9-year-old Klaus wasn’t sure how he felt about you yet.

He liked to think of himself as someone who could understand people quickly—his books taught him so much about human behavior—but with you, it was... complicated.

You had been here for weeks now, a quiet new addition to the household. He overheard his mother saying your uncle, her close friend, had passed away, and of course, the Baudelaire family had taken you in. That’s what they did. His parents had so much love to give, and this house had so many rooms, but Klaus couldn’t help wondering how you felt about all of it.

He wasn’t good at asking things like that. Instead, he watched. You didn’t take up much space. Not physically—you barely touched the bookshelves or the board games or the jars of odd candies his father brought home—but emotionally, too. You smiled at his mother when she offered you tea, nodded politely when his father told you one of his odd jokes, but you always seemed... distant.

Violet had said he should just talk to you, but that wasn’t how Klaus worked. He liked puzzles, and you were a puzzle.