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Post by Jenny on Apr 22, 2009 15:45:44 GMT -5
When it took longer than a few minutes for Beatrice to get any reaction out of the man inside the pond, Faust found herself growing a little impatient. She folded her arms over her chest sulkily, and started to huff impatiently, and just as she made to dart forward and see for herself what was taking Dewey In The Pond, something started to happen before her very eyes.
First the water started to ripple a little more, and then Beatrice shifted backwards. Faust's feet stopped instantly, and she gasped at the figure that slowly started to appear out of the clear water.
He was almost entirely transparent, but Emma could vaguely see his outline, even in the dimming light of the early evening. Beatrice stood up, but Dewey seemed to have other plans. He sunk down again almost entirely into the water, as if he was quite shy and didn't like everyone to be looking at him.
"Please don't go!" Faust cried, and the figure seemed to still a little, his head still poking out of the water.
"This is Dewey Denouement," Beatrice said, as if she and the mysterious ghost were really such good friends. "I'm sure he's pleased to meet you."
"Yes," said the quiet voice from the general direction of the pond. "Yes I am."
~
Violet and Klaus shared a long look, and then went back to their pizzas. Emma wasn't as willing to let it drop.
"I take it you know my sister," she said. "Do you?"
Now that she came to think of it, Klaus Baudelaire looked to be somewhere close to Carmelita's age, and she wondered if they'd been to school together.
"We used to know her," Violet hesitantly admitted. "But she was only young then. We were only young then."
Emma frowned, her one eyebrow creasing. "How did you know her?" she asked.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Apr 22, 2009 19:11:48 GMT -5
“We all attended Prufrock Prep for a brief period of time,” Klaus said, as he began to sprinkle cheese over the two pizzas before sliding them into the oven. Emma’s eyes lit up at the middle Baudelaire’s announcement. “You attended Prufrock Prep?” she asked. “If that’s so, then you must’ve known my brother-in-law, too. Nero.” Violet and Klaus shared another— though longer —look. When they turned to Emma, she was unable to dismiss the expressions of horror on their faces. “What?” she asked, more confused than annoyed. “Why are you looking at me like that?” “If Carmelita is your sister,” said Violet, who sounded as though she was close to gagging on her words. “Then that means Nero is her… her…” “Husband!” Klaus practically screamed. “Mm-hmm,” Emma replied, as if the revelation was of very little importance. And as far as Emma Squalor was concerned, it was. This belief often led her to forget that there were some people who found the idea of a twenty-seven-year-old woman being married to a fifty-one-year-old man a little strange if not disturbing. “I’ll admit that Nero often favored her,” Violet said. “But there was never a time in which I suspected there was anything between them.” “There wasn’t,” Emma said. “At least not back then.” Violet and Klaus shared another look, and Emma herself felt compelled to say something. “They love each other,” she declared, doing so with all of the passion Carmelita had had when she’d first revealed her love for Nero to Esmé and Jerome. “Carmy is a splendid wife, and Nero is an absolutely smashing husband. He’s very good with the twins, and—” “Twins?!” Violet and Klaus exclaimed simultaneously. “Yes!” Emma answered back with the same emphasis as the two Baudelaires. *** Remembering the way Dewey had so heroically saved her the previous night, Faust Widdershins had no reason to fear the transparent man staring back at her from the pond. The look on his face clearly told her that he was every bit as curious about her as she was about him, and so she had no trouble making her way over to him. Faust paused about three feet away from the pond, but extended her hand to Dewey’s. “I’m sorry,” Faust said. “But my father wants me to stay away from the pond after what happened last night.” “Your father is a very wise man,” Dewey said. Faust blushed, and her eyes scanned over the wound in his chest. “How did that happen?” Because her eyes were so focused on Dewey, Faust never saw Sunny’s eyes drop shamefully to the ground. Giving the oldest girl a sympathetic smile, Dewey turned back to Faust. “An accident,” he replied, as if someone had only just asked him the time of day. “Don’t it hurt you?” Faust asked. Smiling, Dewey shook his head. “Not a bit. Ghosts don’t feel pain… although I suppose there’s no way you could possibly know that.”
