Chapter Text
The book of love has music in it / In fact that's where music comes from
Some of it is just transcendental / Some of it is just really dumb
(the book of love - the magnetic fields)
“What a beautiful morning, don't you think?”
"Beautiful for whoever enjoys it", grumbled Wednesday, climbing into the passenger seat.
Weems looked elegant as always, with sunglasses and a scarf tied around her head like a movie star.
"Oh, come on, don't be like that," she smiled at Wednesday. "It's just a monthly get-together with your auntie Larissa".
"My mom has to find out about the lack of gossip in my life somehow," the girl sighed. "And I never agreed to call you that, Weems".
"Unfortunately for me," the woman said with a slight pout. "Come on, let's go somewhere new. I think you'll like it," she smiled, starting the engine of her convertible.
Weems and Wednesday had a complicated relationship, or at least that's how Wednesday made it seem to the rest of the world.
Larissa had been there for as long as Wednesday could remember, and however much she denied it, she appreciated her presence more than she cared to admit. During the numerous and lavish parties held at the Addams manor, Wednesday would run to the library and hide in a corner to read or write. Weems, who enjoyed the gatherings but only to a certain extent, found her one year and sat beside her with a cup of tea, saying nothing, just watching the snow fall on that New Year's Eve.
Since then, Larissa had become a refuge, unlike the other guests, and a breath of fresh air amidst the overstimulation she sometimes felt from her father's theatrics, her brother's foolishness, and her mother's drama. Weems was simply there for her, asking for nothing more. The first time Wednesday spoke to her, she was six years old, accepting a cup of peppermint tea with suspiciously narrowed eyes, but soon engaging in a pleasant conversation about Gothic literature that few adults wanted to have with her.
Weems maintained an incredible balance between doting on her goddaughter and always treating her as an equal, which is why Wednesday accepted her presence from the very beginning. From the outside, all one saw was a smiling lady next to a bitter young woman who snapped at every response, but beyond what the eye was accustomed to seeing, there was a relationship of mutual respect and admiration that few people had the privilege of experiencing.
Her godmother always visited her when she went to the manor, which happened every few months, and since Wednesday had decided to move to LA to become independent and get away from her sometimes overwhelming family, Larissa had proposed having an afternoon alone together once a month, and “no, work meetings didn't count”.
She tried to find restaurants they didn't usually go to or drive a little to visit new places. Wednesday never flattered her choices, but while she appreciated routine, she hated monotony, and it was good to change things up now and then. After eating at a restaurant that Wednesday had rated surprisingly adequate, they were having coffee overlooking the sea.
"So, what do you think?" Larissa said after the first sip.
“What do I think about what?”
"The weather report", the woman rolled her eyes ironically. "The band!"
Wednesday clicked her tongue and took another sip of her quad over ice.
"Between you and me, this is the best thing you've written in a long time", Weems told her.
"I didn't write it", the young woman retorted.
“I know”, she hummed. “But I know you and your job well enough to know which words are your signature”, she winked at her with a smile. “Tell me about your time with Miss Sinclair”.
"I thought we didn't talk about business at our get-togethers," Wednesday raised an eyebrow.
"I have to admit, I'm curious about this little experiment," Weems admitted.
"We went to my house-"
"What do you mean, you went to your house?"
"To my studio," Wednesday said, deadpanned.
"It's not very professional to bring people into your private space, Wednesday," the woman retorted, frowning.
"It's my studio", she insisted through gritted teeth.
"We had spare rooms at the record label".
“You wanted me to help her write. That's where I write”, Wednesday crossed her arms.
“Okay, fine, let's leave it at that”. The woman waved her hand in the air. “How did it go?”
“We argued and she tried to run away”.
"I don't know why I'm not surprised, poor girl..." Larissa murmured, pinching the bridge of her nose.
"Why do you pity her and not me?" Wednesday retorted, frowning indignantly.
"Because I know what you're like," she sighed, taking a sip from her cup. "And I love you, but sometimes, well..."
"Just so you know, I went after her," the girl retorted. "Out of a greater moral obligation to finish my job, not because I felt like it."
"And then?" Weems inquired. "How did you come up with that?"
