Chapter Text
The bag hanging off Enid’s shoulder was the color of a particularly aggressive sunflower and had no business standing this close to the old stone of Nevermore’s front steps. Wednesday watched as Enid hitched the bag higher with a soft hiss, strap biting welts into skin.
Why on earth had she agreed to this?
Oh, right. Mother.
“So your mom really wrote ‘emotional support person’ on official funeral stationery?” Enid squinted at her, blonde hair frizzing in the October wind. “Like, with the terrifying wax seal and everything?”
Yes. Of course Morticia Addams would weaponize letterhead.
Wednesday’s grip tightened around the umbrella handle. She planted the tip into the gravel between her polished oxfords and kept her spine locked and gaze fixed on the drive where it curved out of sight between ancient elms. “Mother recalls the Thurston funeral. The grieving widow asked if I was ‘finally growing into my looks.’” Her mouth thinned at the memory. “I demonstrated how scissors could correct the asymmetry of her bangs. Permanently.”
Enid snorted. “Sounds like a wholesome family gathering.”
Wednesday exhaled and added, “Mother also suggested it because you have a stabilizing influence on me.”
Enid’s lips pulled into a grin that showed sharp canines. Her shoulders rolled back as she tossed hair over one shoulder. “You’re welcome,” she said, then faltered. “Well, I mean—I’m honored. And maybe a little terrified? Just a tiny bit.”
The hearse rolled into view, long and black and silent. It glided past the gates like a shadow detaching from the trees, tires barely disturbing the gravel. Wednesday flicked her gaze from the vehicle to Enid’s face, noting the slight widening of her pupils, the twitch at the corner of her mouth, the way her fingers curled into her palms before relaxing again.
Lurch emerged from the driver’s seat in stages—first one impossibly long leg, then a shoulder that blocked the sun, until finally he towered above them. Gravel crackled under his shoes when he inclined his head. “Uuuurgh.”
Enid’s smile widened past its natural range and her voice shot up an octave. “Hi, Lurch! Thanks for—for, uh—for picking us up.”
Lurch’s gaze slid over Enid’s duffel, the teal spinner, the lavender spinner, the neon patchwork of personality strewn across them. Then his eyes shifted to Wednesday in mute inquiry: Dispose of the evidence? Or preserve it?
“Her belongings are safe to handle,” Wednesday explained. “No hexes. No explosives. That she is aware of.”
Lurch grunted, then reached for the teal suitcase. He stacked it into the rear with the lavender case, then the duffel—each bright thing vanishing into a dark maw. Last of all, he took Wednesday’s own valise: a single, severe rectangle of black that vanished with hardly a whisper.
Enid stared at the closed door for a second, then at Wednesday’s stark little bag, and a flush rose along her cheeks. “Okay, this is happening.”
“This was always happening.” Wednesday stepped forward, tucking the umbrella beneath her arm as she went to the side door and yanked it open, tipping her head toward the interior. “Back seat. Left.”
Enid hovered at the threshold. “Why left?”
“The right-side spring is compromised.” Wednesday’s mouth curved. “Pugsley once transported a live boar back there. The animal objected. Vigorously.”
Enid’s foot froze mid-step. “A live—sorry—boar? As in… tusks and rage and everything?”
“The full set of features, yes.” Wednesday paused, then added, “It survived.”
Enid blinked at her, then let out a noise that landed somewhere between a laugh and a whimper. “Great. That’s—totally comforting. Love that for us.” She clambered inside, the leather seat groaning softly as she lowered.
Wednesday handed the umbrella and her own book-bag forward to Lurch, then reached back into the hearse. A long black garment bag lay waiting. She hefted it and let it fall with a controlled thud beside Enid on the bench. “You will require this.”
The bag sagged against Enid’s thigh. She stared at it, then at Wednesday, then back. Black fabric spilled into view as she unzipped the front—sharp lines, fitted waist, lace edging that resembled delicate shackles more than decoration. Her breath hitched. “You… brought me a dress?”
“Addams funerals adhere to a strict visual standard,” Wednesday replied, sliding onto the seat opposite and closing the door. “Your usual palette would distress the mourners.”
Enid’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again as if her brain was buffering. “My outfits cause distress?”
“Yes.” Wednesday’s gaze drifted as the hearse lurched into motion, Nevermore’s towers receding. She considered, then amended, “I prefer to control the distress personally.”
Enid’s eyes dipped to the dress again, fingers lingering where the lace bit against underlying fabric. “This is… exactly my size.”
Indeed it was. Wednesday hadn’t gone to the effort of breaching Enid’s wardrobe for an approximation.
“I measured your sweater.”
