and he took that as confirmation, and creaked open the door.
She wasn't crying, but her pale skin was reddened slightly, as if she had been mere moments ago. Fernald crossed the room to wrap his arms around her, but she shifted in her chair out of them. He frowned.
'Lette,' he said, and kissed her forehead.. How was he going to tell her? 'I just came to tell you---' she looked up, and he couldn't think of a way to say it that wouldn't cause her to fly into a downward spiral. '--That Andrew Squalor and I are going to get Esmé, and Emma.'
He held a breath, and then she let out a shaky sob.
'No!,' she wailed, and twisted to grab his arm and close her fingers as far as they would go around it. 'No, Fernald, it's dangerous, you mustn't go, you mustn't!'
He had anticipated this reaction, but that didn't make him feel any better.
'I have to,' he responded, and kissed her head again. She wasn't satisfied.
'You don't have to!' she cried. 'Fernald, you don't owe anything to Esmé, or Jerome, or even Emma. It's nothing to do with you.'
He shook his head. 'I can't leave them with--'
'--But why!?' Colette cried, and he jumped at the sharp edge to her shriek. 'Why are you ruining our family to help theirs?'
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Nov 15, 2008 13:27:04 GMT -5
Bewildered by the sudden change in Colette’s tone, Fernald asked, “What exactly is it that you think I’ve ruined?”
Glaring up at her husband, the contortionist answered, “Must you even ask such a question?”
“This has nothing to do with the way I feel about you, sweetheart. I’ve told you over and over that you’re the one I love, and that you’re the one I see myself spending the rest of my life with. I love Esmé, but I’m not in love with her.”
“Not anymore, you mean.”
“What difference does it make?”
“It makes all the difference, Fernald,” Colette insisted. “Just knowing that you felt the same way about Esmé Squalor that you now feel about me, it just— it makes me wonder if perhaps you were looking for someone to take her place.”
The hook-handed man had never given this idea much consideration, and he hated to think that his wife of twelve years might have a point. But hadn’t they gotten to know each other first before pursuing a relationship? Fernald had been twenty when he had met Colette, who had been thirteen and had only just recently moved from France to the United States. Their relationship had begun as a friendship, which had transpired into romance once Colette had come of age and after Fernald had lost his hands. He had never even stopped to consider that he might have been imagining a life with Esmé the entire time.
At least back then.
But didn’t he love Colette now? Perhaps in the beginning he had been searching for someone to fill the empty hole that Esmé’s absence had left in his heart, but he had gotten passed it. Fernald hadn’t thought of the financial advisor in years, until that day when fate had thought it necessary for them to cross paths once more. He felt he owed it to her for not trying harder to protect her from a villain who had hurt her many times over, even going as far as to take from her something she could never get back. He knew that Emma had probably helped a great deal in filling that emptiness, but still it was a life that had been lost.
Fernald looked down into his wife’s pale, tear-filled blue eyes. “Things are different now,” he continued. “For a long time, Esmé was the only family I had. I didn’t get along with my father, and my stepmother had just had a baby. I wasn’t wanted at home, and so my only other option was to make a living for myself. And so I joined Olaf’s troupe. He had just adopted Esmé, whose parents had their own reasons for not caring for her. We discovered a common ground that existed between us, and that is what bound us together for life. She was all I had then, just as I was the only person she could rely on. Just as I am now.”
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Post by Jenny on Nov 16, 2008 7:33:59 GMT -5
Colette's eyes were sympathetic for him, but not for the woman who had been kidnapped.
'It doesn't have to be you,' she convinced. 'Fernald, you know better than anyone that Olaf is dangerous. Why can't her husband go and rescue her, and then you won't have to---'
Fernald let out a long sigh. 'I can't sit and do nothing, Colette,' he said, and wanted to have his hands back, if only to wipe away her tears. 'And besides, Mr Squalor isn't up to doing anything at the moment, let alone rescuing his wife. Carmelita had to give him some tranquilizers because he was so distressed. And Andrew can't go in alone, or Olaf will simply acquire another captive.'
