Chapter Text
The only sound to penetrate the silence of Dr. Theodore Quinn’s office was the shuffling of papers as he ran an interested eye through them. Seated across from him with her hands folded upon her lap, his patient waited for his comments regarding the rough draft she had just given to him. Technically, for Wednesday Addams, this was supposed to be another therapy session between her and Dr. Quinn.
Dr. Quinn was a middle-aged man with more width than height and had a jaunty moustache that tended to get crumbs stuck in it whenever he ate. Out of all the therapists Wednesday had, he was the only one she tolerated. Mainly because he didn’t say stupid stuff as Dr. Kinbott had done, such as how this was a safe place, that it was okay to talk about her emotions and all that other nonsense. At first, he’d just simply ask if she wanted to talk, and when she’d reply with nothing but a cold glare, he’d give a nod of understanding and then take a nap in his chair.
So long as Wednesday remained for the entirety of her session, Dr. Quinn put up no objection to her refusal to talk. She let him nap; he didn’t pester her with useless questions about feelings she didn’t have. The unsaid deal worked for both of them. After a couple of boring appointments just listening to her therapist snore, Wednesday started to write for her latest novel to keep herself occupied. It would have been a hassle to lug her typewriter to Dr. Quinn’s office every single session, so she’d just keep a notebook and pen handy and type it out later when she’d return home.
But eventually, after a few appointments, her “therapy sessions” became synonymous with “writing critiques”. Apparently, Dr. Quinn used to be an editor for a publishing company and after expressing interest in her work, things moved on from there. He put in a good word for his macabre patient at his former workplace. He even began giving critical feedback for her writing himself which Wednesday genuinely appreciated but would never admit out loud. Thanks to Dr. Quinn, she had managed to sell a few copies of her first-ever novel, but literary fame was still far beyond the horizon. That was to be expected—after all, recognition never happened right away and moved at its own pace, even for authors like Agatha Christie and Mary Shelley.
Taking off his reading glasses, Dr. Quinn set the thick pile of papers down and folded his hands upon his desk. He breathed, “Well, Wednesday, these first few chapters are certainly just as interesting as your first work. So many...chilling plot twists and grisly details. I think this upcoming novel shall be a horrific addition to the mystery section in the bookstores.”
His compliment earned him a slight nod from Wednesday, which he learned to be her usual way of thanking him. Dr. Quinn handed her back her draft, before staring at the clock mounted on the wall. Five more minutes to go. Enough time for a bit of quick feedback.
“Now, Wednesday, I’ve had some news from the publishing company that I think you’d like to hear.”
“Does it involve my novel scaring any readers into an early grave?” Wednesday asked.
“No.” How disappointing.
Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Dr. Quinn said, “It appears that readers who are devoted to your first publication are keen to find out more about Viper de la Muerte’s relationships with other people.”
Ugh. Great. Relationships with other people...the number one thing she was never good at, both in writing and in real life.
“Perhaps there will be recurring characters in future novels?” Dr. Quinn asked. “I’m told readers are especially fond of Viper’s eccentric roommate, Lucinda Altair. And we mustn’t forget the murderer who manipulated and betrayed Viper. Will he have a redemption arc?”
Wednesday’s fists tightened a little, turning her knuckles paler than they already were. “I haven’t decided yet. I am currently undergoing the purgatory of every author’s life known as writer’s block.”
Dr. Quinn gave a smile, which was not returned. “What I think you need, my dear girl, is a new case to solve. Preferably a mystery that puts your life in danger again.”
Though Wednesday’s eyebrow twitched at the words “dear girl”, this was the first best advice she had ever been given—one big factor being that no normal therapist would suggest such counsel. However, being stuck in a boring house with two revoltingly affectionate parents and a brother who was weak and as easy to break as a twig, what chances were there of a new mystery coming her way? The only thing worthy of attracting her attention and that could possibly serve as inspiration was her new stalker. Yet, to Wednesday’s disappointment, she hadn’t gotten any other texts since that day she left Nevermore—aside from ones sent by Enid, Xavier, and occasionally Eugene. Rarely did she ever respond to any of them, still refusing to be a slave to technology.
