Beatrice · Baudelaire

((Assuming it's still dark...)) Beatrice is in the library trying to read. Reading is normally a good distraction from things she doesn't like to think about, like unexpected aging and its implications, but it's made more difficult by the lack of light. Holding a flashlight while trying to read is a bit awkward.

The darkness has one advantage, though. It means people are less likely to notice that she went slightly overboard with the eyebrow plucking. She still has eyebrows, more or less, and at least there are two of them now...

The other day, Beatrice had a premonition. It was short, and vague, but still worrying, and she's trying hard to forget it. She can be found by the side of the lake, with a copy of The Phantom Tollbooth that she's looking at but not actually reading. Since the book isn't helping, she'd appreciate some company.

Beatrice promised to come over sometime, at a sensible time of day, so here she is. And even though she's sure Armand will tell her she shouldn't have, she's brought a gift. It's a medium-sized bowl containing a chilled salad Sunny taught her to make, with sliced mango, black beans, chopped celery, black pepper, lime juice and olive oil. (It should keep in a refrigerator for a day or so before the celery starts to go brown. She thinks. Normally they ate it all before that became an issue.)

((I don't know what time it is now for you guys... let's just say it's a reasonable time of day to show up with salad.))

Falling in the plothole aside, the fireproofing spell was really not that difficult. At least, Beatrice doesn't think it was. She has no intention of testing it all by herself, of course. That's just basic fire safety and she still feels slightly ill at the thought of picking up a match.

She knocks on the door of the cottage, hoping either Cimorene or one of her friends will be in. (And no, she has no idea what happened while she was away.)

Beatrice didn't mean to disappear for two weeks while a friend was in trouble. It was mostly an accident. She was collecting ingredients for Cimorene's fireproofing spell from the plothole, and... well, how often do you get to see what a tear in the fabric of reality looks like? She probably shouldn't have crawled in that far. Or at least should have tied herself to something first. Up until the point where she fell, though, it just looked like an ordinary cupboard.

After she fell, it looked remarkably like her office in the Rhetorical Building. And then she couldn't get back.

She's spent the last fortnight trying to track down Mr Snicket, who was just as elusive as ever, and opening doors very quickly in the hope that there'd be something different on the other side. And then one day she simply walked into her office and found it was a bedroom.

The bats were fine, being trained to fend for themselves if she disappeared (in case she was ever kidnapped and didn't have time to find a sitter. Not that she can think of anyone specific who'd want to kidnap her, but you never know.) They were sulky, and Lucy nipped her hand while she was feeding them, but she thinks they'll recover.

She's more worried about Armand. The last time she saw him he was drunk and distraught, and she doesn't know what might have happened in the meantime. She finds the door to his rooms, and knocks a few times, nervously.

Beatrice appears to have acquired a box of matches. At the minute she's just sitting in a corner, lighting pages from the back of her commonplace book and watching as they curl up and disintegrate into nothing but ash. It's so beautiful. So powerful. She can't imagine why she was ever afraid of this.

Nothing can stand in her way. All it takes is a single spark, and any obstacles she faces will fall at her feet.

This is going to wear off at some point. Still, anyone walking past might want to intervene. She's not taking any particular precautions about where the embers land.

My name is Beatrice Baudelaire, and I am a baticeer, a word which means "person who trains bats". If you need to send a letter and for whatever reason would prefer not to use more conventional means, then feel free to leave a message here requesting my services. Providing, of course, that your intentions are noble.

Please do not be put off by my age. I may only be ten years old, but I have plenty of experience.

(To L.S.: Sir, if you are reading this, my request still stands. Please contact me, any time, day or night (preferably day.) You may be my last hope.

To V., K., and/or S.: If you're reading this, any of you, please, please contact me. It's really me. I'm safe. At least, I am safe at the moment I'm writing these words. I miss you.

To - others: "I didn't realise this was a sad occasion.")