A Series of Unfortunate Events Collection: Books 1-13 with Bonus Material

by Lemony Snicket

  “Leave?” Violet asked.

  “Of course,” Hector said. “Are you forgetting how many chores we have ahead of us today?” He reached into the pocket of his overalls and pulled out a list. “We begin downtown, of course, so the crows don’t get in our way. We have to trim Mrs. Morrow’s hedges, wash Mr. Lesko’s windows, and polish all the doorknobs at the Verhoogen family’s mansion. Plus we have to sweep all the feathers out of the street, and take out everyone’s garbage and recyclables.”

  “But the Quagmire kidnapping is much more important than any of those things,” Violet said.

  Hector sighed. “I agree with you,” he said, “but I’m not going to argue with the Council of Elders. They make me too skittish.”

  “I’ll be happy to explain the situation to them,” Klaus said.

  “No,” Hector decided. “It will be best to do our chores as usual. Go wash your faces, Baudelaires, and then we’ll go.”

  The Baudelaires looked at one another in dismay, wishing that the handyman wasn’t quite so afraid of a group of old people wearing crow-shaped hats, but without further discussion they walked back into the house, washed their faces, and followed Hector across the flat landscape until they reached the outskirts of town and then through the uptown district, where the V.F.D. crows were roosting, until they reached the downtown house of Mrs. Morrow, who was waiting in her pink robe on her front porch. Without a word she handed Hector a pair of hedge clippers, which are nothing more than large scissors designed to cut branches and leaves rather than paper, and gave each Baudelaire a large plastic bag to gather up the leaves and branches Hector would snip off. Hedge clippers and a plastic bag are not appropriate methods of greeting someone, of course, particularly first thing in the morning, but the three siblings were so busy thinking about what the poems could mean that they scarcely noticed. As they gathered up the hedge trimmings they floated several theories—the phrase “floated several theories” here means “talked quietly about the two couplets by Isadora Quagmire”—until the hedge looked nice and neat and it was time to walk down the block to where Mr. Lesko lived. Mr. Lesko—whom the Baudelaires recognized as the man in plaid pants who was worried that the children might have to live with him—was even ruder than Mrs. Morrow. He merely pointed at a pile of window-cleaning supplies and stomped back into his house, but once again the Baudelaires were concentrating on solving the mystery of the two messages they had been left, and scarcely noticed Mr. Lesko’s rudeness. Violet and Klaus each began scrubbing dirt off a window with a damp rag, while Sunny stood by with a bucket of soapy water and Hector climbed up to clean the windows on the second floor, but all the children thought of was each line of Isadora’s confusing poem, until they were finished with the windows and were ready to go to work on the rest of the chores for the day, which I will not describe for you, not only because they were so boring that I would fall asleep while writing them down on paper, but because the Baudelaire orphans scarcely noticed them. The children thought about the couplets while they polished the Verhoogen doorknobs, and they thought about them when they swept the feathers from the street into a dustpan that Sunny held while crawling in front of her siblings, but they still could not imagine how Isadora managed to leave a poem underneath Nevermore Tree. They thought about the couplets as they carried the garbage and recyclables from all of V.F.D.’s downtown residents, and they thought about them as they ate a lunch of cabbage sandwiches that one of V.F.D.’s restaurant owners had agreed to provide as his part in the village’s attempt to raise the children, but they still could not figure out what Isadora was trying to tell them. They thought of the couplets when Hector read out the list of afternoon chores, which included such tedious duties as making citizens’ beds, washing townspeople’s dishes, preparing enough hot fudge sundaes for the entire Council of Elders to enjoy as an afternoon snack, and polishing Fowl Fountain, but no matter how hard they thought, the Baudelaires got no closer to solving the couplets’ mysteries.

