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Strong gusts of wind blow relentlessly in the small town, adding another unwanted difficulty to Violet’s walk home. She’d already been struggling to balance her crutch on the wet cobblestone, having had a few close-calls to falling flat on her face even before the air had decided to make an enemy of itself.
She’d glued a small circle of rubber to the crutch’s bottom a while back for the purpose of added grip but it only helped so much. ‘So much’ meaning ‘not enough’ in this scenario apparently as Violet, leaning heavily on said crutch, unknowingly positions it on black ice.
“Sh*t!” It slips from under her and her leg gives out, crumpling beneath her weight and sending her sprawling. At the last moment she grabs hold of a lamppost. Clinging to it, she hauls herself into a more upright position. Her leg protests the movement with an agonising jolt of pain.
Curse those stupid pirates.
Dark clouds gather overhead. The rain pounds harder, soaking through her thin wool jacket. She needs to go home. Sunny’s scared of storms. Same with Klaus, however hesitant he is to admit it.
Lightning strikes. A zigzag bolt severing the sky. Flashing bright white light. Illuminating the teen’s pained expression. Striking the tall, metal lamppost she leans on.
For a split second that lasts an eternity Violet is numb. Hazy. Both conscious and unconscious at once.
Then it hits her.
Energy fizzes through her veins, her head tilts back, feet lifting off the ground, suspending her in the air while an impossibly bright sparkling mist snakes around her body. The mist has her transfixed, she observes unblinkingly-can she blink? Is she paralysed?- it brushes her skin, tingling. Then retreats, gathering into one large purple cloud. Before it rushes forward. Forcing her lips to part. Sliding into Violet’s mouth, slipping down her throat.
The world tilts.
***
Scuffed boots. That’s the first thing Violet’s eyes fall on when she cracks them open. She trails her gaze up and sees the lanky teen the boots are attached to, a mess of dark hair obscuring their face.
Groaning, she pulls herself to sit then drags her aching body towards her crutch and finally comes to a stand. The stranger just stares. So Violet stares back. The stranger stares at Violet some more. Violet crosses her arms, still staring. The stranger takes a half-step back pushing matted hair out of their eyes. Violet stares at the stranger…oh…it’s Quigley. Quigley stares at Violet, wide-eyed expression mirroring hers.
”…hello?” If Violet’s greeting is shaky then it’s nothing compared to her friend’s.
”V-Violet?” His voice cracks from disuse.
She nods and a moment passes where they just take in what they can of the other in the dimly lit street.
Quigley’s hair is longer, wild and unkempt. Violet’s is straggly with more than a few strands falling loose from her ribbon, blown onto her face by the wind.
He has new scars. As does she. Not all in places eyes can see.
When they first met Quigley had been drowning in his jacket (a gift from Jaques), he still wore it and it still hung off his frame. He should have grown more by now. Violet should have too. Her stomach growls at that moment, serving almost as a reminder.
”You’re hungry.” A statement, not a question. Quigley bounces forwards and grabs Violet’s free hand with a familiar grin tugging on the ends of his lips, “I know just the place!”
They chat along the way, a light-hearted stream of easy banter, as though they’ve known each other for years instead of missed each other for years.
“Voila!” Quigley elaborately gestures to the entrance of a cosy-looking café with yellow string lights hanging from the windows and pumpkins lining the sills. “Thoughts?”
”If it’s warm inside then I’m more than happy.”
”Anywhere’s warm when there’s people as hot as us around,” Quigley winks, leading them in the already propped open door as Violet rolls her eyes fondly.
The queue is mercifully short meaning that Violet doesn’t have to stand alone for long while Quigley rushes to save them a spot. She picks up a fat wedge of cake and two hot chocolates overflowing with marshmallows, balancing them on a tray in one hand so she can use her other for her crutch.
Scanning over the semi-busy seating area Violet’s eyes catch on Quigley easily. Mainly because of how oddly he’s sitting; cross legged on a checkered armchair, head held in his hands, peering at Violet with a half-smile until he realised she catches him staring and attempts to play it casual with a wave. Too bad the pink spilling over his cheeks gives away the charade.
Violet is making her way over when a dotty old lady plonks down into the seat opposite Quigley who shrugs at Violet indicating he doesn’t know her either. The elderly woman ignores Quigley, focusing on drinking her tea with a content sigh.
“I’m terribly sorry,” starts Violet, setting the tray down on a wooden table between the two armchairs, “but my friend and I are sitting here. I’m more than willing to help you find another seat though!”
The lady looks affronted for a few seconds before the expression morphs into a knowing one, the space around her eyes crinkling to accommodate a wide grin, “ah, no worries love,” she hoists herself up, gathering her handbag, “window seats are the most romantic after all so best not waste it on an old spinster like myself! Take care, dear!”
Violet’s cheeks heat up as she stammers out a “thank you!”
The woman, after settling into another overstuffed armchair a few meters away turns her head, cups her hands around her mouth and then whisper-shouts “good luck on your date!”
It takes everything in Violet to refrain from burying her head in her hands. Quigley on the other hand is in stitches, taking delight in pestering Violet about how she’s managed to turn redder than the leaves outdoors.
The pair bicker and joke for a bit, it’s nice but the throbbing of her bad leg prevents Violet from fully enjoying the chat. It’s usually more manageable when she keeps it straight however the coffee table is too high to comfortably prop it up on.
“What’s the matter?” Queries Quigley. Of course he notices. He’s always been so observant (at least when it comes to Violet). Violet debates internally about whether to keep her pain hidden or not, a sharp twinge in her knee decides for her.