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Post by Jenny on Apr 24, 2009 15:31:06 GMT -5
(Great Most Compassionate Banner, btw ) Faust shuffled her feet anxiously. She didn't know what to say now that she was actually being confronted with this ghostly figure who had rescued her. "Thank you for saving me," she said, after a moment's pause. "I'm sorry I was running so fast and fell in your pond." Dewey was tall and thin and dark-haired. He had pleasant dark eyes and long limbs and a nose a little too big for the set of his face, but what stood out the most to young Faust about him was his wide, kind smile, warm even in the cold of the water. "That's OK," he said kindly. "I'm just sorry it took me a while to get you out, and that I had to do it so roughly. It was just so important to me that you didn't swallow any water and start to sink." Beatrice looked as though she hadn't expected this level of communication from the man who dwelled in the pond. Faust remembered that she had fully expected for Hugo and Kevin to talk to them, and this led her to believe that this kind-looking ghost was far more reclusive than the others. The fourteen-year-oldlooked again at the harpoon protruding from his chest. "Can't you take that out?" she asked, and Faust could see the fingers of her hand twitching as if she ached to help him. He shook his head. Faust thought that, for an adult, he didn't seem too bothered by their childish questioning. "I's like to be able to," he said. "But I'm afraid I can't. It's very much a part of me now that I've had it for fourteen years, much like another arm or a leg." Dewey did not look as injured or as troubled as the ghosts Faust had met along the second floor corridor. He seemed quite at ease, in fact, and it made Faust feel a little better to think that maybe the afterlife wasn't all doom and gloom. "Is it nice," she said. "Living in the pond?" Dewey Denouement grinned. "I couldn't have chosen anywhere nicer to spend eternity, is one has to spend eternity anywhere," he commented. Faust sat on her knees, still a safe few metres from the dangerous water's edge. "But how did you end up here?" she asked. "How'd you get hit with a harpoon and end up in the pond?" Sunny shuffled her feet, and Dewey laughed the question off. "Oh, that doesn't matter," he said. "I once managed this Hotel, but that's a part of why I ended up here, and that's all in the past now." Sunny Baudelaire sent his a grateful smile, but neither Beatrice or Faust noticed it happen. ~ Jerome had tried desperately to answer the hone before it had woken his wife--who had finally given in and decided rest probably was the best thing for her--but hadn't been able to. Her eyelashes fluttered and she yawned, but his attention was diverted by the voice on the other end. "It's Nero." Jerome smiled. The man had no concept of what was or wasn't appropriate social etiquette. "Hello, Nero," he replied, and his wife made an impatient noise and rolled over to go back to sleep. "Carmy's worried," he said. "Is everything OK with you and Esmé?" Jerome sometimes had to wonder how Carmelita and Nero managed to coexist together without ever seeming to properly communicate, but he supposed, looking at the woman who found the idea of staying home with him for a week repulsive, he really wasn't in any position to judge anybody else's relationship.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Apr 24, 2009 17:55:26 GMT -5
[Thanks! I love it, too. ] “Thank you for your concern,” Jerome said. “Tell Carmelita that Esmé and I are both fine. She seems to have come down with a case of the flu and will be missing a week of work as a result. She just finished her appointment with the doctor and is sleeping right now. But other than her illness, things between us are perfectly intact.” “Are you alright?” Nero asked, and Jerome smiled to himself upon hearing the concern in his (older) brother-in-law’s voice. “You sound distressed.”Jerome wasn’t sure where to even begin explaining to Nero all that had gone wrong in just one day. The billionaire was in no mood to delve into the details of his weight problem, or— depending on whether or not Carmelita had already told her husband —the story of the Squalors’ meeting with James Fitzgerald. “I’m fine,” Jerome said, if only to dismiss his brother-in-law’s fears that something was wrong. Jerome went through more than his fair share of worrying over Esmé, and he would hate for anyone else to experience such an unfortunate emotion— especially for his own sake. “Well,” Nero said, “my wife does have a tendency to overreact in cases like this. Every time one of the twins coughs or sneezes, it’s out with the thermometer!” He chuckled heartily. “But I suppose it’s all part of the parental instinct.”