“Due to high demand, the publishing company is giving you two months for a completed draft,” Dr. Quinn informed.
Even stoic Wednesday could not restrain the disbelief in her voice. “Two months?!” she exclaimed.
“You’ve always been up for a challenge, Wednesday. I have complete faith in you,” the therapist said, before glancing at the clock again. “Our time’s up. I shall see you next session.”
Wednesday let out more than one exasperated sigh as she walked out of the office, shoved her helmet on, and got her black motorcycle ready. It was an old thing that had certainly seen better days. She had found it one gloomy evening at the dumpster when she was searching for parts for a new torture machine she was building to use on her brother. Just a little repair work and she managed to get it back on the road. Technically, she still wasn’t old enough to ride it legally and Morticia never approved of “the noisy two-wheeled mode of transportation” as she called it—but since when had she cared about authority, especially her mother’s? Besides, Wednesday hated having to rely on Lurch and other people to drive her about.
The ride home took less than ten minutes, and she was eager to lock herself in her room and start working towards her latest unanticipated deadline. So, it was not a welcome sight for Wednesday when she found her family waiting outside the house with the hearse and several packed trunks.
Yanking her helmet off and brushing her braids out of the way, she groaned, “Please don’t tell me we are embarking on another highly unnecessary road trip for ‘family bonding’.”
“We’re not going; you are,” Morticia said.
“I’ve just had an undesirable turn of events thrust upon me ten minutes ago. I hardly need another,” her daughter snapped.
“Not an option, darling,” Morticia replied. “Vincent Thorpe, an old friend and former fencing teammate of mine, made an interesting proposal to me and your father a week ago. I’m sure you are already good friends with his son, Xavier.”
“You seriously overestimate our connection with each other,” Wednesday said.
Unfazed by her daughter’s disdain, Morticia continued, “Vincent has recently been suffering much financial loss and has reached out to us for support. Now, the Thorpes, Frumps, and Addams had been closely interlinked many generations ago through business partnerships and marriages. As powerful psychic families, unions between us were a value in ensuring our clairvoyant abilities did not diminish over time.”
Wednesday was not liking where this was going. She broke her gaze away from her mother’s to quickly glance at the others from her father to Pugsley, to Lurch and Thing. Gomez and her brother could barely hide their smiles, whereas Lurch had his same-old monotone face and Thing looked just concerned.
“Are you going to get to the point, or do I have to listen to an entire lecture on family history?” she demanded.
“Vincent Thorpe has suggested a possible arranged marriage between you and his son.”
Wednesday nearly stumbled back into her motorcycle. Her ears had to be deceiving her. Either that or she was in a nightmare—and not the good kind. Marriage to Xavier?! An overly sensitive, gutless boy who barely had a spine?
“Isn’t that amazing, sis? You could possibly be the Vincent Thorpe’s daughter-in-law!” Pugsley said.
The liquid magma boiling in Wednesday’s veins was just about ready to explode. Her very right and freedom of choice to not get married was being snatched away to solve some pompous celebrity’s debts. Not to also mention the patriarchal expectation many women before her were oppressed with of “keeping the family bloodline pure”. She wondered if Vincent and her parents would insist on her and Xavier having kids. For Wednesday, there was no greater humiliation.
“Don’t worry, my little death trap,” Gomez reassured. “Your mother and I care very much for your happiness and for now, we haven’t agreed to anything set in stone yet. We do not wish for you to be forced into something as serious as this. The final decision shall be yours and yours alone.”
“No. That is my final decision,” Wednesday snapped. “You are fools to think I’d even put careful consideration into this scheme.”
“You are not coming to any resolution just yet without even reflecting upon what this would mean,” was Morticia’s firm reply. “You might find the tribulations outweighed.”
“I seriously doubt that.”