A flash of vivid pink wool on her desk came back: folded with uncharacteristic care, sleeves aligned, the scent of Enid’s detergent and cheap floral shampoo clinging to the fibers. Wednesday’s tape measure sliding from shoulder seam to shoulder seam. Elbow to cuff. Hem to collarbone. Numbers slotting into place.
Practical. It had been purely practical.
“You… measured my sweater,” Enid repeated slowly, color creeping up her neck. “So you could get me a funeral dress?”
Wednesday blinked. “You required suitable attire. I abhor inefficiency.”
The vehicle rolled past the stone walls and into Jericho. Outside, the town unfolded in washed-out snapshots: the porch that would soon be a shrine to pumpkins and plastic skeletons; the bakery with its boards still nailed over the windows; the unreasonably cheerful café where Enid had once insisted on ordering them matching drinks in offensive pastel cups.
Enid’s gaze snagged on the chained gates of Pilgrim World, on the mannequins frozen behind the glass in their starched white collars and smug piety. Her fingers tightened around the garment bag, tendons jumping under skin.
“There will be no pilgrims where we are going,” Wednesday offered. “Only genuine historical trauma.”
Enid huffed.“Wow. An upgrade.”
Once they turned onto the highway, Wednesday reached for the narrow rack beside her and grasped a familiar spine. The book dragged at her wrist with the weight of centuries—black leather scarred and scuffed. The Addams Necrologium and Genealogical Record, 1437–Present. She set it on her lap.
Enid leaned in, knee nearly brushing Wednesday’s. “Light reading?”
“You will encounter individuals whose roots extend deeper than the foundations of most nations,” Wednesday declared, thumbing the edge of the pages. “Arriving uninformed would be reckless. Consider this a preemptive defense.”
Enid’s mouth tilted. “Nothing says ‘welcome to meet the family’ like a death ledger.”
“It is also a life ledger,” Wednesday corrected almost absently, flipping to a section she had already marked with a ribbon the color of old blood. “Mostly in reverse.” Her finger settled under the first entry. “Morticia Addams, née Frump. Matriarch. Botanist. Occasional witch. Once killed a man with a single look.”
Enid gasped. “Wait, literally killed him? With her eyes?”
“Yes.” Wednesday’s mouth tugged, just slightly. “He was a sworn nemesis. She will, however, adore you—so fear not.”
“She’ll adore me?” Enid repeated slowly. “Why did that kinda sound like a warning?”
Because in the Addams household, affection and danger shared a bed. Because being adored by Morticia meant being examined under a microscope and nurtured like a carnivorous plant. Because the thought of Enid stepping into that gaze made something sharp and unwelcome twist in Wednesday’s chest. Because if Mother loved Enid—truly loved her—then Wednesday’s flimsy illusion of control would collapse, and there would be no uninviting Enid from the family catastrophe that way.
Instead, Wednesday settled for, “She can be… overwhelming.”
Enid smiled, softer than before, fingers smoothing over the black dress in her lap. “I’m used to overwhelming. I live with you.”
Wednesday turned to another entry. “Gomez Addam. Patriarch. Lawyer when it amuses him, criminal when it amuses him more. He duels at dawn for relaxation and once talked his way out of a firing squad by complimenting their uniforms.” She paused, considering the line of cramped script beneath his portrait. “He will call you ‘magnificent’ within thirty seconds of meeting you.”
Enid made a noise that began as a squeak and died as a cough. “Your dad sounds… intense.”
“He cries at dog food advertisements,” Wednesday replied, flipping the page. “And applauds during public executions. ‘Intense’ describes only the outermost layer.” She paused. “You will experience unsolicited hand-kissing. Possibly a forehead. Possibly both.”
Enid’s shoulders hunched, then straightened again. “So your parents are… what, weapons-grade affectionate?” Her bright head tipped toward the open book. “Okay. Logged. Who’s next on the ‘immediate threats’ list?”
Wednesday traced the line down and tapped a tiny skull inked in the margin. “Grandmama Addams. Alchemist. Apothecary. Culinary terrorist. She tests new potions at family gatherings.” She skimmed the notes. “Seventeen fatalities among guests so far. None of them Addams.”
Enid swallowed hard enough that Wednesday heard it over the engine’s hum. “And she’s cooking for the funeral?”
“She considers funerals appropriate proving grounds.” Wednesday’s mouth twitched. “Survival earns esteem. You will gain status if you remain conscious after dessert.”
A strangled laugh slipped out of Enid. “So… no seconds?”
“In your case, moderation might constitute a survival strategy.”
The hearse rolled over a ramp, the chassis giving a mild, weightless lift before settling. Enid’s luggage shifted with a dull thump behind them. Enid herself slid half an inch along the leather, knees angling instinctively toward Wednesday for balance. Their boots stopped just shy of touching—black polished toe, scuffed pastel sneaker—close enough that a sharp turn would knock them together.