“Just make sure you tell Carmy that her mother will recover. I’ll be going into town within the next hour or so to pick up some medication for Esmé, but I won’t be long. Perhaps you can ask Carmy to call her back then.” “I’ll be sure and do that, Jerome. And be sure to tell Esmé that I hope she feels better.”“I will,” Jerome agreed. “Goodbye, Nero.” “Goodbye, Jerome,” the vice principal said. The two hung up after that, and Jerome’s attention floated back to his wife. Setting the cell phone down on the nightstand, he rounded the bed in order to see her face. Just as Jerome had predicted, Esmé was fast asleep and snoring ever so lightly. It was a habit she took on only when she was ill, and it was so out of character that it made her husband smile. He wondered if she knew, and for a moment he considered telling her when she woke up. She probably wouldn’t believe me, he thought, his smile deepening as his wife reached up to rub at her nose.
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Post by Jenny on Apr 25, 2009 10:52:11 GMT -5
He considered waking her to let her know he was going to go to the pharmacy, but he wasn't sure that was such a good idea. She looked so deeply asleep that he wondered if perhaps it was best to leave her asleep. He was really only going to be fifteen minutes at most, and so he didn't really need to wake her.
But it seemed to Jerome that every time he left her it ended up going wrong. Only last year he'd left her alone for ten minutes and she'd been kidnapped by a money-hungry criminal, after all, and even though he knew that wasn't likely to happen again, he still didn't want to risk anything else happening to her while he was gone. And she always panicked terribly if she couldn't find him when she woke up, and he didn't want her to be stressed when she was already so sick.
She made a sound not too different from a scoff, and Jerome made himself comfortable in the comfortable chair near the bed to rest a while (and watch her). It wasn't worth the risk, even if he would have preferred to go out before dinner, and while it was still light.
"Jerome."
He jolted, but then he realized what had happened. It hadn't been long since his wife had picked the habit up, but lately she was prone to talking in her sleep. She'd done so frequently when she was stressed about the possibility of losing her job at Mulctuary Money Management, and often did so if she was particularly worried about anything. He had to stop and wonder what it was that was worrying her so much this time, and why his name had come into it.
"Colette."
That made even less sense. Jerome's brow furrowed, and he stared hard at his wife, wondering what it was she was dreaming. He'd briefly worried that she might have been worried about his plans to lose weight, but that hardly involved Colette.
"...Faust."
He wondered if Emma, or Fernald, might have been coming next, but the list ended there. It didn't seem like Esmé had anything else to say, for now, and her husband settled down to think about what the implications of her dreams really were.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Apr 25, 2009 19:58:35 GMT -5
Jerome supposed that the names Esmé had uttered in her sleep could quite possibly be connected to the people she had wronged in the past.
Then again, that still left the question as to what Faust’s name was doing on the list, seeing as she hadn’t been around until three years after Emma was born.
In the end, Jerome deduced it had something to do with Esmé’s fears of putting little Faust in danger the previous year, when Olaf had returned. Jerome longed to wake his wife, but restrained himself.
She needs her rest, he reminded himself. He kept his eyes focused on Esmé’s face for the first signs of alarm, at which point he wouldn’t hesitate to wake her.
“Mm,” she murmured. “Mommy… Daddy…”
Jerome’s heart threatened to break as the words fell from his wife’s plump lips. Not once had he heard her refer to her parents in such an innocent method. He supposed that whatever dream she’d been having had transpired into something else.
“Fernald. Don’t… go…”
A mute gasp escaped Jerome, as Esmé uttered the name of her former lover. Even though he had no reason to be concerned, he couldn’t help but clench his fists together in jealousy.