”I need to stretch my leg out and the coffee table is too high.” She is suddenly fascinated by raindrops running down the window pane.
“Okay,” Quigley shuffles over, bringing his knees tight together so he only takes up half the seat, he hums so Violet averts her gaze from the glass then nods to the space next to him. She takes the silent invitation and props her leg up, the crease between her brow lessening.
“How’d you hurt your leg?”
Coming from most people that question would annoy Violet but Quigley’s tone lacks the patronising sympathy she’s unfortunately grown used to. Also, Violet has heavy questions she wants to ask Quigley in return so perhaps they could do a trade of sorts; information for information.
“Had a run-in with a crew of pirates when sailing away from an island,” she takes a gulp of hot chocolate, warming her fingers on the cup’s sides, “We were kidnapped; forced to work for them. I invented a means of escape-a motorboat of sorts-but there wasn’t the opportunity for a test drive before using it…by the time I realised the fault…” she shakes her head, hair toppling past her shoulders, “I’m glad it was me who was injured and not Bea or one of my siblings.”
”Bea?”
”Long story.”
”I have time.”
”It’s your turn.”
”What?” Quigley leans back.
”It’s your turn to answer one of my questions,” Violet bends forwards, digging her fork into the sweet ginger cake.
Quigley drums his fingers soundlessly against the armrest then starts fiddling with string lights on the window, abruptly dropping them again with a guilty expression when they begin to flicker. “If your question’s about how I manage to be so unbelievably talented at absolutely everything then my deepest apologies but I was just born that way so I can’t offer tips.”
Violet laughs, peering at Quigley over her steaming mug. Before she can overthink it she leans in and-yep that was enough time to overthink it. Wow they are close. Quigley’s grin widens, Violet didn’t know that was possible. She tucks a loose lock of hair behind his ear from where it had fallen. As she retracts her hand and begins to lean back Quigley catches it, interlocking her warm fingers with his icy ones and resting them on the table between them.
”Quigley…”
”Violet.” He raises his eyebrows playfully.
”Where’s Isadora? And Duncan”
Quigley’s smile drops and she feels his hand stiffen but their fingers stay intertwined. He opens and closes his mouth a few times before muttering “someplace safe. Away from here.” Away from him.
She squeezes his hand gently, “why?”
Why aren’t you together anymore? Why all that searching for nothing? Was it by choice? Did you not like who you found? Did they not like who found them?
“It-” Quigley averts his gaze, tugging on the frayed end of his sleeve, “it was too late when I found them… they’d already-they’d already grieved me,” His eyes dart frantically from left to right as he searches for any words that could possibly explain it.
Violet could give him an out, an excuse to change the subject. She doesn’t. For both of their benefits.
Quigley runs his fingers along the battered spine of his notebook, “We don’t fit together like we used to.”
Violet remembers a jigsaw puzzle she received for her fourth birthday, how the pieces had slot together seamlessly to form a bright picture until Klaus-little more than a toddler- had chewed the ends off some pieces and the misshapen ones never quite fit right again.
”My presence wasn’t a comfort to my siblings,” Quigley’s voice drops to a whisper, “it was more like a haunting.”
”They said that?”
“Not with words.”
Violet doesn’t know how to respond and she wishes, not for the first time, that she had Klaus’ affinity with words. So she squeezes his hand instead, hoping to send across as much comfort as she can. Knowing that it won’t be enough.
A clock in the corner ticks close to seven. Outside the wind is still howling and water cascades from the sky in bucketloads but the thunder has relented, same goes for the lightning. Violet figures she should see a medical professional about the whole ‘getting struck by lightning’ thing but then again if she’s feeling fine now then maybe a trip to the doctor is unnecessary. She finds it hard to stomach hospitals anyway.
“It’s getting late, Klaus will be worrying about why I’m not home yet.” Violet eats another few forkfuls of cake then sets the plate neatly to the side, placing her empty mug on top of it, “I hope to meet you again soon!”
Quigley jumps to his feet, stepping away, only letting go of Violet’s hand at the last possible moment before he’d be dragging her with him, “It was nice talking to you, Vi, nice having you see me,” He cups her face in his hands then bends down, pressing their foreheads against each-other, his too-cold and hers too-warm, balancing each-other, “stay safe, yeah?”
She wraps her arms round his torso, enveloping him in a hug which he desperately returns.
They pull apart reluctantly. Quigley goes before Violet does; wanting needing to be the one who leaves first this time.(Unlike with his mother, with Jaques, with the last time he saw the Baudelaires and with all those who came after.)
Grabbing her crutch, Violet looks out the window one last time, grinning as she spots Quigley in the distance, leaping into a pile of leaves which scatter as though hit by a particularly strong gust of wind.
She’s only a step away from exiting when a loud “Hey! Wait!” forces her to stop and swivel her head back. It’s the barista, the blue-haired one, handing her a paper bag.
”Um, I didn’t pay for this?”
“I know,” The barista says, words speeding up the more they talk, “but I watched you for a while and it’s the worst feeling getting stood up like that-trust me I have waaaaay too much experience of that- so I figured a free doughnut might help! It’s peppermint flavoured!”
Violet blinks a few times. The confusion does not dispel. She hadn’t been stood up. Quigley had been there. She’d talked with him, held him, he was there…wasn’t he?
Their table is as she left it; plate and cup to the side. Quigley’s mug still sits on the tray, filled to the brim. The cushions he sat on are free from wrinkles that should have been inevitable.
Wordlessly, Violet backs out of the café, face pale and mind bursting with all the wrong questions.