Wednesday blinked, dropping her eyes back to the page instead of fantasising about sharp turns. “Cousin Vlad. Collector of antique torture devices. Enthusiastic. Easily distracted. Sometimes forgets to remove the spikes before inviting guests to sit. He will show you a collection within the first day and demand your opinion on lacquer finishes.”
“That is… weirdly specific,” Enid muttered.
“He sends seasonal updates.” Wednesday had filed each one under Future Hazards—Furniture. “Offer a thoughtful answer. Then avoid any room in which you hear clanking.”
A quick, scratchy sound caught her attention.
Enid had produced a small notebook from somewhere in the pile of her bag. It lay open, already half-filled with names in a looping hand. Three gel pens—pink, yellow, and blue—nested in her grip like small, anxious claws.
Pink underlined Morticia — adores me???
Yellow circled Grandmama — poison??
Blue sprouted a tiny coffin beside Vlad — chairs = no.
“You are vandalizing centuries of carefully curated data,” Wednesday observed.
“I am making it usable.” Enid added a tiny skull with a bow next to Grandmama’s name. “My brain likes colors. It’s a survival adaptation.”
The urge to confiscate the pen rose instinctively. But this was, technically, preparation. And Enid’s handwriting fit strangely well between the margins of Addams history, like ivy creeping over old stone. So Wednesday continued, “Morticia-Anne, commonly known as Mort. Shaved head. Multiple facial piercings. Runs an underground fighting ring in Bucharest. Bites opponents when she becomes bored.”
Enid’s eyes lit up. “She sounds awesome.”
“Her medical records read like an autopsy catalog,” Wednesday replied. “She will respect you if you bleed convincingly and refrain from whining.”
“I can do that,” Enid said, a touch too quickly.
Of course. Enid Sinclair could stand in front of a charging monster and apologize to it for the inconvenience.
“Lilith,” Wednesday went on, “Vlad’s offspring. Sixteen. Accomplished taxidermist. Regards unconscious visitors as teaching aids. Do not nap within her reach.”
Orange ink circled Lilith — no naps, then added a little squirrel.
“Aunt Dementia. Family archivist. She remembers every slight since 1952 and maintains an index. She will recount anything unfortunate I did before the age of ten, with footnotes.”
Enid made a small, delighted noise. “Did you do a lot of unfortunate things before ten?”
Wednesday closed the book halfway with a decisive slap of leather on leather. “I had a productive childhood.”
“Obviously.”
Wednesday reopened to a darker, thumb-worn page. “The Widow Moira. Ichabod’s seventh spouse. Professionally widowed. In every photograph she is standing at the very edge of someone’s grave.”
Enid’s pen hovered, then scribbled Moira — why always graves?? in wary purple. “That’s… comforting.”
“She disclaims involvement in Ichabod’s demise.” Wednesday’s eyes traced a note in the margin. “Her tendency to giggle while protesting her innocence is… instructive.”
“And Mortimer?” Enid asked. “He had, like, three warning symbols next to his name.”
“Mortimer Addams. Two hundred and three. Vampiric.” Wednesday let the book fall shut this time, palm flattening over the scarred leather. “He reveres self-control and fails at it regularly. He once attempted to hypnotize a caterer during a wedding toast.” A brief pause. “He responds poorly to exposed throats.”
Enid’s hand flew to the base of her neck, fingers pressing protectively over her pulse. “Would he—”
“At meals you will sit on my left,” Wednesday interrupted. “Mortimer prefers the right. Grandmama’s seating arrangements honor tradition.”
Some of the tension eased from Enid’s shoulders, though her hand remained stationed at her collarbone. “Okay. Left side. Shielded by Wednesday Addams. Cool, cool, cool.”
Lurch grunted from the driver’s seat, a low, gravelly syllable that vibrated through the floor. Wednesday flicked her gaze to the dashboard clock, translated, and nodded. “He intends to stop for fuel.”
Fifteen minutes later the hearse eased off the highway toward a sagging sign for Crow’s Nest Service Plaza. The sky seemed to sag with it, low clouds pooling over the cracked asphalt. Fluorescent lights buzzed fitfully under the awning like trapped insects. Inside the convenience-store foyer the air changed—thinner, smelling of burnt coffee and industrial cleaner. Tile stretched away in scuffed beige squares toward bathrooms and vending machines.
Wednesday took up position outside the women’s restroom, umbrella tip resting on the faded linoleum, heel anchored on the metal drain strip. Enid vanished inside with the garment bag slung over her arm. Fabric rustled beyond the thin door. A muffled curse filtered through, followed by a quick burst of laughter that sounded too bright for this weary corridor.
