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Kit’s chaperone was named Penelope Fowler, and she was a woman of habit. She never once took a lunch break. Instead, every afternoon they slipped into a back room of the library for an afternoon tea. Afterwards, Penelope always announced, “Kit, you may busy yourself. I am going out for some air.” It wasn’t hard for Kit to deduce what P did outside; afterwards, she always smelled faintly of tobacco smoke.
Kit found the cupboard a year and a half into her apprenticeship. She was looking for a coil of rope, which she figured any volunteer worth their salt would have somewhere inside of their home. Instead, in the bottom compartment of the cabinet, she found two dozen boxes stacked in three columns. With so many present, surely Penelope wouldn’t notice if Kit took one. Kit slipped a pack into her cargo pants, then continued her search.
By then, Kit knew that cigarettes were useful in many scenarios. They could be used as makeshift smoke signals to communicate with someone fairly close by. As part of a disguise, they made a child such as Kit appear much older than they actually were. Most helpfully, when dealing with a certain sort of adult, offering a smoke was a surefire way to gain their favor. Anyone Kit came across who partook in cigarettes always seemed happier with one between their lips.
Of course, none of those were why Kit first opened a pack.
The next day, Kit received Lemony’s note at the research desk of the library. Immediately, she suspected that she would be alone not just at the fountain, but for the entire heist. It was a daunting prospect. The Snickets were renowned as escapologists, and indeed, Kit herself went on to undertake a number of successful burglaries, but at fourteen, she had yet to fully master stealth. Kit had a tremendous undertaking before her and no intention of letting her brother down. Faced with such a challenge, she was left with only one thought: “I could use some air.”
Once she was sure that Penelope was thoroughly occupied with her own work, Kit stepped outside. The pack of cigarettes was still tucked in her pocket, and like any seasoned volunteer, she carried a book of matches. On the busy streets, no one batted an eye at a fourteen-year-old girl lighting a cigarette.
Kit coughed at first, of course. Like anyone trying a cigarette for the first time, she drew in far too much smoke. The flavor was just as vile as she would have guessed. Still, she stuck with it. It only took a few drags to get used to the taste and figure out the correct amount to inhale. It wasn’t the best distraction from Kit’s racing thoughts, but at least it gave her something to do with her hands.
Then the buzz hit. With a few breaths, Kit was reinvigorated. The dread was still there, but there was ambition, too. She fully believed that on her lunch break, she could measure the building site for the fountain, even without Lemony and his new tape measure. Kit’s situation was still intimidating, sure, but she was a good deal less exhausted. At the bare minimum, she had the fortitude to walk back into the library and continue her assigned tasks.
In the grand scheme of things, smoking didn’t provide Kit with any material help. It may have given her the will to measure the fountain, but it didn’t stop her from being caught on her heist later. Still, Kit continued purloining boxes from P’s drawer, well after Lemony’s time in Stain’d by the Sea and her mission with the Museum of Objects were over. Smoking made Kit feel more capable. It made her feel more adult. As a fourteen-year-old tasked to do the work of several grown-ups, that made all the difference.
Kit didn’t usually work anywhere near the Ned H. Rirger Theater. Her areas of study were library science and museum curation, not the theatrical arts. She certainly was never allowed in security detail, not since the incident during her apprenticeship. But Jacques’ guarded rehearsals of The Magic Flute every Thursday, and that night, his services as a chauffeur were required across the city. There was one person he trusted to serve as his all-purpose substitute, no matter the assignment. So a taxi driver left a note for Nicki Ketts with the doorman of the Fourier Branch of the library, and fifteen minutes later, Kit stood in an alley in the Theatrical District.
Kit was not entirely sure what to do with herself. She wanted to continue the notetaking and decoding she planned for the day, but those texts were not to be removed from the library. Usually, she kept a paperback tucked in the inside pocket of her trenchcoat, but she lent Slaughterhouse Five to H the day before and didn’t have time to replace it. Kit only had one thing to occupy herself with: her pack of cigarettes. It couldn’t last Kit though the entire rehearsal, but it was something. At the very least, it would keep her alert.
Kit took out a cigarette and lit it. It was as good a way as any to start her watch.
Kit had nearly reached the filter when another person joined her in the alley, exiting via the stage door. His costume was garish, to put it mildly. Feathers adorned every inch of his body. His bodice was panelled with peacock feathers, cuffs of small blue down encircled his ankles and wrists, and a wicker nest containing a taxidermied blue jay sat upon his head. Kit didn't even notice the face in the middle of it all until he addressed her directly.
“You're not Jacques,” he said. Kit recognized the man as O. She had never properly worked with him. He always kept to the dramatic division of VFD, and Kit did her best to stay far away. Lemony attended countless rehearsals to support Beatrice, and Kit didn’t want to hover. As a result, Kit’s main exposure to O were Lemony’s countless grievances—O was too loud, he always looked for attention, and he spent far too much time around Beatrice. Kit often pointed out that the last point also applied to Lemony, but he only scowled in response.
“No,” Kit said. “I’m not.”
O paused for a moment and scanned her up and down. “Can I have a cigarette?” he asked
Kit wasn’t normally one to say no. Offering a smoke was a reliable way to start an alliance. Still, she was reluctant to hand over her only entertainment for the night.
“What are you reading?” Kit asked instead.
“Long Day’s Journey Into Night,” O replied. Kit must have made a puzzled expression, because he added, “It’s a play by Eugene O’Neill.”