  “I’m very impressed with how hard you three children are working,” Hector said, as he and the children began their last afternoon chore. Fowl Fountain was made in the shape of an enormous crow, and stood in the middle of the uptown district, in a courtyard with many different streets leading out of it. The children were scrubbing at the crow’s metal body, which was covered in carvings of feather shapes to make it look more realistic. Hector was standing on a ladder scrubbing at the crow’s metal head, which was facing straight up and spitting a steady stream of water out of a hole fashioned to look like its mouth, as if the enormous bird were gargling and spitting water all over its own body. The effect was hideous, but the V.F.D. crows must have thought differently, because the fountain was covered in feathers that they had left behind during their uptown morning roost. “When the Council of Elders told me that the village was serving as your guardian,” Hector continued, “I was afraid that three small children wouldn’t be able to do all these chores without complaining.”

  “We’re used to strenuous exercise,” Violet replied. “When we lived in Paltryville, we debarked trees and sawed them into boards, and at Prufrock Preparatory School we had to run hundreds of laps every night.”

  “Besides,” Klaus said, “we’re so busy thinking about the couplets that we’ve scarcely noticed our work.”

  “I thought that’s why you were so quiet,” Hector said. “How do the poems go again?”

  The Baudelaires had looked at the two scraps of paper so many times over the course of the day that they could recite both poems from memory.

  “For sapphires we are held in here.

  Only you can end our fear.”

  Violet said.

  “Until dawn comes we cannot speak.

  No words can come from this sad beak.”

  Klaus said.

  “Dulch!” Sunny added, which meant something like, “And we still haven’t figured out what they really mean.”

  “They’re tricky, all right,” Hector said. “In fact, I…”

  Here his voice trailed off, and the children were startled to see the handyman turn around so he was no longer facing them and begin to scrub the left eye of the metal crow, as if someone had flicked a switch that stopped him from talking.

  “Fowl Fountain still doesn’t look completely clean,” said a stern voice from behind the children, and the Baudelaires turned around to see three women from the Council of Elders who had entered the courtyard and now stood frowning at them. Hector was so skittish that he didn’t even look up to answer, but the children were not nearly as intimidated, a word which here means “made skittish by three older women wearing crow-shaped hats.”

  “We’re not completely finished cleaning it,” Violet explained politely. “I do hope you enjoyed your hot fudge sundaes that we prepared for you earlier.”

  “They were O.K.,” one of them said, with a shrug that bobbed her crow hat slightly.

  “Mine had too many nuts,” another one of them said. “Rule #961 clearly states that the Council of Elders’ hot fudge sundaes cannot have more than fifteen pieces of nuts each, and mine might have had more than that.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that,” Klaus said, not adding that anyone who is so picky about a hot fudge sundae should make it themselves.

  “We’ve stacked up the dirty ice cream dishes in the Snack Hut,” the third one said. “Tomorrow afternoon you’ll wash them as part of your uptown chores. But we came to tell Hector something.”

  The children looked up to the top of the ladder, thinking that Hector would have to turn around and speak to them now, no matter how skittish he was. But he merely gave a little cough, and continued to scrub at Fowl Fountain. Violet remembered what her father had taught her to say when he was unable to come to the phone, and she spoke up.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Hector is occupied at the moment. May I give him a message?”

  The Elders looked at one another and nodded, which made it look like their hats were pecking at one another. �
��I suppose so,” one of them said. “If we can trust a little girl like you to deliver it.”

  “The message is very important,” the second one said, and once again I find it necessary to use the expression “bolt from the blue.” You would think, after the mysterious appearance of not one but two poems by Isadora Quagmire at the base of Nevermore Tree, that no more bolts from the blue would appear in the village of V.F.D. A bolt of lightning, after all, rarely comes down from a clear blue sky and strikes the exact same place more than once. But for the Baudelaire orphans, life seemed to be little else than bolt after unfortunate bolt from the blue, ever since Mr. Poe had delivered the first bolt from the blue in telling them that their parents had been killed, and no matter how many bolts from the blue they experienced, their heads never spun any less, and their legs never got less wobbly, and their bodies never buzzed any less with astonishment when another bolt arrived from the blue. So when the Baudelaires heard the Elders’ message, they almost had to sit down in Fowl Fountain, because the message was such an utter surprise. It was a message that they thought they might never hear, and it is a message that only reaches me in my most pleasant dreams, which are few and far between.