“Nevertheless, your father and I agreed with Vincent that you are to stay at Lenore Hall over the winter break. Since you are so insistent on you and Xavier not yet sharing the strong bonds of friendship, this will be a wonderful opportunity for the two of you to get to know each other. Much better than you just locking yourself up in your room for the entirety of the holidays and only coming out to torture your brother,” Morticia said. Then with a sly smile, she added, “I have specifically chosen to not inform you of this until today so as to avoid your usual plans of escaping.”
A vein popped on Wednesday’s forehead. “How unforgivably clever of you. Yet you seem to have forgotten something I mentioned before. I will never fall in love, or—”
“—be a housewife, or have a family,” Morticia finished. “I know, my little scorpion. But girls your age always say things like that.”
Gomez looked at his pocket watch. “You had best be departing now, mi tormenta, if you are to arrive on time. Thing shall accompany you so that you won’t be alone.”
“Have my cello and typewriter at least been packed?” Wednesday asked with a glare.
“Done with absolute care,” Morticia answered, before pointing at the motorcycle. “But you are not taking that wretched thing with you.”
Unwilling to deal with any weak signs of emotion from her family, Wednesday got into the hearse followed by Thing, muttering a few curses under her breath. She ignored the parting farewells called out to her, not waving back to any of the traitors.
Thing tapped out, “You’re going to try escaping, aren’t you?”
“Of course, I am,” Wednesday said. She scowled out the window at the scenery as they drove past. Blue skies were starting to peep out from the grey clouds. Horrible.
“Where would you even go?” Thing tapped.
Hating herself for taking out the damn device, Wednesday pulled out her phone and texted Enid, asking if she could seek sanctuary at her place. Almost immediately, a notification dinged.
“Sorry, girl!” was the reply. “Not in San Francisco right now actually. On vacay with my family in New York. Hey, we should meet up sometime! It’s only an hour and a half drive from New Jersey, right?”
“I’m actually going to be in New York myself,” Wednesday texted back. “Since I’m staying at Xavier’s, thanks to the heinous plots of my parents and Vincent Thorpe.”
“YOU’RE STAYING AT XAVIER’S?!” Enid texted back in all caps. “OMG! GIVE ME THE DEETS NOW!”
Wednesday chose to end the conversation there, ignoring the following notifications dinging one after the other. She let out a disgruntled sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan, as Thing tapped, “Your parents did say that they haven’t agreed to anything yet. It isn’t like you’re already engaged to him. And who knows? It may not even happen.”
“Mention one more time about my new predicament and you’ll find yourself with one less finger,” Wednesday threatened.
Insulted at his reassurances being rebuffed, Thing flipped her off before going into her bookbag to sulk. Wednesday internally decided that his middle finger would be the first one she’d hack off if the moment arose. Left to the boredom of a long car ride with nothing but her own thoughts, she let her mind wander.
Lenore Hall, the grand ancestral seat of the Thorpe Family. Probably the most isolated and boring place in the entire country where nothing dangerous and risky could ever happen. The most unlikely environment where she could remotely encounter a mysterious case to solve and find inspiration for her novel.
She’d soon discover how very wrong she was...
Vincent Thorpe’s study was like that of any other gentleman. It was well-appointed with a roaring fireplace and built-in mahogany bookshelves that towered from floor to ceiling. A sumptuous Oriental rug covered the floor in front of Vincent’s large antique desk. Neatly arranged upon it were more books, papers, a green banker’s lamp, and a small globe. Everything from the elaborate furnishings’ craftsmanship to the detailed crown mouldings was expensive and tasteful—a true testament to Vincent’s love for lavishness.
Yet, despite its grandeur, there was a heavy and suffocating atmosphere to it. Many a visitor had squirmed uncomfortably in their chair in front of Vincent’s desk. And his son, Xavier Thorpe, was no exception. Xavier had always felt uneasiness when around his father whether in Vincent’s study or not. And on this particular occasion, uneasiness would have been an understatement as he gaped at his father after what Vincent just told him.
“You don’t actually mean that!” Xavier cried.