Do not imagine the dress against her shoulders.
Do not imagine the line of the collar at her throat.
Do not—
The door opened and Enid stepped out.
Black framed her in a way color never had. The dress cinched cleanly at her waist, drew a precise line from shoulder to hip, the skirt brushing just above her knees with every small shift of stance. Lace bit delicately at her wrists and throat, less like decoration and more like a pretty restraint. The lavender polish on her nails flashed when she tightened her grip on the empty hanger.
For a moment, Wednesday’s lungs refused to operate on their usual schedule.
Speak.
“You are… adequately attired,” she managed, each word flattened and pressed within an inch of its life. “Functionally appropriate.”
Enid’s palm skimmed down the bodice, following the seams. “Yeah, that’s definitely your version of ‘you look nice,’ so I’m just gonna—” she made a vague grabbing motion, “—take the win.”
Wednesday allowed herself one more efficient sweep—from the boots, up the lines of black, to the buttoned collar—and locked the image away with the others she didn’t examine too closely. “Mother will approve. That carries tactical advantages.”
Enid snorted softly. “Love being a tactical advantage.”
They migrated toward the snack aisle. Chromatic explosions burst from the shelves—crinkling candy bags, cereal boxes screaming in neon fonts, rows of baked goods lacquered in icing. Sugar practically sweated under the lights.
Enid’s gaze snapped straight to a tray of pink-frosted donuts in the bakery case. Her fingers lifted, already halfway to the glass.
Wednesday slid the umbrella out, the tip landing in the narrow space between Enid’s hand and its target with a soft tap. “That pastry would incapacitate you before my relatives have the opportunity. Mother instructed me to deliver you, quote, ‘battle-ready.’”
Enid blinked at the umbrella, then at her. “Your mom gave you rules about what I can eat?”
“She voiced concerns that you survive primarily on frosting and adrenaline.” Wednesday steered her toward the refrigerated section. Cold air breathed out as she opened the door and selected a sealed sandwich. “Protein,” she said, placing it in Enid’s hands. A bottle of water followed. “Hydration. Your odds improve with minimal upkeep.”
The faint quiver around Enid’s mouth smoothed. “Your mom really wants me alive.”
“Mother has long-term plans.”
Twilight had already clawed its way over the sky by the time they returned to the hearse. The world flattened into gradients of blue-black and oncoming glare—headlights smearing pale arcs along the road ahead, catching white lane markers, the occasional reflective post, the eyeshine of something small and feral at the tree line.
Enid resettled on the left seat, the new dress whispering under her thighs. The sandwich wrapper crackled in her hands as she peeled it open. “You’re going to quiz me, aren’t you?” she asked, words half-muffled around her first bite.
“Obviously.” Wednesday settled the Necrologium back across her knees. “Who directs experimental cuisine at guests and interprets survival as a compliment?”
“Grandmama. Seventeen fatalities, zero Addams. I was listening.”
A thin thread of approval slid through Wednesday’s ribs. “Correct. Who merits an immediate refusal if she offers to ‘practice’ on you?”
“Lilith. Taxidermy prodigy. Do not fall asleep around her.” Enid lifted the sandwich in a small salute and took another bite.
“Acceptable.” Wednesday turned a page. “Who fails spectacularly at self-control in proximity to carotid arteries?”
“Mortimer.” Enid swallowed and chased it with water. “I sit on your left, he stays on his side, everyone keeps their blood inside. See?” She wiggled the bottle triumphantly. “Study skills.”
“Adequate,” Wednesday hummed, suppressing the curve tugging at her lips.
Miles began to unwind in measured increments against the windows, white dashes eaten and replaced, again and again. After a while, Enid slid lower in her seat. Her fingers drifted, unthinking, to the hem of her dress; she toyed with the lace, rubbing it between thumb and index. Then, somewhere near the state border, her head tipped sideways and knocked against Wednesday’s shoulder.
Enid jerked upright at once. “Sorry. I’m fine. Totally awake. I can—”
“You are exhibiting textbook somnolence,” Wednesday argued despite the electric prod of touch. “Protest will not alter your physiology.”
“It might…” Enid mumbled, already blinking slower. “If I try hard enough…”
It would not.
Wednesday shifted, straightening her spine so her shoulder formed a more comfortable slope.“Toppling into the footwell would be an inconvenience for all parties.”
For some unfathomable reason, that coaxed a sleepy laugh out of Enid. “Can’t have that,” she breathed, and let herself ease back against the offered support.
Within minutes her breathing settled into an even rhythm, the lines that worry had carved between her brows smoothing away. The Necrologium began to slide; Wednesday caught the edge between two fingers before it could fall and drew it gently into her own lap, her thumb splayed over centuries of names and deaths and disasters.