He didn't add that a part of him wanted to go. Not to put himself in danger as such, but a part of him actually did want to confront Olaf once and for all, and rescue Esmé and her daughter in the process. He had never realized it before, but he was desperate for some closure to the fifteen years of his life that he had now left behind, and this seemed to be the only way he had of getting it.
'I love you,' he said, and pressed his lps to his wife's. 'And I promise I'll be back.'
With that, he stepped back and disappeared into the corridor again, leaving Colette alone before she could say anything else to stop him.
~
Andrew didn't seem to be growing any more or less nervous as the minutes went by, and it puzzled Carmelita. Fernald Widdershins had told his wife and Faust that he would be going, and hadn't yet returned, so it had obviously become a difficult conversation to have with a woman like Colette. But Andrew didn't seem to feel the need to tell anyone, even Cora, and simply crouched and tested the strength of the knots he'd tied with his brother's neckties.
'Aren't you a bit worried|?' Carmelita asked, her concern for the uncle she loved getting the better of her. 'You do know how dangerous this man is, don't you?'
Andrew nodded. 'Precisely why I'm going,' he answered. 'And who have I to tell? You already know, my brother's asleep, and hopefully so is my mother.' he paused. 'Esmé and Emma are my family, just like you are, and just like Jerome is. I'm far more worried about what will happen to them tot hink much about what might happen to me.'
She smiled, and felt as if she might have hugged Andrew were he not busy checking the rope over and over again. 'You mustn't ever tell Esmé,' she said carefully. 'You know. About what you told me. About being in love with her. What she doesn't know--'
'--Won't hurt her,' Andrew finished, and nodded. 'It's alright, Carmy. You don't have to worry. If I have my way, she'll never know a thing about it.'
~
Emma cleared her throat, having spent an hour sitting in frightened silence with her father, her mother asleep next to her. 'May I have something to drink?' she asked quietly. If she was planning to stay awake, she was going to need to drink some caffeine or something. She didn't feel right letting her eyes close when she and her mother were so vunerable.
'You can finish the glasses of wine I gave your mother,' Olaf answered. 'I don't think she actually drank any of them.'
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Nov 16, 2008 16:03:41 GMT -5
Emma sincerely doubted that this bit of information would matter to her father, and it wouldn’t surprise her in the least if he told her he’d had his first taste of wine at thirteen. “In case you haven’t noticed,” she said, “I’m still a child. It’s illegal for children to consume alcoholic beverages.” Olaf scoffed at this. “Too bad for you this isn’t France,” he replied, “where it is perfectly legal for children to drink wine.” Emma didn’t bother pointing out the fact that she had been well aware of this fact for years, and chose to refocus her attention on her mother. “Would it be asking too much to have a soda?” Emma asked. “Just as long as it isn’t that horrid parsley stuff. I still remember the time your mother forced me to drink it, and all for the sake of being fashionable— I swear, it took me days to wash the taste out of my mouth.” Tucking her feet up underneath her on the couch, Emma watched Olaf leave the room. It had grown dark outside, and she saw a yellow light spill across the carpeted hallway a moment later as the refrigerator door opened. Olaf returned shortly, carrying a bottle of peppermint soda. Before he handed it to her, he lifted the bottle to his mouth and bit down on the cap, twisting it off with his teeth. He spit the cap across the room, and then handed the bottle to Emma. She couldn’t keep the look of disgust from her face, but accepted the bottle anyway. “Don’t even think about asking me for a glass,” the villain said. “This isn’t a restaurant, and I’m certainly not your waiter.” Emma, however, did not reply, and instead sipped her soda. Although it wasn’t parsley like she would have preferred, the taste was both pleasant and calming, and reminded her of Christmas. Christmas reminded her of her family, most of who were back at the penthouse and were all worried for her and her mother. The thought made Emma want to cry, but she forced back her tears, unwilling to allow herself to give into them in front of a person who terrified her as much as her biological father did. At that moment, Esmé coughed, which was followed by a quiet but perfectly clear, “Jerome.” Emma’s eyes darted to Olaf’s face, searching for the first sign of disapproval that could possibly lead to another violent attack on Esmé. But the villain merely smiled. “Go on, darling,” he said pensively. “Go on and dream your lovely dreams. For all you know, they’ll be the last you’ll ever have.” Emma found it necessary to clamp her lips down around the mouthpiece of her soda bottle to keep herself from screaming. *** Fernald returned to Emma’s room to find Carmelita and Andrew standing outside together on the balcony with the rope of neckties between them. “You shouldn’t be out here, Carmelita,” Fernald advised. “It isn’t safe.” Carmelita simply smiled. “Haven’t you heard?” she asked. “I’m going with you.” Shocked, Fernald took a step back. “You can’t— you aren’t— do you have any idea the sort of danger you’ll be putting yourself in?” “Esmé is my mother,” Carmelita explained calmly but firmly, “and Emma is my sister. There’s no way I’m going to stay behind when I know they’re in danger.” “I couldn’t stop her,” Andrew said honestly as he gave the rope— which he had tied to his niece’s bed —one final, firm tug. “When she found out that you and I were embarking on this mission, she insisted that she come along. And when Carmelita makes a decision, it is unlikely that she’ll change her mind.” “Well, that’s no surprise,” said Fernald, and smiled at the former tap-dancing ballerina fairy princess veterinarian. “From what I remember, you always were incredibly stubborn.”