“Love… you…”
Jerome’s jaw dropped, and his fists loosened. He stood up and all but threw himself across the room to the window. Concentrating hard on the view, he ignored the sensation of tears as they quickly engulfed his eyes and the lump rose in the back of his throat.
“Jerome, I… I’m sorry…”
Jerome swallowed back a sob, and wiped his sleeve across his eyes before turning to face his wife. Had she been talking about him all along, and he had just misinterpreted her reference to Fernald? Jerome presumed that must be it, or why else would she—
Esmé sneezed, and although it wasn’t at all loud the force of it was powerful enough to wake her. Her long, slightly sticky lashes fluttered open and her eyes locked with his. She smiled sweetly, and stretched her arms toward him.
“Jerome,” Esmé asked, her voice slightly stuffed from her sneezes. “What are you doing over there by the window? Come over here and hold me.”
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Post by Jenny on Apr 26, 2009 4:08:48 GMT -5
Jerome did his best to erase all of the remnants of his tears, but when he crossed the room to put his arms around his wife, she looked up at him and frowned.
"Jerome?" she asked quietly, her eyes still a bit blurry from sleep. "Jerome, are you OK? You look a bit upset." His eyes were pink and his eyes were still a bit watery. He smiled kindly back at her, but she didn't seem fooled by it, so he sighed and thought it best to clear the air.
"What were you dreaming about?" he asked, even as she curled into his chest so that she was no longer looking at him. "You were talking in your sleep again."
He felt her shoulders move as she shrugged in his arms. "I don't know," she replied honestly. "I can't really remember. You were there, and Fernald was there, but I don't know why."
Jerome had to bite down hard on his tongue. He couldn't shake the feeling that even if his wife didn't know it yet herself, she'd finally come to her senses and realized how much better Fernald Widdershins was than her own husband. Jerome had always known that it was only going to be a matter of time before she woke up and realized that she was too good for him, but now that it had actually happened, predicting it hadn't made it any easier to deal with.
Jerome tried to stifle a sob, but his tears stuck in his throat, and he let out a choked, sad noise. This was what finally spurred his wife to lift her head and look him in the eye. Unable to bear her looking at him when tears were dripping down his cheeks, he pushed her arms away and stood up again to face the window.
It was only a matter of moments before his wife was out of bed and behind him, still sniffing miserably and wrapped in a fluffy blanket. It wasn't good for her to be out of bed, and he blamed himself even more for not taking care of his darling wife properly. No wonder he wasn't good enough.
Her little hands wrapped around one of his arms, and she tried to pull him towards her. "Please," she said. "Please tell me what's wrong."
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Apr 26, 2009 18:41:36 GMT -5
Jerome had never been fond of lying— especially to his wife. He wondered how Esmé would react, if he told her she had voiced the name of Fernald in her sleep. Since Jerome had already spoken to her about her “sleep talking”— which he affectionately referred to it as —he supposed she wouldn’t be very surprised.
“You were talking in your sleep again,” he said, and raised his hand to place it over one of hers. “You uttered Fernald’s name, followed by the words ‘I love you.’” Jerome’s eyes clouded over with tears, and he prayed that Esmé didn’t see them.
“I was dreaming,” she reasoned. “Jerome, I… I don’t think of Fernald that way anymore. Only you.”
“You also said my name,” continued Jerome, “and then said you were sorry. What did you mean by that?”
“I was dreaming of the past, and of that terrible morning at Veblen Hall.” Esmé then watched, heartbroken, as two tears rolled down her husband’s chubby cheeks. “Oh, darling, please. Please don’t cry…”
Loosening her hands from around Jerome’s arm, she reached up and cupped his face in her hands.
“Yes,” Esmé went on. “I do dream of Fernald sometimes, but it’s always about what we had in the past. And when I dream of you, it’s never about what I could have had; it’s about what I have now, with you, and how I never want to be anywhere but in your arms.”