  “The message is this,” said the third member of the Council of Elders, and she leaned her head in close so that the children could see every felt feather of her crow hat. “Count Olaf has been captured,” she said, and the Baudelaires felt as if a bolt of lightning had struck them once more.

  CHAPTER

  Six

  Although “jumping to conclusions” is an expression, rather than an activity, it is as dangerous as jumping off a cliff, jumping in front of a moving train, and jumping for joy. If you jump off a cliff, you have a very good chance of experiencing a painful landing unless there is something below you to cushion your fall, such as a body of water or an immense pile of tissue paper. If you jump in front of a moving train, you have a very good chance of experiencing a painful voyage unless you are wearing some sort of train-proof suit. And if you jump for joy, you have a very good chance of experiencing a painful bump on the head, unless you make sure you are standing someplace with very high ceilings, which joyous people rarely do. Clearly, the solution to anything involving jumping is either to make sure you are jumping to a safe place, or not to jump at all.

  But it is hard not to jump at all when you are jumping to conclusions, and it is impossible to make sure that you are jumping to a safe place, because all “jumping to conclusions” means is that you are believing something is true even though you don’t actually know whether it is or not. When the Baudelaire orphans heard from the three members of V.F.D.’s Council of Elders that Count Olaf had been captured, they were so excited that they immediately jumped to the conclusion that it was true.

  “It’s true,” said one of the Elders, which didn’t help things any. “A man arrived in town this morning, with one eyebrow and a tattoo of an eye on his ankle.”

  “It must be Olaf,” Violet said, jumping to conclusions.

  “Of course it is,” the second Council member said. “He matched the description that Mr. Poe gave us, so we arrested him immediately.”

  “So it’s true,” Klaus said, joining his sister in the jump. “You’ve really captured Count Olaf.”

  “Of course it’s true,” the third woman said impatiently. “We’ve even contacted The Daily Punctilio, and they’ll write a story about it. Soon the whole world will know that Count Olaf has been captured at last.”

  “Hooray!” cried Sunny, the last Baudelaire to jump to conclusions.

  “The Council of Elders has called a special meeting,” said the woman who appeared to be the eldest Elder. Her crow hat bobbed in excitement as she spoke. “All citizens are required to go to Town Hall immediately, to discuss what is to be done with him. After all, Rule #19,833 clearly states that no villains are allowed within the city limits. The usual punishment for breaking a rule is burning at the stake.”

  “Burning at the stake?” Violet said.

  “Of course,” an Elder said. “Whenever we capture rulebreakers, we tie them to a wooden pole and light a fire underneath their feet. That’s why I warned you about the number of nuts on my hot fudge sundae. It would be a shame to light you on fire.”

  “You mean the punishment is the same, no matter what rule you break?” Klaus asked.

  “Of course,” another Elder replied. “Rule #2 clearly states that anyone who breaks a rule is burned at the stake. If we didn’t burn a rule-breaker at the stake, we would be rulebreakers ourselves, and someone else would have to burn us at the stake. Understand?”

  “Sort of,” Violet said, although in truth she didn’t understand it at all. None of the Baudelaires did. Although they despised Count Olaf, the children didn’t like the idea of lighting him on fire. Burning a villain at the stake felt like something a villain would do rather than something done by fowl devotees.

  “But Count Olaf isn’t just a rulebreaker,” Klaus said, choosing his words very carefully. “He has committed all sorts of terrible crimes. It would seem best to turn him over to the authorities, rather than burning him at the stake.”

  “Well, that’s something we can talk about at the meeting,” a Councilwoman said, “and we’d better hurry or we’ll be late. Hector, get down from that ladder.”