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Post by Jenny on Nov 16, 2008 16:35:22 GMT -5
Carmelita didn't like being reminded of what a horrible child she had once been, but when Fernald was smiling it didn't sound so bad.
'I still am,' she admitted, and swept up her dark red curls into a practical ponytail. 'It comes in handy sometimes.'
Had Andrew not been so desperate to get across to the apartment where his sister-in-law and niece were being held against their will, he would have rolled his eyes.
'Are you ready to go, Fernald?' Carmelita asked, realizing that perhaps Andrew wasn't planning to speak again. 'Is Colette alright?'
Fernald tried to say yes and no at the same time, and ended up with a sound in the back of his throat nobody understood. 'She understands,' he said, which didn't answer the question. 'She knows why I'm going, and that's what's important.'
Carmelita frowned. 'I can udnerstand her point, Fernald,' she said. 'As much as it pains me to say so. She's worried that if something happens to you, then she'll be on her own. And there's nothing unreasonable about that.'
His brow furrowed, and she lay a hand on his shoulder. 'You don't have to come with us,' she said, and Andrew looked a little cross. She was giving him that choice now? He had volunteered.
Fernald, though, simply smiled gently. 'No,' he said. 'I don't have to. But I am going to.'
Andrew and Carmelita both smiled, and then the three of them moved towards the balcony and looked out at their destination.
'If we can see him,' said Carmelita, a little nervously. 'Then he can see us. And he's the one with the advantage here, remember?'
'I don't care whether he sees me or not,' Andrew admitted, and leant over the balcony to fire the hook over to the window below Olaf's. 'He won't shoot us down, Carmelita, even if he does see us coming.'
'I'm not so sure,' Fernald Widdershins muttered, remembering that he and Carmelita had known the man in question, and Andrew Squalor had never spoken a word to him.
Andrew just shrugged, and tugged lightly at the collar of his black jacket again before tugging at the rope to test whether it had hooked strongly into the other apartment's walls.
'I'll go first,' he said. 'And neither of you start until I'm half-way. That way, if it breaks, we won't all fall.'
~
Olaf turned to the window, and immediately noticed the rope of ties connecting from the penthouse to below his apartment. This was puzzling enough, until he noticed the figure that held to the rope cautiously.
Olaf gave a loud, hoarse laugh, which made Emma jump and Esmé wake up.
'Look!' he cried happily. 'Oh, Esmé, you will laugh when you see this.'
