The storm raged on outside the windows of the old, drafty house that stood alone on Baudelaire Island, rattling the windows and fighting a fierce war with the fire in the large hearth that tried to beat back the chill and gloom. The power had long since gone out, so a few candles were placed here and there, the wax melting slowly but steadily and pooling in the candle holders.

It was a big house, more castle than anything, really, though the one who owned it would never have referred to it as such. There were five bedrooms in the stone building, a sprawling library, a kitchen and dining room, and various other rooms that spread out over four stories and up into the two towers. One tower was a bedroom, the other a spot where one might look out and see the vast ocean and, if one strained their eyes a bit, the dark green on the horizon that was land.

Not that one would be able to see that tonight, with the wind screaming over the water and rain pelting down, with angry black clouds blocking the moon and stars and any other light. Beyond the window, rain pelted down, hard and unforgiving as miniature bullets shot from the dark sky.

To the one who lived here, this weather was normal, expected, even welcomed, if truth be told. In such horrid weather, no one would dare try and come to this private little island, disturbing the relative peace and trespassing on land that welcomed no visitors. Of course, no one ever tried to visit anyway. The jagged rocks mere yards from the sea-level sand beds were quite daunting, as were the sweeping cliffs on the higher part of the island, the crescent-shaped bit of forest that wrapped around the middle part of the island and up to the cliffs.

Between all of that, just inside the trees and yards from the white sand, was where the Baudelaire Estate had stood for centuries, uninhabited but for the past few years. On an island just less than three miles all the way around, Baudelaire Estate remained the only house that stood; the only building that disrupted the wildlife. And it was the way the one who resided there preferred it.

After all, the one who resided within these drafty walls had always dragged misfortune along with them. And any who had gotten close to this individual had ended up dead or otherwise gone from their life due to various 'unfortunate' events. A series of them, one might say.

And all of them had ultimately led to this, a lonely individual living in self-imposed solitude, with nothing but memories and books to keep them company.

Violet Baudelaire sat in the big, generously cushioned chair in front of the snapping fire, a thin shawl around her shoulders to ward off the chill that still remained in the room. Reading by candlelight, she had her bare feet tucked up under her, a cup of tea on the table beside her. Her hair was down and loose, her long, slim body covered in an old fashioned sleeping gown that fell to her ankles, the sleeves billowing to just above her elbows.

She was a pretty woman, and some might have said beautiful if they'd ever had occasion to see her smile. Her raven hair brushed her shoulders in a straight fall, a few wispy bangs framing her wise brown eyes that were very often dark and blank. She had lived alone in this sprawling house for seven years, since leaving her adopted sister Beatrice in a foster home. Better there, she'd thought, than with a sister who forever courted misfortune.

It had been eleven years since the ship carrying her family away from Ishmael's island had hit the rocks and sank, since she'd failed to protect her siblings. Misfortune had taken Klaus and Sunny that day, sparing the eldest and the youngest in a twist of fate Violet would never understand. Her two siblings and closest friends had lost their lives, while she'd lost nothing but the ribbon she'd had tied in her hair. For four years after staggering onto the sands of Briny Beach with Beatrice clutched in her arms, she'd done her best to keep that same misfortune from claiming Beatrice, moving them from foster home to foster home, forever wary of staying in one place for too long, from getting attached to any particular person, any particular place.

And then she'd turned eighteen, and had left Beatrice, had left behind the rest of humanity and come here, to the place now known as Baudelaire Island, using all of her knowledge and know-how to fix up the old mansion that had stood empty for generations. It was her place, her sanctuary; even if to the rest of the world it was known as a cursed place, a dangerous piece of land that forever had storm clouds over it.

She never left this place, this island, not for any reason. Her food and other necessities were flown in from the mainland, her clothes purchased through catalogue. She kept herself from the rest of humanity, contenting herself with her books, her inventions, and the house that always seemed to require some new repair. The patent money from various inventions kept her quite financially stable, and so she lived, year after year, unnoticed and separated from the rest of humanity.

That was, of course, until on this particular stormy night, when the wind was high and the dark all-encompassing, somebody knocked at her door.

It took her a moment, of course, to recognize the banging on the front door as knocking. Not once, in all these years, had anyone ever come to her door. It was ridiculous. Drawing her shawl tighter around her shoulders, she slipped silently from her chair, striding quickly down the hallway towards the front door, candle in hand.

Knowing a glance out the window would show her nothing, she took a breath, flipping the lock on the front door and swinging it open. And there, standing on her front steps, was a man. Not just any man, mind you, but a bleeding man. Not just a bleeding man, but a bleeding man who fell to his knees as soon as he saw her. Not only a man on his knees, but a man who uttered simply 'Oh, good God' before he dropped to a dead faint, the upper half of his body falling inside the house.

And it was then, in Violet Baudelaire's twenty fifth year of existence, that she quickly found her solitude broken by a nameless stranger who looked about ready to die on her front porch. Somehow, this did not surprise her.