Dark road slid beyond the glass—a reel of trees and glimpses of other vehicles, their headlights flaring and fading. Inside, the hearse felt smaller, the air warmer where Enid rested against her.
After a few hours of restraint, Wednesday let herself look. At the relaxed curve of Enid’s mouth, no longer pulled taut by constant cheer. At the faint smudge of black at the corner of one eye. At the hand fallen palm-up on the seat between them, fingers loosely curled, so very close to Wednesday’s own.
“Mother labeled you my emotional support person,” Wednesday murmured, mostly to herself. “A graceless phrase for a condition she recognizes with unnerving accuracy.”
Enid mumbled something into her shoulder in response, a tangle of syllables that sounded vaguely like “’m trying,” and burrowed a fraction closer. Her forehead brushed along the line of Wednesday’s jaw before settling again at the hollow where neck met shoulder.
Wednesday’s pulse altered its cadence. “Nothing about you is embarrassing,” she added, so softly it felt more like an experiment than a confession.
Later—another few hours, perhaps, or merely a sufficient number of name-filled pages turned—Maine materialized in shifts rather than announcements. A new brine in the air, sneaking in through imperfect seals. Road signs warning of fog and deer and poorly maintained coastal routes. A distant horn from some unseen boat. Lurch guided the hearse off the interstate and onto narrower, meaner lanes. Old houses flashed past—porches sagging, windows dim, yards littered with the skeletal remains of lawn ornaments. The brief sprawl of Gallows Point appeared and vanished: a crooked main street, a harbor stabbed with masts, a bait-shop sign that creaked when the wind shouldered it.
Enid stirred when the pavement began to tilt more aggressively. Her head lifted from Wednesday’s shoulder in stages—cheekbone, then temple, then the whole of her gaze, unfocused for a moment before snapping into place. “Did I… drool?”
“No,” Wednesday said. “Fortunately.”
Enid’s shoulders slumped in visible relief. “Okay. Good. Are we… close?”
“Six minutes from the gates.”
On cue, Lurch eased off the accelerator at the final rise, then the house revealed itself.
Stone towers punched up through the dark, balconies jutting out at angles that offended basic engineering, ironwork bristling like spines along every roofline. Dozens of narrow windows glowed amber, a constellation of watchful eyes staring down at their approach. The drive curved around a slope freckled with gravestones, some listing, some half-swallowed by weeds. To the right, a hedge rose in restless, uneven walls.
Thornwood.
Enid went very still. Her gaze climbed the facade in jerks—door, balcony, tower, gargoyle—her mouth parting slightly.
Lurch steered them toward the iron gate, its bars twisted into thorn motifs that caught the headlights and threw them back in fractured lines. The gate swung inward on a groan that sounded almost pleased to be used and the hearse rolled up the circular drive, then halted at the main steps.
Wednesday closed the Necrologium again and set it aside. “We have arrived.”
This close, Thornwood came into more detailed focus. Stone darkened by centuries of storms; windows narrowed; gargoyles hunched along the roofline, mouths full of carved teeth and rainwater. A cluster of crows huddled on one grotesque’s shoulders, feathers puffed, beaks tucked, their eyes following the hearse with greedy interest. Beyond the drive, a row of marble angels stood with their faces chiseled away—a necessary improvement.
The front doors of the manor swung inward. Graves emerged and descended the steps before bowing. “Miss Wednesday, welcome home.” His gaze shifted to the left, almost lazily, sliding over to Enid. Wednesday tracked the exact moment his eyes registered the black dress, the lavender nails, the garment bag clutched in both hands. “And our guest.”
“Enid Sinclair,” Wednesday explained. “Official designation: emotional support person.”
Graves blinked once. “How… progressive.”
Enid’s shoulders hitched. “Hi,” she offered. “Thank you for, um, having me.”
Graves inclined his head and stepped past Lurch to relieve the hearse of a pastel suitcase. The sunflower-yellow bag looked obscene against his immaculate gloves, but he did not comment, instead carrying it up the steps and into the house.
Wednesday adjusted the strap of her bag and glanced toward Enid. “Input phase is complete. Commence immersion.”
“That’s your way of saying ‘welcome to my family,’ isn’t it?”
“Semantics.” Wednesday extended an arm toward the steps. “After you. Thornwood appreciates ceremony.”
Heat rolled out from the entry as they climbed, furnace-warm and faintly damp, kissing their faces. Somewhere in the guts of the house, a grandfather clock let out a warbling chime—three clear notes, a hesitation, then two more that sounded almost offended.
Incense threaded through the air: resin, dust, and a metallic edge that tasted like licking coins. The floor beneath them was black-and-white marble, polished to such a shine that their reflections warped—Enid’s brightness swallowed and stretched beside Wednesday’s smaller silhouette.