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Nov 16, 2008 18:13:47 GMT -5
Dizzy from her fever, the financial advisor stumbled over to the window. She looked out just in time to see her brother-in-law step off the balcony outside her daughter’s bedroom window, clinging to what appeared to be a rope constructed out of five-hundred or so of his brother’s neckties. Esmé shrieked. “Mother,” Emma cried, throwing her legs over the arm of the couch and rushing over to Esmé’s side. “What—” Emma’s question was answered the instant she watched through the window as her uncle began to descend down the rope to the apartment in which she and her mother were being held captive. “This really is too funny if you ask me,” Olaf said. But both his ex-girlfriend and daughter were far too busy watching the scene of heroism unfold before them to remind Olaf that no one had asked him for his opinion. “They’re coming,” Emma whispered in a voice she was sure that only her mother could hear. “They’re coming to rescue us.” “I pray that Jerome isn’t with them,” Esmé said fearfully. “I shudder to think how much weight a rope constructed out of silk neckties can possibly support.” “That fair-haired man only vaguely resembles your overweight husband,” Olaf said. “If it was him, then I’m quite certain that rope would have snapped by now.” The villain’s careless words were enough to make the financial advisor want to burst into tears, but she forced them back, not wanting to repeat what had happened earlier. Emma took her eyes off the window for a moment to glare at Olaf, and then turned back just in time to see Andrew perch himself on the ledge outside the window. Emma reached over and took her mother’s hand as Carmelita stepped off the penthouse’s balcony and began to climb down the rope. “That’s one down,” Olaf said, “and two more to go. What do you say we organize a little welcome party for our guests?” Emma turned fearfully to her biological father. “You’d better not hurt them,” she warned. “’Hurt them’? My dear, I have absolutely no intention of doing any such thing.” “I don’t believe you.” Olaf looked at Esmé, whose eyes were still focused sharply on the window. The villain wondered how in the world the hook-handed man was going to manage to climb down from the penthouse’s balcony and down to the ledge of the other building. *** Fernald waited until Carmelita was crouched down on the ledge of the neighboring building with Andrew before wrapping his arms around the rope. He had performed many tasks without the use of his hands before (such as driving, which he managed to do successfully, and up until a few days ago he had done on a daily basis), but none which had proved to be this risky. Taking a deep breath, he wrapped his arms around the rope and began to climb down, being sure to be as careful and to go as slowly as possible. “He’s completely crazy, you know,” Carmelita remarked to Andrew. “Yet I can’t help but admire him for his nobility.” “Craziness and nobility go hand in hand,” Andrew replied. “Or hook in hook, as it appears to be the case from where I’m sitting.”
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Post by Jenny on Nov 17, 2008 10:40:27 GMT -5
Carmelita managed another small smile, though she was cold and frightened. She avoided looking down, even now that she was perched on the ledge and relatively safe with her arm linked through her uncle's. She was intensely worried for Fernald, whose hooks were awkward on the rope, and who had to climb very differently in order to avoid using them, for fear of ripping the silken rope that kept him suspended above the city.
Andrew turned to the window, and he could see the frightened eyes of his niece staring back at him, though Esmé's, his Esmé's never turned towards him, and focused instead on the hook-handed man who was getting closer and closer to the window ledge himself.
What worried him the most was that Olaf wasn't there himself.
~
Esmé breathed a sigh of relief when Fernald finally arrived on the building, and then finally let her eyes drift to her daughter, drawing her into a hug before looking at anything else.
'Mother,' Emma said, and by her voice it was clear that she was frightened. 'Mother, look.'
Esmé turned towards the window first, to see if her brother-in-law, friend, or even more horrifically, daughter had fallen, but Emma was not looking at the window.
Before she could look behind her, Olaf's arm encircled her waist and yanked her backwards. She let out a little shriek of terror, before she felt cool metal press against her throat.
'Shh,' the villain whispered against her ear, though she still whimpered, and grasped his wrist with one of her pale, slim hands. 'Don't make a fuss, Esmé. Just hope that Andrew Squalor might have some money for me.'
Tears gathered in Emma's eyes at that, because she knew that he hadn't. This seemed to be the final straw, and the window unexpectedly smashed. Emma and her mother both screamed at the shattering glass, but it seemed that Olaf himself had been the only one thathad known it would happen, and simply pressed the knife a little further into his ex-girlfriend's throat to stop her running anywhere.
'Good evening,' Olaf said calmly, and Esmé felt the knife press too far and draw a trickle of blood. 'Not that it isn't nice to see you all,' he said. 'But where's the elder Mr Squalor? I thought perhaps he might have cared what happened to his wife and my daughter.'