Jerome sobbed again and threw his arms around his wife, holding her as close and as tightly as he could. He felt her slender arms wrap around his nearly non-existent waist as her lips found his neck.
At last, Jerome found his voice and asked: “What else were you dreaming of?”
“A number of different things,” Esmé confessed. “Mostly about my past, and the people I’ve wronged. I dreamt of the night Fernald lost his hands and Olaf cut my hair; and about the terrible, gnawing guilt in the back of my mind when we escaped from Veblen Hall.”
Jerome’s eyes widened, and he pushed Esmé back a bit to look at her. “You felt guilty?” he asked, disbeliving.
“A part of me did,” she said. “Even then, I could see that you were a kind and decent man. You treated me far better than I deserved, given the circumstances. It would have been so easy to just give up my life of villainy and finally settle down.”
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Post by Jenny on Apr 27, 2009 12:27:00 GMT -5
Jerome had never thought of it that way. She had seemed so cold-hearted and cruel when he'd first been married to her, and although he knew that his wife was a wonderful person really, it had never been brought home to him like this before. He couldn't help but wish she had decided to end her life of villany and settle down with him all those years ago, just because then she would have saved him a whole year of heartbreak.
"Why didn't you?" he asked, even as she coiled her arms around his neck and pressed her face into his shoulder. "If you wanted to, then why didn't you stay with me rather than running off?"
Esmé sniffed. "To be honest," she said, though she was wary of being that when her husband seemed already so fragile. "I didn't want to stay with you. I spent so much time resenting you that in the end I started believing that I really didn't want to live with you any longer than I had to. I pretended to myself that I didn't like you because you were boring, or that I didn't like you because of some other stupid reason. Really, though, maybe all along I just didn't want to love you. You were undeniably so much nicer than Olaf, and you didn't seem to want anything but to make me happy, and I don't think I wanted to accept that I'd wasted all those years in an abusive relationship when not all men were like that."
She had never spoken about it in such detail to him before. It was such a clear explanation of something even she didn't fully understand that he finally felt he fully accepted the way she'd once behaved.
Jerome smiled down at her. "But you made it so clear that I was boring," he said. "Remember? I think one time you even said you were so bored that you never wanted to hear me say another word about birdwatching ever again."
Esmé couldn't help but chuckle a little, followed by a high-pitched sneeze. "Well, to be absolutely fair," she said. "We live in the city. Really, all we have to look at is pigeons."
Jerome nuzzled his wife's hair. "But I didn't know how to talk to you," he said, and he sounded so sweet and lost that his wife kissed him on his chubby cheek. "You hated talking to me. You were always on the phone, or too busy, or going out and not wanting me to come with you."
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Apr 27, 2009 18:03:54 GMT -5
[Bird-watching! I think I remember reading that in one of yours and Hanna Squalor’s RPs. I love it. ] “I know,” Esmé answered regretfully. “It’s really quite funny, though, if you think about it. It makes me wonder what I could possibly have been thinking. Because I don’t believe I could—” Another squeak. “I know I could never get along without you.” Esmé sniffed, and rubbed her nose against her husband’s shoulder. “I’m sorry for earlier,” she continued. “About making such a fuss over having to stay home for a week. It isn’t that I don’t like being with you, Jerome. It’s just that I like to feel useful, and Mulctuary Money Management is the only means I have of acquiring that fulfillment.” Jerome stroked his wife’s hair, feeling her shudder in his arms as she sneezed again. “I know you like to feel useful, my darling,” he said. “But you can hardly expect to be of any use to anyone when you’re ill.” “Do you think I’ll be well enough by Friday?” asked Esmé hopefully. “I was so looking forward to seeing Mr. Fitzgerald…” “Well, that all depends,” Jerome replied. “On whether or not you decide to take Dr. Rockwell’s advice and stay in bed.” “Will you stay with me?” “As often as I can. But I do have to get down to the drugstore in about half an hour to pick up your prescriptions.” “Until then,” Esmé said, as she began to twirl her finger around Jerome’s tie, “will you cuddle with me?” “It would be my pleasure,” he replied. A moment later, Jerome swung his wife up into his arms and carried her back over to the bed. “Just out of curiosity,” Esmé said as her husband brought the blankets up to her chin, “what was it that first prompted your interest in bird-watching?” Jerome smiled proudly. “It was during my days as a Snow Scout,” he explained. “I was the first in my troupe to earn a bird-watching badge.”