“Of course, I do,” Vincent said. He did not even glance up from the letter he was writing. “When have I ever not meant what I said?”
“She’s made it no secret that she prefers being independent and has no desire to even be in a relationship,” Xavier said.
“Your mother was the same. Yet, she did her duty,” Vincent said back.
The mention of his mother, the only parent who truly loved and cared for him, made Xavier’s shoulders slump. How must she have felt being in a loveless marriage to a man who didn’t care a smidge for her? As a child, Xavier had overheard stories that after his mother married his father, she never smiled again.
“Wednesday Addams will see reason eventually; I’ll make sure of it,” Vincent vowed.
“Tch. She’d never listen to you,” Xavier scoffed. “In fact, she’s probably plotting some sort of revenge against you as we speak.”
The light coming from the window behind Vincent cast a dark shadow over his face. “The girl’s happiness is of no matter to me. You will marry her, sleep with her, and put a child in her—as quickly as possible preferably so that the deal is sealed.”
Ever since he was a little boy, Xavier never had the courage to stand up to his father. Yet, the way in which Vincent had little regard for Wednesday made a spring of adrenaline shoot inside him. Jumping from his chair, he violently slammed both palms onto his father’s desk causing papers to fly everywhere.
“For crying out loud, she’s only sixteen! We haven’t even graduated high school yet! If you weren’t my dad, I’d call you a perverted sicko!”
Finally laying his pen down, Vincent fixed a cold eye on Xavier that was as bitter as a winter storm. It had the power to immediately crumble the boldness Xavier had in the heat of his anger. It was the expression of a man who wielded power and authority with his fame and used it to dominate those who dared oppose him.
“And if you weren’t my only son, I’d turn you straight out of the house for your impertinence,” Vincent said. “And then where would you be? You’d be more of a shameful disgrace than you are now.”
Xavier barely flinched at the verbal abuse. He had long gotten used to such degrading insults. Though they weren’t any less painful, he had learned to not break down crying as he did when he was a child.
Vincent turned back to writing his letter, once again not bothering to look at his son. “You need not bed her right away, of course. Better for you to finish your studies first. You can both wait until you’re a few years older if you’re so insistent upon it. But once you are of official age, I expect things to be done.”
Any protests Xavier might have had were lodged in his throat like cotton. Just how could he respond after such a discussion? They were Thorpes—one of the greatest Outcast families in the world, as his father liked reminding him. And like their greedy ancestors before them, there was no room for anything less than power and ambition in Vincent’s life. The infamy of their bloodline was merely an accident of fate, as Vincent always put it. He’d pronounce it laughingly, in that arrogant way of his, waving his fleshy hand adorned with the Thorpe signet ring. As if with a mere flick of his fingers, he could dispel the noxious cloud of accusations that hovered over them, the spiny whispers of scandal, vice, and corruption.
Xavier used to believe him. He used to believe his father knew everything.
Now he knew better.
How else to explain the chaos strewn in Vincent’s wake, the ruined lives and sacrificed innocence? How else to justify the unexpected trajectory of his own life, forever wandering the labyrinth of his father’s ruthless designs?
There could be no other reason. Infamy was no accident. It was a poison in their blood.
It was the price of being a Thorpe...a price which Xavier was unwilling to pay.
“No,” Xavier said.
Scathingly, Vincent asked, “Do you have any other alternatives then? Your old flame, Bianca Barclay perhaps?”
“For crying out loud, no!” Xavier said.
“Just what is so wrong with Wednesday Addams then that you are refusing to accept this plan? Her family has one of the biggest fortunes in the country, albeit they gained it using rather questionable and controversial ways. Wednesday Addams is a walking gold mine and therefore, a valuable commodity on the marriage market,” Vincent said. “The Addams and Thorpes have married each other before in the past; this will be no different. I even thought you liked the girl.”
“But she doesn’t love me!” Xavier said, his heart clenching at the reminder.
His lips twisting into an almost cruel smile, Vincent replied, “Yet, this isn’t about chivalry or love. This is about doing your duty to this family...”