Chapter 1
If you didn't know much about the Baudelaire orphans, and you saw them sitting on their suitcases at Damocles Dock, you might think that they were bound for an exciting adventure. After all, the three children had just disembarked from the Fickle Ferry, which had driven them across Lake Lachrymose to live with their Aunt Josephine, and in most cases such a situation would lead to thrillingly good times.
But of course you would be dead wrong. For although Violet, Klause, and Sunny Baudelaire were about to experience events that would be both exciting and memorable, they would not be exciting and memorable like having your fortune told or going to a rodeo. Their adventure would be exciting and memorable like being chased by a werewolf through a field of thorny bushes at midnight with nobody around to help you. If you are interested in reading a story filled with thrillingly good times, I am sorry to inform you that you are most certainly reading the wrong book, because the Baudelaires experience very few good times over the course of their gloomy and miserable lives. It is a terrible thing, their misfortune, so terrible that I can scarcely bring myself to write about it. So if you do not want to read a story of tragedy and sadness, this is your very last chance to put this book down, because the misery of the Baudelaire orphans begins in the very next paragraph.
“Look what I have for you,” Mr. Poe said, grinning from ear to ear and holding out a small paper bag. “Peppermints!” Mr. Poe was a banker who had been placed in charge of handling the affairs of the Baudelaire orphans after their parents died. Mr. Poe was kindhearted, but it is not enough in this world to be kindhearted, particularly if you are responsible for keeping children out of danger. Mr. Poe had known the three since they were born, and could never remember that they were allergic to peppermints.
“Thank you, Mr. Poe,” Violet said, and took the paper bag and peered inside. Like most 14-year-olds, Violet was too well mannered to mention that id she ate a peppermint she would break out in hives, a phrase which here means “be covered in red, itchy rashes for a few hours. Besides, she was too occupied with inventing thoughts to pay much attention to Mr. Poe. Anyone who knew Violet would know that when her hair was tied up in a ribbon to keep it out of her eyes, the way it was now, her thoughts were filled with wheels, gears, levers, and other necessary things got inventions. At this particular moment she was thinking of how she could improve the engine of the Fickle Ferry so it wouldn’t belch smoke into the gray sky.
“That’s very kind of you,” said Klause, the middle Baudelaire child, smiling at Mr. Poe and thinking that if he had even one lick of a peppermint, his tongue would swell up and he would scarcely be able to speak. Klause took his glasses off and wished that Mr. Poe had bought him a book or a newspaper instead. Klase was a voracious reader, and when he had learned about his allergy at a birthday party when he was eight, he had immediately read all his parents’ books about allergies. Even 4 years later he could recite the chemical formulas cause his tongue to swell up.
“Toi!” Sunny shrieked. The younger Baudelaire was an infant, and like many infants, she spoke mostly in words that were tricky to understand. By “Toi!” she probably meant “I have never eaten a peppermint because I suspect that I, like my siblings, am allergic to them,” but it was hard to tell. She may also have meant “I wish I could bite a peppermint, because I like to bite things with my four sharp teeth, but I don’t want to risk an allergic reaction.”
“You can eat them on your cab ride to Mrs. Anwhistle’s house,” Mr. Poe said, coughing into his white handkerchief. Mr. Poe always seemed to have a cold and the Baudelaire orphans were accustomed to receiving information from him between bouts of hacking and wheezing. “She apologizes for not meeting you at the dock, but she says she’s frightened of it.”