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Post by Jenny on May 10, 2009 7:56:35 GMT -5
Esmé fought hard not to laugh at that, but a little chuckle slipped out anyway. Poor Jerome had never been first at anything--she knew he'd never been good at sports, or exceptionally clever, and so just imagining the look of pride he must have worn on his face after being the first to recieve this bird-watching badge was enough to make her smile.
"How come you don't bird watch anymore?" she asked quietly, even as he secured his arms around her and closed his eyes.
He shrugged. "Like you said," he admitted. "There isn't much more than pigeons to look at."
"But we could go out at least to the suburbs, if you wanted," she offered. "Then maybe we could see something more interesting."
"I doubt birdwatching would much interest you," he said. "And it would hardly interest Emma, either. And, to be absolutely fair, it is quite a boring hobby."
~
Faust had been dismayed when the ghost of Dewey Denouement had disappeared after what she considered only a brief conversation.
Beatrice, who had been kneeling next to her, saw the girl's expression change with her disappointment. "Sometimes the ghosts are unpredictable," she said. "They can be right in front of you one minute and completely gone the next. I don't know why, but I'll have to ask him whenever he returns."
The older girl stood and wiped as the grass stains on her knees.
"But there's no point waiting around for him now," she said, when it looked like Faust wasn't going to follow her lead. "If he's gone, he won't be back for a while. He won't come when we call if he's busy."
"Besides, I think dinner must be nearly done," Sunny commented, and Faust wondered if this was the longest sentence she'd said yet. "They were going to start making the pizzas hours ago. We should probably go and see if we can help."
Faust looked like she could think of a thousand things she would rather have been doing, but nodded anyway, and the three girls headed off in search of dinner and in search of Emma.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on May 18, 2009 12:44:44 GMT -5
“I wonder where Sunny and Beatrice are,” Klaus remarked as he opened up the oven. “It’s almost dinnertime, and they’re usually sitting down at the table by now.”
“Emma,” Violet said. “Would you like to set the table while Klaus and I take the pizzas out of the oven?”
Emma— who was usually only asked to set the table when she and her parents had dinner at Carmelita and Nero’s apartment —nodded agreeably.
“Sure,” Emma said. “Where do you keep the plates and silverware?”
“In the dining room,” replied Violet, “on the top shelf of the china cabinet. And the silverware is in the drawers below that.”
“Would you like me to show you where everything is?” Klaus offered, sliding the first pizza of the pizzas out of the oven.
“No,” said Emma. “I think I’ve got it. Thank you, though.”
“Well, let us know if you need anything.”
“I will.”
With that, Emma scampered out of the kitchen and headed off in the direction of the dining room.
On her way she past by the front doors just as Beatrice, Sunny and Faust were stepping through them.
Faust’s eyes immediately settled on Emma, and the eleven-year-old sprinted from her place in the doorway and threw herself into the older girl’s arms.
“We were wondering where you were!” Faust cried. “We saw Dewey again, but—” She paused, and when she spoke again her voice was much less enthusiastic. “But he disappeared.”
“I told her that the ghosts are always disappearing and then reappearing,” Beatrice explained, as she and Sunny headed toward Emma and Faust.
“How’s dinner coming along?” Sunny asked. “Do Violet and Klaus need any help?”
“They asked me to go set the table while they take the pizzas out of the oven,” Emma replied. “I was just on my way over there now.”
“Well, we’d be more than happy to be of assistance,” Beatrice said. “With the four of us working together, we’ll have the table set in no time.”
