She remembered a summer’s snow in Winterfell when Arya and Bran had ambushed her as she emerged from the keep one morning. They’d each had a dozen snowballs to hand, and she’d had none. Bran had been perched on the roof of the covered bridge, out of reach, but Sansa had chased Arya through the stables and around the kitchen until both of them were breathless. She might even have caught her, but she’d slipped on some ice. Her sister came back to see if she was hurt. When she said she wasn’t, Arya hit her in the face with another snowball, but Sansa grabbed her leg and pulled her down and was rubbing snow in her hair when Jory came along and pulled them apart, laughing.
“Violet Baudelaire, the eldest, was one of the finest 14 year-old inventors in the world. Anyone who knew Violet well, could tell she was inventing something when her long hair was tied up in a ribbon. In a world of abandoned items and discarded materials, Violet knew there was always something. Something she could fashion into nearly any device for nearly every occasion.”