'Shut up,' said Andrew, and Esmé, Emma and Carmelita jumped at the way his voice boomed out of him, like his father's once had. 'And let Esmé---'
Olaf made a tutting noise as Andrew reached out to remove the knife from his siter-in-law's throat. As punishment for his bold movement, Olaf simply turned the knife in a different direction and pressed the tip into the soft flesh just above her collarbone lightly, so that it would hurt her sufficiently.
'Don't hurt her!' Andrew cried, and it was clear to everyone that he had lost control of the situation, and lost his upper hand. 'Please don't hurt her.'
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Nov 17, 2008 15:09:13 GMT -5
“Well, that all depends,” Olaf said, and Esmé whimpered. “Did you bring the money, Squalor?”
Andrew didn’t feel that he was in any position to hesitate. But it seemed that no matter what choice he went with— it was either tell the truth or tell a lie —then he would be on the losing end. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing Esmé. He could just imagine what such a thing would do to his dear brother, not to mention Carmelita and Emma.
“I—” Andrew started. “I… I have it. I just don’t have it on me at the moment. All the money I have is kept in a safety deposit box at Mulctuary Money Management.”
Olaf looked thoughtful, but pressed the blade slightly deeper into Esmé’s collarbone, an act which released another whimper of pain from her. Carmelita started to step forward, but Fernald linked the tip of his hook through the back loop of her trousers and pulled her back.
“Oh?” the villain asked. “And how can I be so certain that what you’re telling me is the truth? How do I know you aren’t just telling me what I want to hear so that I’ll spare this pathetic woman’s life?”
“Because it is true,” Carmelita answered fearlessly. “You’ll get your precious money, Olaf. But first you must do us a favor and let Esmé go.”
“I’m not obligated to do you any favors, brat. You’re lucky I’m willing to free Esmé after you’ve handed over what should’ve been mine thirteen years ago.”
Carmelita, Fernald, and Andrew all shared a brief look, while Emma kept her eyes locked on Esmé’s terrified face. Emma noticed that a small cut had formed in the place where Olaf had last held the knife against her mother’s throat. Esmé’s chest rose and fell with each quivering breath, and her slim, pale hands were trembling. A tear had begun to trickle down the left side of her face, and Emma began to fear what might happen the next time her mother sneezed.
Turning to her sister, uncle, and Mr. Widdershins, Emma cried out: “Don’t just stand there! One of you do something!”
She wasn’t going to rely on the idea that Carmelita (who was just as terrified as her sister) might somehow become the heroine; and Andrew (who obviously looked like he wanted to do something, but was too concerned with the possible harm his actions would cause his sister-in-law) looked frozen stiff. That left Mr. Widdershins, whose only weapon against the villain was a pair of hooks in place of his hands.
“Please,” Emma said. She was gazing up at the hook-handed man desperately, with eyes that were as blue and a face as sweet as those of a girl he had fallen in love with so many years ago.
This forced Fernald to turn his attention to Olaf. To everyone’s amazement, the hook-handed man took a gallant step forward, stopping directly in front of his former boss and the financial advisor. Fernald held up his right hook and positioned the blade just below Olaf’s chin. Fernald’s intention was not to hurt the villain, but rather to make a point.
“Let her go,” the hook-handed man growled softly. “Or so help me I won’t hesitate to use these hooks.”
Letting out another of his raspy chuckles, the Count reached over with his freehand and easily pushed the hook of his former associate away. “You wouldn’t have the guts to hurt me,” Olaf sneered. “You’re no braver than that pathetic stockbroker over there.”
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Post by Jenny on Nov 17, 2008 16:08:07 GMT -5
Fernald said nothing for a moment. He didn't consider himself a particularly brave person, and he didn't hink it took an awful lot of courage to stab someone with the hooks he'd been forced to have. He simply lowered his hooks, and watched as the older man laughed, and his yellow teeth glinted in the dim light.