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Post by Jenny on May 20, 2009 11:24:22 GMT -5
Emma had to count herself lucky that she'd found Beatrice and Sunny when she had, because upon looking inside the china cabinet she became instantly aware that there were many different sets of plates and various other place mats, and she would have been terribly embarrassed if she'd used the wrong. But Beatrice reached for a particular set, and then her friend was able to follow her lead.
Faust was looking more and more hyperactive by the second, and when Emma caught her eyeing the china cabinet she shot her a sharp look that reminded Faust of Mrs Squalor in one of her arguments with her mother.
"You are not thinkig about climbing that," Emma said. "Are you?"
The way she asked the question left only one possible answer, and Faust flushed, a little ashamed that she'd ever thought of it. "No," she chimed innocently, and crossed one leg behind the other, willing herself to stand still. Faust didn't know why really, but she'd always founf it so difficult to stay still for too long, and though she knew it sometimes irritated people she wasn't able to stop herself from being constantly on the move. Her Daddy called her "energetic", but her mother called her a nuisance.
Either way, Faust tried ehr best to look as composed and relaxed as the three older girls, and handed plates out from the cupboard to Beatrice and Emma, carefully willing herself not to drop them.
Beatrice turned towards her darker-haired friend. "Emma," she said. "I think Faust and Sunny I have got this covered. Do you want to go ask if your parents want any pizza, or if they're planning to come down? It seems like dinner's probably about ready."
Emma nodded. "Alright," she said. "But I'm fairly sure my mother isn't able to come down, and I know Jerome won't come down too long without her." She rolled her eyes a little bit--as much as she loved Jerome, some of the things he did just didn't make any sense--Esmé was a grown woman, not a child that needed an adult to sit with them at all times.
With that last thought, she set off in the direction of the stairs.
~
Esmé hadn't known she'd fallen asleep with her husband's head glued to her shoulder until a few knocks on their door woke her. She slid out from her husband's grip, hoping not to wake him--she knew all too well he hadn't been sleeping properly now that she was ill--and slinked quietly towards the door, her bare feet not making a sound against the carpeted floor.
She creaked open the door.
"Emma?" she asked softly, and smiled back at her daughter.
"Hello," Emma said, and leaned back against the opposite wall of the corridor casually, kicking one heel with the other. It was a habit Esmé had wished her to stop for a reason she had at first dismissed as because it was ruining the heels of her shoes. Really, it was because she could take one look at her daughter's tall, slim frame and her little habits and sometimes transform her right back into her father. Esmé did her best to ignore it. "I just wanted to know if you or Jerome wanted any pizza."
Esmé's stomach uncomfortably churned at the very thought, but she thought it was likely her husband would appreciate a slice (or five).
"I wouldn't," she answered. "But you know Jerome probably will."
Emma was too clever to ask whether she thought Jerome was going to mind her skipping a meal. "Why don't you ask him?" she asked, indicating the door. "Isn't he there?"
Esmé smiled. "He's asleep," she said. "I'd rather not wake him if I already know the answer to your question."
Emma nodded. Jerome was so silly. He'd been so determined to stay behind and take care of his wife, and all he'd done instead was fall fast asleep. "OK," she answered. "I'll bring some up for him."
Esmé took a quick glance at the room behind her, where her husband was still snoring softly, before responding.
"Don't try to make it one of your healthy meals again, Em," she said. "I know you're only looking out for him, but he can decide when he wants to do that on his own."
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on May 20, 2009 21:19:59 GMT -5
The last thing Emma wanted to do was to get into an argument with her mother. Not only because it would upset Esmé, but because Esmé would be the one to win.
Slowly, Emma nodded at her mother. “Alright, Mother,” Emma said.
“Good,” Esmé replied, and smiled approvingly at her daughter. “Tell the others that your father and I send our regrets for not joining them in the dining room yet again.”
“I will, though I’m certain they’ll understand. Would you like me to keep the two of you company?”
“That really isn’t necessary, darling. After all, I’m sure you’d much rather be downstairs with your friends than upstairs with your parents.”