“It just happened”, Wednesday shrugged. “And I think the result is more than acceptable. It's proven that I can work with other people, so you can leave me alone now”.
“Don't you want to do it again?”
“And meet other crybabies who want to get into the industry?” the girl huffed. “No thanks”.
“Not with new people”, Larissa said, “with Sinclair”.
There was a silence. Wednesday sipped her coffee slowly, her gaze fixed on her, waiting for her next move.
"I've given them the green light after this single," she continued. "Bianca is promoting it while they work on more material. They have a contract to record an album and do a short promo tour".
"You've gone all in with them, huh," Wednesday pointed out, finishing her coffee.
"I've been doing this for years, I know when to go all in," Weems smiled contentedly. "Let's go somewhere else, I want you to see something," she said, finishing her coffee and getting up.
“I hope it's not another one of those mother-daughter pottery lessons”, Wednesday rolled her eyes.
“I gave the rest of the coupons to your mother and Pugsley”, Larissa pouted. “It's a shame because the glazing on your bowls was exquisite”.
"I tend to excel at everything I do," she hummed.
"Where did you get that cocky attitude from?", Weems clicked her tongue as they reached the car.
"Probably from my godmother’s side of the family", Wednesday smirked as she closed the door.
"Why are we in the studio?" Wednesday asked, closing the door behind her.
"I already told you", Weems replied in a sing-sing voice, "I wanted to show you something."
They were in the editing booths. A closed room with only a small window in a semi-basement above the recording studios was a claustrophobic space if you didn't know your way around. A mixing console surrounded by a pile of equipment with recording tapes and a table covered in notes, torn papers, and empty glasses.
At the top of the page of the notebook that was open on the table, she recognized Eugene's round handwriting which read:
Honeycomb. Red moon rising
"What is this?" Wednesday asked.
"Don't you want to hear it?", Weems murmured, leaning over her shoulder.
Wednesday turned to face her, frowning.
"I never listen to the material," she said. "And I already know what the song is like anyway."
"Not with the final arrangement," Larissa smiled, looking at Eugene's notes. "I have to say I'm frankly surprised."
"For better or for worse?", Wednesday hummed.
“I was at the session where they recorded it. Not the final take, but I didn't need to be”, she smiled, looking up as she reminisced. “Bianca did well to recruit them, those kids have something. I was watching them from the booth and they gave off this… energy”, she explained, gesturing with her fingers.
Wednesday pretended not to care, staring more intently at the numbers written on the paper.
“They insisted on recording all the tracks together, as if it were a live performance. It's like they needed to see each other and play like they did when they rehearsed", Weems continued with a sly smile. "Curious, don't you think? Betting everything on that".
"You tell me, you're betting on that too", she replied flatly.
She hated Weems' rhetorical questions. Sometimes she thought she should have gone into teaching if she liked giving lessons so much.
"My instincts never fail me, Wednesday," she affirmed, maintaining her smile but hardening her tone, intertwining her hands in front of her. “I have a hunch with Miss Sinclair”.
“Taking someone who knows nothing about the industry and handing them everything on a silver platter is a lot for a hunch”, the writer huffed. “You might be wrong to bet everything on her”.
“Ah. But I wasn’t wrong when I bet on you, didn’t I?”
Wednesday turned to look at her again. Weems was looking at her with a radiant grin, knowing she'd reached a point where she couldn't respond. Wednesday clenched her jaw and looked away so she couldn't read her mind any further.
Once again, Weems had won.
The woman turned and walked to the exit. "You can stay as long as you need; the studio is free until five", she said from the doorway, leaving without waiting for a reply.
Wednesday froze in place until she heard the tapping of heels fade into the distance. Still with her jaw clenched, she slowly sat down in the chair by the mixing desk.
Her hands hesitated on the controls. She knew how these machines worked; they didn't intimidate her. But it was true that she never heard the finished material, neither in the studio nor when it was distributed on the radio. So why start now? Why would she heed Weems's suggestion? Why would she actually want to?
Perhaps it was because she'd never co-written anything with anyone, she tried to console herself. It was a good excuse, a logical answer for a decision that was starting to seem stupid, one that masked her desire and curiosity to hear what the band of that passionate girl who had turned her world upside down just a few weeks before sounded like.