'You were always the same,' the Count said, and held Esmé between them like a makeshift human shield in case the hook handed man did in fact gain the courage to use his hooks. 'You were never brave enough to do something for the greater good, Fernald. You were always the coward, and even when you finally developed a backbone and started sleeping--' he stopped, evidently growing angrier, and drew the knife across the base of her neck quickly, producing a long, stinging, bloody cut. The blood leaked a little onto the white overlay that covered her shoulders, and Fernald's hooks twitched. '--with my girlfriend--' Another short cut, nearer her jawline, and Esmé began to panic, and began to sob. '--where did that get you?' Olaf laughed again, and he had to hold the knife still for a moment on the side of her neck, his arm pushing back her chin. 'All it got you, Fernald, is a pair of freak arms.'
Carmelita, Andrew and Emma looked as if they thought Fernald might lose his temper, but the hook-handed man stood still, and did nothing. Olaf didn't seem pleased with his determination to stay still.
'Never liked it, though, did you?' the arsonist asked, and slid the flat of the knife against Esmé's cheekbone, seeminly careful not to mark her. 'Could never handle it when she was--' Another pause, and another scrape of a cut, just along her jaw. 'Hurt.'
Again, Fernald said nothing.
Olaf grinned.
'Alright,' he said, quietly, and Esmé shuddered. 'Alright, Hooky. We'll play your way.'
And before anyone could ask him what he meant by that, the villain held the knife against her neck, and used the other to gather up her hair into a knot, before sliding the knife around to place it at the base of her head, and the slide it downwards.
Fernald's eyes almost fluttered shut in anger and terror at the scream let out by the woman he had once loved, and he remembered the way she'd only been eighteen, and how she'd cried and how she'd told him not to worry, that he mustn't get hurt--
'Stop,' the hook-handed man said, and his voice was low, and calm. And threatening.
He couldn't know how deeply he'd cut, but perhaps not too deeply. Esmé was still standing, after all, even if she was sobbing.
But the knife edge was covered in blood.
And then Fernald couldn't see straight.
'It's OK,' she told him, and smiled, even though her lip was red, and her ankle was swollen, and there were still tears in her eyes. 'Don't worry about me, Fernald. I'm not important.'
'Stop,' the hook-handed man said again. 'Get away from her.'
Olaf let out another chuckle, and then Fernald looked at her, and there it was, a big fat bruise on the side of her eye, and her lip was split, and--
--The Count let out another long, hoarse laugh. 'Or what?' he hissed. 'Or what?'
When for a moment the hook-handed man didn't reply, the Count let out another laugh, and even with the knife pressed slack against her shoulder, Esmé sttempts to duck and break into a run.
There's a lot of commotion, but nothing happens. Olaf twists his wrist and holds the knife away from her throat, but it cuts her all the same, as if punishing her. The Count cursed.
'I told you not to fuss, Esmé, or you'd get hurt!'
And, even from behind her, Olaf still finds the area of her jaw that'll hurt the most, and throws his fist in that direction, pressing the knife so that she won't move, even if she does scream.
'I said stop!' Fernald roared, and surged forwards, seeing nothing but red. Olaf looked as if he might have tried to jump away from the younger man, but then he simply stood, and held Esmé in front of him, as if this might have helped.
As it was, Fernald surged forward, and swung one of his hooks forwards to grasp the man's wrist, and then sent the other one forward to strike the Count with the rounded end.
But when Fernald's vision cleared, he found his hook lodged in the throat of the man who had tormented him for so many years.
The shock in his eyes must have been obvious, and Olaf gurgled, blood spitting from his lips, and let out a dry laugh, his lips thinned from the pain.
'N--' The words were difficult for him to get out. 'N-Noble.' he spat out eventually, before Fernald pulled back his hook, and dislodged it from the arsonists neck.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Nov 17, 2008 20:12:23 GMT -5
As Olaf’s body slumped to the floor, Esmé sobbed loudly and ran to where her daughter and the others were standing. She flung herself into the arms of her brother-in-law, who did not hesitate to hold her in the same way her husband would have. Both Carmelita and Emma joined in, wrapping their arms tightly around their mother.
Carmelita glanced over her shoulder to where Fernald was kneeling over the arsonist’s limp body. “Is he dead?”Carmelita asked.
Turning to her, the hook-handed man nodded. “I think so,” he replied.
Esmé let out another terrified sob.
“We’ve got to get my mother out of here and to a hospital,” demanded Carmelita, and she wondered if Esmé had yet realized who had saved her.