Though Emma knew this to be true, she didn’t dare utter the truth out loud. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt her mother’s feelings, truth or not.
“Go on,” Esmé urged. “While you’re getting the pizza, I’ll wake your father.”
“O.K.,” Emma said.
Before she left, she threw her arms around her mother. Esmé returned her daughter’s hug, and planted a kiss in the center of her eyebrow. It was a routine that Emma’s parents had taken part in ever since she was a little girl, and something that had always made her smile.
Just as she always had, Emma grinned, and kissed her mother on the cheek. “I’ll bring you back something,” she promised as she stepped back. “Violet wasn’t sure if you’d be up for pizza, and said that there’s some chicken noodle soup available if you’d like any.”
“Thank you,” Esmé said, waving as her daughter began to walk back toward the elevators. “I just hope it won’t be any trouble.”
“Never.”
After Emma had disappeared, Esmé turned back to the bed and Jerome. He looked so sweet the way he lay all curled up, and she laughed at how his foot twitched the way it always did when he was deeply asleep. It was almost a shame to wake him, but the financial advisor would feel even worse if her fat, adorable husband went hungry.
“Jeroooome,” Esmé purred, shutting the door behind her before making her way back over to the bed. “Darling, Emma will be up in a little while with our dinner.”
When Jerome’s response was a happy noise (was he dreaming?) and another twitch of the foot, Esmé climbed up onto the bed. Crawling slowly over to her husband, she lay on her side and craned her neck to kiss him on the nose.
“Honey,” Esmé said softly, and stroked the bridge of her husband’s nose with one of her long-nailed fingertips. “Can you hear me?”
Jerome raised his hand to rub at the spot where his wife had been caressing.
Esmé sighed dreamily. “We’re having pizza,” she said.
“Mm,” Jerome murmured.
Esmé rolled her eyes, and then leaned over to kiss him on the mouth. If there was one thing that could pull Jerome Squalor out of a deep sleep, it was one of his wife’s sweeter-than-wine kisses.
Esmé purred as her lips met her husband’s, and almost immediately a little chirp escaped him. His green eyes fluttered open, and she smiled back at him.
“Why, Esmé,” Jerome gasped, grinning. “What a marvelous way to wake me up.”
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Post by Jenny on May 21, 2009 8:48:01 GMT -5
His wife rolled her eyes again at him, and patted down his hair, which was now sticking up at various strange angles.
"Sometimes it's the only way you'll get up," she chuckled. "Even the prospect of pizza wasn't enough that time."
Jerome looked like he might have been a little bit insulted by that remark, but he was still too sleepy to think too far into it. He pulled himself up into a sitting position and tiredly rubbed his eyes.
"I guess that means I'll have to go out after dinner to get your perscription," he said, and the frowned. He knew it was foolish, but he hated leaving his wife on her own, and the fact that it was now going to be dark when he left her certainly did not make him feel any better about it. If it was dark, it was going to be easier for someone to sneak in and kidnap her, wasn't it? That was why more crime occurred at night. Maybe if he was lucky when Emma came back up she wouldn't mind--
"Stop it," his wife said, and looked towards her. "You're thinking about not going out just because it's the evening again."
Though Esmé had long accepted that a lot of the time she did rely on her husband's care, she did not think that it was necessary that if he needed to do something that she should prevent it.
"I'm sorry," Jerome said. "But I don't like leaving you on your own when it's dark and you're sick and--" she knew that he was about to use the word helpless, but he cleverly retracted it before she could pick him up on it. "It just bothers me that if you need me I won't be around to help you."
Jerome didn't like to admit it, but he had always been terribly and constantly afraid of someone stealing his wife away from him suddenly and without warning. There were people out there with the motive, he knew--of course Olaf was no longer a threat, but Jerome had no idea of the whereabouts of any of the other unsavoury characters that might still hold a grudge against his wife. He knew of the existance of the mysteriosu "man with a beard but no hair" and the "wman with hair but no beard", and it worried him immensely that they could still be alive and waiting behind every corner.
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