Portraits pressed close on either side of the hall, gold frames jostling for space. Generations of Addamses stared from stiff collars and high necklines, their painted eyes following the newcomers. One frame hung empty, its absence louder than the rest, though its plaque already gleamed:
ICHABOD ADDAMS, 1897–2024
Enid’s shoulders hitched, pulse fluttering visibly at her throat.
Wednesday extended a hand without looking, found Enid’s knuckles by memory, and hooked their smallest fingers together. “The house indulges in dramatics. It likes to startle newcomers and feed on their reactions.”
A wall sconce to their right flared brighter, offended by the accusation.
Enid inhaled, held it, then exhaled on an attempted laugh. “Judged by architecture. Cool.”
“Get accustomed to it.” Wednesday squeezed their joined fingers once and released before anyone else rounded a corner and took it as an invitation to assume.
Summoned by such thought, movement stirred at the far end of the hall.
Morticia descended the grand staircase, liquid black against stone, and spread her arm. “Wednesday, darling”
Resisting, according to experience, only prolonged the process. Wednesday stepped into the embrace awkwardly, hands briefly circling Morticia’s waist. Cool thumbs framed her face as her mother brushed once along her jaw, a ritual touch that had soothed childhood fevers and post-murder nerves alike.
“You’re here,” Morticia murmured. “At last.”
“I arrived precisely when intended,” Wednesday replied, then let her mother go.
Morticia pivoted, black gaze turning fully toward Enid. She took her in a single sweep: dress, posture, white-knuckled grip on the garment bag. “And this radiant creature must be Enid. The color my daughter insists on circling herself with.”
Enid straightened, shoulders braced, smile growing valiant. “Hi. It’s really, um—nice to meet you, Mrs. Addams.”
Morticia stepped forward and took both of Enid’s hands. Her eyes dropped to the black dress and its lace cuffs, cataloged the fit, and climbed back to Enid’s face with blatant approval. “Morticia, chère. Or ‘Mother,’ when you feel brave.” Her lips curved at one corner. “You’re even lovelier than Wednesday described. And she was… very detailed.”
Heat climbed Enid’s throat, blooming across her cheeks. Her eyes snapped to Wednesday, startled, seeking confirmation or denial or maybe a trap door. “I—uh—hopefully she described something other than my sock choices?”
“Oh, many things,” Morticia assured her. “Your bravery. Your regrettable dorm décor. The way you brighten her spirits.” Her thumbs began to trace small, almost soothing circles over Enid’s knuckles. “I have been so eager to meet the girl who made my daughter attend school events of her own free will.”
Betrayal, Wednesday thought. Documented, notarized betrayal.
“Where is Father?” she asked briskly, reaching for the nearest conversational grenade.
A shout detonated from a side doorway. “Here, my little storm cloud!”
Gomez erupted into the hall like controlled shrapnel. His pinstripe suit bore a singed patch on one sleeve; his tie was slightly skewed; his eyes blazed as though someone had wired fireworks behind them. He covered the last few steps in a half-run, arms already extended.
Wednesday braced.
He swept her up anyway, spinning her once in a rib-compressing arc that forced a tiny, involuntary expulsion of air from her lungs. “You grow more formidable every year,” he declared, setting her down and gripping her shoulders to check for new weapons. “I can see it. New plots in those eyes.”
“I maintain a consistent baseline,” Wednesday said, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from her coat. “Entropy compensates around me.”
Gomez roared with delight. His attention ricocheted to Enid, and his expression transformed from joy to theatrical awe. “And this must be the incomparable Enid Sinclair! The wolf who has ensnared my daughter’s attention.” Before flight was possible, he caught Enid’s hand, bowed over it, and brushed his lips across her knuckles. “Magnificent. A sunrise over a battlefield. So luminous. So doomed.”
Enid’s brain appeared to seize. Her mouth opened on a strangled syllable and stayed there before rebooting. “Wow,” she managed at last, voice a little strangled. “You guys really commit to metaphors.”
“Only when earned,” Gomez insisted, releasing her hand with a final affectionate squeeze. “We are honored you’ve chosen to join our little family catastrophe, señorita loba.” He beamed. “Wednesday suffers without worthy company.”
Wednesday felt heat creep traitorously toward her ears. “Father, your volume is unnecessary.”
“As is my happiness,” he said cheerfully, and kissed Morticia’s hand before twining their arms together.
A door near the back of the hall slammed open hard enough to rattle a nearby portrait.