“No!” Esmé pleaded. “I want to go home and see Jerome.”
Very gently, Andrew pushed Esmé back in order to get a better look at her. Sometime during the attack, she had bitten down on her bottom lip and opened up the cut there, so that blood was now trickling down her chin. Her eye was bruised, while her right cheek, throat, and neck were smeared with blood, which had stained Andrew’s shirt and tie. But he took no notice of this. His focus was on his sister-in-law, who stood before him, trembling and sobbing. “My dear, you’re injured!” he exclaimed. “Carmelita is right— the best thing to do is to take you straight to the hospital.”
“Not without my husband!” Esmé wailed.
“We can’t all go. Someone needs to stay behind and explain the situation to the authorities,” Andrew said.
“I’ll do it,” Fernald offered.
“You won’t get into trouble,” Emma said, “will you, Mr. Widdershins? It was self-defense, right?”
“He’ll need a witness to verify that statement,” said Andrew. “So I’ll stay, too.”
“That just leaves Emma and me,” Carmelita said. “She and I will take Esmé to the hospital, and you and Fernald can meet us there once you’ve finished speaking to the police.”
“I… I want to stop by the apartment first,” Esmé said tearfully. “I hate hospitals. But if I have to go, then I need Jerome to come with me.”
“You’re positive you’ll be alright here by yourselves?” Carmelita asked Fernald and Andrew.
“Absolutely,” Fernald assured her, skimming over the expired arsonist’s body for the first hint that he was still alive.
“It’s ironic, though, isn’t it? That his final word just so happened to be ‘noble’?”
Just in case Olaf happened to be acting, the hook-handed asked, “None of you happen to have a compact mirror, do you?”
“I do,” Emma said. She reached into the pocket of her skirt and removed her compact mirror, which she handed to Mr. Widdershins.
He flipped it open, and slid it underneath the villain’s nose. Fernald waited several seconds, and when any fog failed to appear on the mirror, he turned to the others.
“We no longer have to concern ourselves with living in fear,” he said. “It’s over. Count Olaf is dead.”
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Post by Jenny on Nov 18, 2008 15:04:28 GMT -5
There was a strange silence in the room after that, except for Esmé's frightened gasps. It was so surreal for everyone except Andrew that finally Olaf just wasn't there, wasn't a threat in the back of their minds, wasn't restricting them and holding them down. Fernald looked down at his hooks, and then smiled and looked down at the dead arsonist that had first given them to him.He had always hated Olad, for taking him hands, and for taking Esmé, but now that he was looking down at his former boss, he realized that the criminal had nothing compared to what Fernald himself had.
How ironic. What a perfect circle.
~
The ride in the elevator had never seemed longer in all the years Carmelita had lived at the penthouse, and her motehr had never looked more impatient to get to the top.
'I had to give Jerome one of your tranquilizers, Esmé,' Carmelita admitted. 'So he might still be asleep, but I doubt it. It took him such a long time to fall asleep that I doubt he will have been out very long.'
'And he's so much stronger than I am,' Esmé muttered, shifting her weight impatiently from one foot to the other. 'I'm surprised they knocked him out at all to be perfectly honest.'
Carmelita bit her lip, and carefully didn't mention that she'd had to give her adoptive father three of the tablets, whereas he himself was so careful never to give his wife more than one, no matter what state she was in. Even if Jerome was several stone heavier than his wife, three might have been a little extreme.
The elevator doors slowly slid open, and Esmé was the first in front of the doors. Emma was the only one who had thought to bring a key, and had to rummage through her bag for a few moments before she could click open the lock. Her mother raced inside excitedly, and didn't expect to come face to face with Colette Widdershins before she could find her husband.
'Is Fernald alright?' she asked, with no apparent interest in the blood that was still trickling down her throat. It was clear that the contortionist had been crying, and incredibly worried, and Esmé's own feelings towards the blonde softened a little.
'He's stayed behind,' she said. 'To talk to the authorities. But he's completely unharmed. Nobody's harmed.'
Colette said nothing for a second. 'Except you,' she said after a second, and Esmé looked fleetingly down at the blood that had stained the edges and neckline of her nightgown.
