Free The End (A Series of Unfortunate Events) by Lemony Snicket

far from the world, would not know about this notorious mark and so could be fooled even more easily. But as the colonists drew close to the cube of books where Kit Snicket lay unconscious, suddenly the Baudelaires' history went contrary to expectations, a phrase which here means "The young girl they had first met on the coastal shelf recognized Count Olaf immediately."
    "That's Olaf!" Friday cried, pointing an accusatory finger at the villain. "Why is he dressed as a pregnant woman?"
    "I'm dressed as a pregnant woman because I am a pregnant woman," Count Olaf replied, in his high-pitched, disguised voice. "My name is Kit Snicket, and I've been looking everywhere for these children."
    "You're not Kit Snicket!" Mrs. Caliban cried.
    "Kit Snicket is up on this pile of books," Violet said indignantly, helping Sunny down from the top of the cube. "She's a friend of ours, and she may be hurt, or ill. But this is Count Olaf, who is no friend of ours."
    "He's no friend of ours, either," Friday said, and there was a murmur of agreement from the islanders. "Just because you've put something inside your dress to look pregnant, and thrown a clump of seaweed on your hair to make a wig, doesn't mean you won't be recognized." She turned to face the three children, who noticed for the first time that the islander had a suspicious bump under her robe, as if she, too, had hidden something under her clothing. "I hope he hasn't been bothering you. I told him specifically to go away."
    Count Olaf glared at Friday, but then turned to try his treachery on the other islanders.
    "You primitive people won't tell a pregnant woman to go away, will you?" he asked. "I'm in a very delicate condition."

    "You're not in a very delicate condition," said Larsen firmly. "You're in a very transparent disguise. If Friday says you're this Olaf person, then I'm sure you are, and you're not welcome here, due to your unkindness."
    "I've never been unkind in my life," Olaf said, running a bony hand through his seaweed.
    "I'm nothing but a fairly innocent maiden with my belly full of baby. It is the Baudelaires who have been unkind, along with this impostor sleeping on top of this damp library."
    "Library?" Fletcher said with a gasp. "We've never had a library on the island."
    "Ishmael said that a library was bound to lead to trouble," said Brewster, "so we were lucky that a book has never ended up on our shores."
    "You see?" Olaf said, his orange and yellow dress rustling in the morning breeze. "That treacherous woman up there has dragged these books to your colony, just to be unkind to you poor primitive people. And the Baudelaires are friends with her! They're the ones you should abandon here, and I should be welcomed to Olaf-Land and given gifts."
    "This island is not called Olaf-Land!" cried Friday. "And you're the one we abandoned!"
    "This is confusing!" cried Omeros. "We need a facilitator to sort this out!"
    "Omeros is right," said Calypso. "We shouldn't decide anything until we've talked to Ishmael. Come on, let's take all this detritus to Ishmael's tent."
    The colonists nodded, and a few villagers walked together to the cube of books and began to push it along the shelf. It was difficult work, and the cube shuddered as it was dragged along the bumpy surface. The Baudelaires saw Kit's foot bob violently up and down and feared that their friend would fall.
    "Stop," Klaus said. "It's not safe to move someone who may be seriously injured, particularly if she's pregnant."
    "Klaus is right," said Dr. Kurtz. "I remember that from my days in veterinary school."
    "If Muhammad will not come to the mountain," Rabbi Bligh said, using an expression that the islanders understood at once, "the mountain will come to Muhammad."
    "But how can Ishmael come here?" asked Erewhon. "He couldn't walk all this way with his injured feet."
    "The sheep can drag him here," said Sherman. "We can put his chair on the sleigh. Friday, you guard Olaf and the Baudelaires, while the rest of us