Pugsley barreled through, taller now, broader, enthusiasm somehow multiplied with every inch gained. Grease stained one sleeve; something that might once have been a fuse dangled from his pocket. He clocked Enid in one glance—dress, hair, scent—and his face lit up with immediate, uncomplicated delight. “You’re the werewolf! Do you want to see the family’s totally legal explosives?”
“Pugsley,” Wednesday warned. “We have been home for less than ten minutes.”
“Exactly!” he argued. “Plenty of time to show her the small stuff before dinner. I fixed the fuse-length problem. Probably.”
Enid’s laugh skated high and a little wild. “Maybe after I, uh, find out where I’m sleeping first?”
“Awesome!” Pugsley said, hearing only the word after and deciding it meant yes. “I’ll set something up in the courtyard. Nothing structural.”
Which, in his vocabulary, covered a disturbing amount of ground.
Graves materialized at the edge of the chaos, hands folded and posture immaculate. “If Miss Wednesday and Miss Enid are to appear at the viewing in anything resembling order, time upstairs would be advisable.”
Morticia rewarded him with a fond glance. “Ever forward-thinking, Graves.”
Gomez clapped twice. “Lurch, the luggage! My little death blossom and her loba must have a proper nest.”
Wednesday swallowed a sigh before it could escape. “Come, Enid,” she said, tilting her head toward the stairs. “Before my brother convinces you to trial a prototype.”
Portrait eyes followed them up the staircase, oil irises tracking every step. One ancestor in a high ruff gave Enid a disapproving sniff, while an aunt tapped the face of her painted pocket watch, lips pinched.
At the landing, Graves stepped over one particular floorboard without so much as a downward glance, and Wednesday duplicated it. Behind her, there was the faintest stutter in Enid’s stride as she noticed, processed, and adjusted a fraction too late. Wood creamed under her sole. A muffled thunk answered from the paneling to their right, where a dart now quivered.
“We continue to recalibrate certain protections in the wake of Cousin Harold’s incident,” Graves commented mildly. “Some of the house’s reflexes persist.”
“At least it aims for the torso now,” Wednesday observed. “Last winter it preferred jugulars.”
Eventually, they stopped before a heavy dark dood carved with intertwining thorns. The iron knocker wore a wolf’s head, jaws clamped around a ring, mid-bite.
Graves produced a key from somewhere inside his jacket “Your quarters, Miss Enid.”
By Thornwood standards, the room was modest. By anyone else’s, it was simply large. A four-poster bed anchored the space, black gauze curtains gathered at the corners, the mattress dressed in dark linens patterned with subtle damask that only revealed itself when light struck at an angle. A bay window opened out over the sea and the family plot. White foam exploded against black rock below in periodic bursts, salt spray catching what little moonlight there was. Headstones dotted the slope between house and cliff, pale teeth biting up through the grass.
Enid’s eyes skimmed all of that, sliding right past to the walls.
At first glance, the wallpaper read as monochrome hunting scene. Riders on horseback plunged between trees. Hounds swarmed at their heels. A forest of stylized trunks and branches enclosed the scene. Then the details sharpened. The riders were leaning forward in panic, not triumph. The hounds weren’t victorious; they were cowering at the margins, ears pinned back. And the wolves—
The wolves came in from the trees. Bodies low and muscular, eyes bright in the inked dusk, teeth bared—not in mindless violence, but in formation. A ring closing in around the fleeing hunt.
Enid moved as though pulled. “These are—” she began, then broke off. “They’re… wrong. Different. No, that’s not…” Her hand hovered an inch from the paper, fingers spread as she leaned in. “That one has Bran’s ear. See the notch? My dad has pictures of him from, like, forever ago.” She drifted along the paper, stopping at another wolf mid-stride. “And that one—Ida—she lost half her tail in a trap, so she always ran lopsided—”
Names spilled in a stream under her breath, each paired with a tiny mark in ink: a scar above an eye, a stripe along a flank, the slope of shoulders. Old family, old stories, old hurts, all mapped here in black and grey across Thornwood’s walls.
“When did my mother claim this room?” Wednesday asked Graves.
“Last summer,” he replied from the doorway. “She oversaw the renovations personally. The wallpaper was commissioned from a bespoke studio in California.”
“Did she request your pack’s imagery in advance?” Wednesday directed the question to Enid, though she already knew the most likely answer.
Enid shook her head. “I’ve never seen this design before. These aren’t, like, stock images.” Her gaze tracked another wolf near the wardrobe, voice softening. “Most of those photos are… you know. Basement boxes. My grandpa’s old trunk. Not on the internet.”
Wednesday’s mind flicked back through idle comments Morticia had dropped over the past months. Casual inquiries about Enid’s hometown. Questions about her lineage, her great-grandparents. That afternoon in the conservatory when Mother had asked, so smoothly, whether Enid’s family kept “old photographs, darling, the kind with that particular grain to them…”
“Mother becomes… thorough,” Wednesday murmured, “when she decides to invest.”