'It looks worse than it is,' Esmé responded, but couldn't contain herself any longer. 'I don't mean to be rude,' she said quickly. 'But I'd really like to find my husband.'
Colette smiled softly, and nodded, letting the financial advisor pass before looking back at Emma and Carmelita, who, for the first time, greeted her with a smile.
~
It took Esmé five minutes or so to race through the apartment as fast as her tired legs would allow her, and to locate her husband, who was asleep in his favourite armchair. She grinned, and settled herself next to the arm of the chair.
He wasn't snoring soflty as he usually did, which she didn't think much of. She simply knely down beside him, and placed a hand on his chest, and a kiss on his cheek.
'Jerome,' she said after a moment, softly, but this had no effect. Instead, she gave his shoulder a little shake. 'Jerome,' she called, a little louder, and then shook his shoulder, and gripped his arm. 'Jerome, wake up,' she said, and felt her smile slip.
'Jerome,' she said, and felt tears come to her eyes. Why wasn't he snoring?
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Nov 18, 2008 17:11:01 GMT -5
“Mother?”
Esmé turned toward the sound of the voice to see Emma standing in the entranceway of the sitting room with Carmelita.
“It’s your father,” Esmé said, her lip quivering. “He won’t wake up.”
Carmelita felt a rush of panic shift through her at that, and she raced over to her adoptive parents. “Are you sure?” she asked, too unnerved to realize that she was being none too helpful. “Did you try shaking him?”
“Yes!” Esmé screamed, and Carmelita jumped back. Esmé shook Jerome by the shoulder once more, if mostly to prove to her adopted daughter that it was of no use. Just as before, the billionaire failed to respond. “How many tranquilizers did you give him?!”
Carmelita felt the backs of her eyes begin to burn with the onset of tears, and she forced herself to answer truthfully: “Three. But I didn’t know it would—”
Leaping up, the financial advisor immediately spun on her adopted daughter. “Three?! Carmelita, the only time you give anyone that many tranquilizers is if they’re an elephant! What the hell were you thinking?!”
“I don’t know!” Carmelita shot back as her tears loosened and began to roll down her cheeks in long, thick streaks. “He was upset, and I was just trying to help! I… I didn’t know that I’d only end up making things worse!”
“Well, you’ve done a lot more than that, haven’t you?” Esmé asked in a choked voice. “What if he never—”
“What is going on in here?”
Esmé, Carmelita, and Emma all turned to see Cora Squalor as she made her way briskly down the hall, her long nightgown flowing behind her.
“I could hear the commotion all the way from the other side of the apartment,” she said irritably, and then stopped dead in her tracks. “Esmé. I see you’ve returned.”
But Esmé didn’t seem to hear her mother-in-law. She was too busy looking down at her (supposedly) unconscious husband, the salt from her tears stinging the wounds on her face. “It’s Jerome,” she said hoarsely. “He won’t wake up.”
“Well, that isn’t surprising. It is the middle of the night.”
“That isn’t what I mean. Something’s happened…”
Cora gasped. “What do you mean something has happened?” she demanded. “What did you—”
“It wasn’t Esmé’s doing!” Carmelita shouted, her voice defensive even after the exchange of words she’d had with her adoptive mother. “I gave Jerome too many tranquilizers, and therefore it’s my fault he won’t wake up!”
Cora couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “And so the two of you have just been standing around here arguing about whose fault it is that my son is lying here in a coma, instead of calling an ambulance?”
Esmé let out a strangled sob, and collapsed once more at her husband’s side, shaking him by both shoulders in another attempt to wake him up.
Emma, who had been standing by and waiting for her mother and sister to stop arguing, finally saw her chance to make her entrance. “No,” the teenager said firmly, and hurried over to where the adults had gathered around her stepfather. “Of course they haven’t, Grandmother. Can’t you see that they’re just concerned?”
Reaching into her messenger bag, Emma withdrew her cell phone and dialed the number for 9-1-1.
“Hello,” she said, and fought to hold back the sobs that were threatening to break through. “I need an ambulance to come immediately to the penthouse apartment at 667 Dark Avenue.”
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