With a frustrated groan, she put on the headphones, turned on the equipment, and pressed play.
The song began as she already knew it, with Enid's guitar riff that she had heard so many times that night. But unlike the acoustic demo they had prepared, this song had a certain atmosphere; the keyboards enveloped everything, and there was a slight reverb on the chords. The chord progressions were accompanied by an electric bass that had its own riff, establishing its own character without overshadowing the lead guitar.
Enid began singing the first verse alone, with the same gentleness and raw emotion as when it was written, but also with greater clarity. In the pre-chorus, a soft female voice joined her, making the harmonies. With the chorus, another voice joined in, giving strength to certain sentences and emphasizing the words, and the drums entered, playing a syncopated rhythm that supported the whole song.
Weems was right. They sounded good, very good indeed. The rhythm section was very well done, neither annoying nor boring; the keyboards were masterfully crafted, subtly enveloping the music and giving the piece a cohesive feel.
And Enid… Enid had the same strength as when she had sung after their argument. Her voice cracked at the end of some phrases, she came in with just the right amount of power in the chorus, and all the added riffs and flourishes only enhanced the song. It was memorable, catchy, but it was also unique and powerful.
When the song ended, Wednesday rewound the tape again.
Twice. Three times. Then four.
Who knows how many times?
On the levers and controls of the mixing console, stuck with paper tape, were labels indicating what each one controlled. Eugene was the only one of the studio technicians who put the musicians' names on them instead of the instruments they played.
Her hands hesitated again. She sighed and flipped up the lever labeled “Enid - voice” and flipped down all the others until only her singing could be heard.
Wednesday closed her eyes and leaned back in the chair, letting her voice envelop her.
Weems had been right, too, that she hadn't sent her anything in months, let alone anything decent. It was a phase, writer's block, she knew, but it was as if everything had become… dull. Few things interested her in general, but even the stories in her head didn't seem to make sense anymore. Her family overwhelmed her, her room suffocated her, her life, in short, bored her.
That's why she had decided to move to California. Her life might still bore her, but at least it would be a new kind of boredom. Some relatives had left the house a few years ago; she renovated it, taking away rooms to create the studio, packed her things, and left. Months had passed, and she still hadn't written anything when Weems called to propose the collaboration.
And for the first time in that time, it was something new, a challenge. And this Enid Sinclair presented herself as a mystery to be uncovered, because behind her dyed highlights and horrendous colors there was a depth that Wednesday couldn't see.
“All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way”, Tolstoy had said; and Enid, who had a smile as radiant as the sun, sometimes had eyes that showed an unusual sadness, however. Wednesday thought she could read and understand anyone with ease, that nothing escaped her. But it wasn't like that with her, and she couldn't allow that.
And those words… Wednesday had been captivated by the words in the notebook ever since she read it in Weems' office. She knew the result and its source, but she didn't know the context or the thought behind it. It was fascinating. She had spent the night thinking about those sentences. How had they never occurred to her? They were so real, like a dialogue, and the metaphors were so vivid that she almost felt like she was there, experiencing it all.
That had never happened to her with her own songs.
Wednesday was supposed to be the one guiding Enid, but in the end, she was the one who had guided the writer out of… whatever it was she was going through. And that frustrated her- no, it infuriated her. It drove her crazy because she wanted to get back to her routine and her solitude and to find pleasure in writing again, and not waste time on thinking what made that damned Enid Sinclair so interesting and miserable behind her armor.
The worst part was that she hadn't just lost the battle against her godmother, but also against herself. Because she had decided at that moment (How long had she been there? How many times had the song already played?) that if she wanted to escape this pit of dullness, she had to go back to Enid. Under the guise of creative help, she was going to break out of her isolation in search of someone else, and reaching out to anyone, let alone a complete stranger, was terrifying. Although Wednesday Addams wasn't afraid of anything, of course.
Enid's voice continued to play through the headphones and in her mind.
When the clock on the wall struck a quarter to five, Wednesday stood up and turned off the equipment, checking the notes to carefully reposition the levers, making sure to leave everything as it was, and headed directly to Weems’ office.