Kit couldn’t say she’d read it. She studied drama about as often as she participated in it. “Do you have it with you?”
“Of course!” O sneered.
“Let me borrow it, and you can have as many cigarettes as you want.”
O didn’t answer in words; instead, he went back into the building with a flash of feathers. Kit finished two cigarettes in the time he was gone, then decided against a third. O clearly wasn’t coming back. She needed to make them last.
When O finally returned, his feathers were drenched in sweat. To Kit’s great surprise, he held a paperback in front of him. “Sorry,” he said in between gasping breaths, “I had to get back to rehearsal. We finally have a ten. I could really use that cigarette.”
Kit took the book from his hands, but gave him a second look before filling her end of the bargain. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? That costume seems to be a fire hazard.”
O rolled his eyes. “Just give it to me. If it burns, at least I don’t have to wear it anymore.”
Kit couldn’t help but smile. She did enjoy the mental image of the monstrous ensemble going up in flames. Besides, it couldn’t pose that much harm for O. A dozen volunteer firefighters were just inside the theater. He’d be ablaze for five minutes at most.
Kit lit the cigarette herself, then handed it to O. She knew from experience that if she lent out her lighter, she’d never get it back.
As soon as O inhaled, he fell into a series of violent coughs. Kit tried to suppress a cackle.
“You’ve never smoked before?” From everything Lemony said about him, she figured O was the type.
“With the way this rehearsal is going, it seemed like a good night to start!”
Kit didn't bother to hide her laughter while she waited for the red to fade from Olaf’s cheeks. Once he caught his breath, she said, “You want to draw in a little smoke, keep it in your mouth, then breathe in some air along with it.”
O shot her a slight glare. “I'm not an idiot, you know.”
“Prove it, then.”
O managed three successful drags, relaxing a bit with each. “I see why people do this,” he said. “I almost feel like a person again.”
Kit didn't know O, not really. It was too soon to make jokes at his expense. Still, she couldn't resist. “That's good. You sure don't look like one.”
Olaf didn't quite laugh, but he smiled at her before his next drag. After that, he handed the cigarette back to Kit. “You can finish that. They’re probably calling places.” He was gone in a flurry of blue.
Kit wasn’t in the habit of reading plays, but Long Day's Journey Into Night made her reconsider. By the time Olaf returned, she'd read it cover to cover.
She handed over the paperback, then lit him another cigarette. She didn’t speak until it was in his mouth. “My name is Kit, by the way.”
Once Olaf finished his drag, he answered, “I know. You look quite a bit like your brother.” She didn't bother to ask which one.
Kit could have said more. She could have asked for Olaf's name, even though she already knew. She could have discussed the play—the vivid, emotionally charged scenes, or the complex familial dynamics. She could even have asked why Olaf looked like an aviary threw up on him, although she suspected he wouldn't enjoy answering. Instead, Kit said nothing and lit a cigarette of her own. They smoked side by side in silence, until she reached the bottom of the filter. When she turned to her left, he was gone.
There were a handful of coping mechanisms that were expected of volunteers. Reading was their trademark form of escapism. Always having a book on hand was a way of signalling that they were noble and well-read, but it was also a way to keep an oasis in their pockets. Whenever an assignment got too tense, every firefighter could find solace in the pages of a novel.
Even prepared bitter as wormwood and sharp as a two-edged sword, tea provided another comfort. Volunteers went through pots of it like water. Even when other vices like coffee and alcohol were available, Kit’s associates gravitated towards their customary tea.
Of course, it never hurt to pick up a habit or two of one’s own.
One of Kit's siblings kept an ongoing letter to a former lover. Jacques hadn’t heard a word from the man since his marriage. Jacques never intended to mail it, but composing the missive soothed him. Jacques ached to keep the other man apprised of their organization’s affairs. Notebooks filled with unsent correspondences were the only way that he could.
Kit's other sibling kept a bottle of pills tucked in their briefcase at all times. The tablets provided the chance to start a new life and be the person they wished they were from the start. Lemony didn’t actually take them, always claiming it was too late to change now, but they kept the bottle close regardless. Merely having the option gave them much-needed solace.
Ever since she was fourteen, Kit’s vice was cigarettes. The hit of nicotine got her through countless missions. Not even pregnancy could make her part with them. She was willing to give up smoking for the baby, but she wouldn’t discard the actual cigarettes. All through her pregnancy, she kept the pack in her trenchcoat.
Kit wasn't perfect. She allowed herself a smoke when she discovered Jacques’ death and when she learned that all of VFD were coming to Dewey's door. Still, Kit was on the same box as the day she found out. That counted for something.
In the past, Kit carried a lighter. It was better not to use matches; the half-burned sticks were fire-hazards, and they were evidence of where she had been. But when she learned about her pregnancy, she made the switch.
Sometimes, when Kit’s business took her far away from the city and from Dewey inside it, or when she spotted someone drinking a root beer float or a brandy and was reminded of siblings she would never see again, Kit took out the box of matches. She ducked into an alley or pulled over on the side of a deserted road and lit them one by one. It wasn’t the same as smoking cigarettes. It didn’t provide any hit of energy or sate any craving. Still, there was a kind of release to it. Kit created a flame with her own two hands, then watched it consume something whole. The glow was entrancing, and it burnt her fingers just enough to remind her that she was alive. It wasn’t satisfying like smoking, but it gave physical form to the unease in her chest. That was something. In a time where Kit’s organization was crumbling around her, it was enough.