  Hector didn’t answer, but he got down from the ladder and followed the three members of the Council of Elders away from Fowl Fountain, keeping his eyes on the ground at all times. The Baudelaires followed Hector, their stomachs fluttering as they walked through the uptown district to the downtown one, where the crows were roosting as they had been yesterday, when the children had first arrived in V.F.D. Their stomachs were fluttering with relief and excitement, because they believed that Count Olaf had been captured, but also with nervousness and fear, because they hated the idea that he might be burned at the stake. The punishment for V.F.D. rulebreakers made the Baudelaires remember their parents’ deaths, and they didn’t like the idea of anyone being lit on fire, no matter how vile a person they were. It was unpleasant to feel relief, excitement, nervousness, and fear all at once, and by the time they arrived at Town Hall, the stomachs of the Baudelaire orphans were as fluttery as the crows, which were muttering and scuffling as far as the eye could see.

  When one’s stomach is as fluttery as all that, it is nice to take a short break to lie down and perhaps sip a fizzy beverage, but there was no time for such things. The three members of the Council led the way to the large room in Town Hall decorated with portraits of crows. The room was in pandemonium, a phrase which here means “filled with Elders and townspeople standing around arguing.” The Baudelaires scanned the room for a sign of Olaf, but it was impossible to see anyone over the bobbing crow heads.

  “We need to begin the meeting!” called one of the Council. “Elders, find your places on the bench. Townspeople, find your places on folding chairs.” The townspeople stopped talking at once and hurried into their seats, perhaps afraid that they would be burned at the stake if they didn’t sit down quickly enough. Violet and Klaus sat down next to Hector, who was still staring at the floor in silence, and picked up Sunny so she could see.

  “Hector, place Officer Luciana and Count Olaf on the platform for discussion,” an Elder ordered, as the last few townspeople sat down.

  “There’s no need,” called out a grand voice from the back of the room, and the children turned around to see Officer Luciana, with a big red grin beneath the visor of her helmet. “I can get to the platform myself. After all, I’m the Chief of Police.”

  “That’s true,” another Elder said, and several other people on the bench nodded their crow hats in agreement as Luciana strolled to the platform, each of her black boots making a loud clunk! on the shiny floor.

  “I’m proud to say,” Officer Luciana said proudly, “that I’ve already made the first arrest of my career as Chief of Police. Isn’t that smashing?”

  “Hear, hear!” cried several townspeople.
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  “And now,” Luciana continued, “let’s meet the man we’re all dying to burn at the stake—Count Olaf!”

  With a grand gesture, Officer Luciana stepped off the platform, clunked to the back of the room, and dragged a frightened-looking man out of a folding chair. He was dressed in a rumpled suit with a large rip across the shoulder, and a pair of shiny silver handcuffs. He wasn’t wearing any shoes or socks, and as Officer Luciana marched him to the platform the children could see that he had a tattoo of an eye on his left ankle, just like Count Olaf had. And when he turned his head and gazed around the room, the children could see that he had only one eyebrow, instead of two, just like Count Olaf had. But the children could also see that he wasn’t Count Olaf. He wasn’t as tall as Count Olaf, and he wasn’t quite as thin, and there wasn’t dirt under his fingernails, or a nasty and greedy look in his eyes. But most of all the Baudelaires could see that he wasn’t Count Olaf the way you could tell that a stranger wasn’t your uncle, even if he were wearing the same polka-dot coat and curly wig that your uncle always wore. The three siblings looked at one another, and then at the man being dragged onto the platform, and they realized with a sinking feeling that they had been jumping to conclusions about Olaf’s capture.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Officer Luciana said, “and orphans, I give you Count Olaf!”

  “But I’m not Count Olaf!” the man cried. “My name is Jacques, and—”

  “Silence!” commanded one of the meanest-looking members of the Council of Elders. “Rule #920 clearly states that no one may talk while on the platform.”

  “Let’s burn him at the stake!” cried a voice, and the children turned to see Mr. Lesko standing up and pointing at the trembling man on the platform. “We haven’t burned anyone at the stake for a long time!”