“Children, I'm afraid I must inform you of an extremely unfortunate event.”
When the first trickle of smoke rose up into the sky, she was in the library and he was in the study. She was leaning up against the arm of the sofa, a book in hand.
From far, far away, a thin stream of light burned steadily.
He sat leaning over his desk, studying a set of black and white photographs carefully. He stopped for a moment, as the flame grew, unnoticed, and turned a spyglass over and over in his hands.
By the time he smelled the smoke, it was already too late. The spyglass fell forgotten to the desk, and as it rolled, the letters VFD glinted in the flickering light.
As he ran down the hall, he heard her cry out.
She stood with her hands over her mouth, watching in horror as her beloved books were consumed. The dancing tongues of flame rose all the way to the ceiling, and he took her hand to lead her away.
His breath catching on the smoke-hazed air, he realised it was worse than he had thought. There was no way out.
As the building collapsed around them, they took refuge in the living room, where, as the name suggested, so much of their living had been done. Tiny imprints could be seen on the edge of the table, made by the teeth of their youngest daughter. On the table lay their son’s favourite book, his place marked by his sister’s hair ribbon, as if only waiting for his return.
The two of them lay down on the floor as the room filled with smoke, and she smiled while tears dripped from her nose. They clasped hands and listened to the soft sighs of the timber as the walls caved in. Quietly, just loud enough to be heard, they said to each other, over and over, “I love you.”
“I love you. I love you. I love you.”
The words were addressed not only to each other, but to the three children who, just a few moments later, became orphans.
“I love you. Goodbye. I love you.”
No one knows the precise cause of the Baudelaire fire, but just like that, the Baudelaire children became the Baudelaire orphans.