Enid turned to look at her over one shoulder. “You think your mom did all this so I’d feel—” She broke off, searching. “I don’t even know.”
“Claimed?” Wednesday offered. “Situated? Integrated? Choose your preferred brand of assimilation.” Her own chest felt unaccountably tight at the thought. Morticia had prepared Thornwood to receive Enid Sinclair; the wallpaper made the statement in pigment and paste: this wolf belonged here in a way that predated Wednesday’s current fixation.
Lurch filled the doorway, Enid’s luggage stacked in his arms. Graves indicated a space by the wardrobe; the suitcases landed there with surprisingly gentle thuds.
A smaller, quicker movement slipped in around Lurch’s ankles. Thing scuttled over the threshold, climbed the bedpost with practiced ease, and perched on the mattress edge. He splayed his fingers wide, taking in the room, then flipped his thumb up at Enid.
She laughed, breath catching on the way out. “Even Thing likes my room.”
Thing scurried to the wallpaper next, patting specific wolves on their snouts like greeting old acquaintances. He tapped two in particular, then drew a lopsided heart in the air, pointed at Enid, and mimed an exaggerated bite.
Wednesday translated, “He says the decor suits you, and he appreciates the implied carnage.”
Thing executed a tiny bow, satisfied, then skittered past Wednesday’s shoulder and disappeared into the corridor, fingers making impatient come on gestures at some unseen chaos.
On cue, an explosion rumbled through the stone—muffled, but large enough to be concerning. Dust fluttered briefly from the ceiling. Then Pugsley’s voice boomed faintly down the halls:
“GRAVES, DON’T FREAK OUT, THE TURRET LOOKS WAY COOLER NOW!”
Graves closed his eyes briefly and massaged the bridge of his nose. “Master Pugsley pursues his architectural… experiments. I shall assess what remains upright in due course.”
Wednesday cleared her throat. “Do not approach anything my brother categorizes as ‘the good dynamite’ without my supervision. Joint observation from a minimum safe distance is the current best practice.”
“Got it,” Enid huffed. “Explosive dates only.”
“That phrasing implies a degree of romance the situation does not merit,” Wednesday replied, which earned another quiet, incredulous laugh.
Graves stepped back into the hall and offered them both a small bow. “I shall have hot water and refreshments sent up. Provisions suitable for the living, as per Mrs. Addams’ explicit instructions.”
Footsteps—Morticia’s measured glide, Gomez’s quicker stride—faded down the corridor toward funeral logistics. Lurch’s heavy tread retreated in the opposite direction, likely in search of a scorched turret and a remorseful grandson.
Wednesday remained at the threshold, one hand resting against the frame. Enid stood by the bay window, framed by glass and sea and graveyard—three layers of inevitability. Her gaze moved from the dark slope of headstones to the churn of waves, then back to the wolves circling perpetual, inked prey along the walls.
“This is a lot,” she admitted finally. “Your house, your family, my… wolves on your wallpaper.”
“You withstood Mother’s inspection, Father’s metaphors, my brother’s overture to mutual arson, and Thornwood’s first attempt at intimidation,” Wednesday pointed out. “You have not bolted. By Addams metrics, that constitutes a promising arrival.”
Enid’s mouth tilted. “You have the strangest way of saying nice things.”
“They are accurate things.” Wednesday’s eyes slid once more over the wallpaper wolves, then back to the living one by the window. “I will collect you in thirty minutes. The viewing adheres to a precise schedule. Death waits for no one; nor does Ichabod’s itinerary.”
“Right. Timely morbidity.” Enid crossed to the bed, fingertips brushing the carved headboard.
Wednesday watched the awe on her face, then added, “Try to avoid being bitten by the wallpaper.”
Enid glanced back, half-grin blooming. “Is that an actual risk?”
“With this family,” Wednesday replied, “assume the affirmative.”
That drew one last laugh from Enid. Wednesday let it follow her into the hall as she stepped back and drew the door nearly closed, leaving the room warm with candlelight and wolves.
“Miss Wednesday Addams and Miss Enid Sinclair.”
Graves opened the double doors, and Wednesday crossed the threshold without hesitation. Enid followed a half-step behind, then checked herself so sharply that her heel caught on the runner and almost betrayed her.
At the center of the parlor, raided above the polished floor on a dais and ringed with candelabras, Ichabod Addams reclined inside an iron maiden that had been converted into a coffin. The front opened on split hinges, revealing velvet and silver and the narrow curve of spikes drawn just far back enough for reassurance. Ichabod himself wore death like
formalwear. The frock coat fit beautifully, the high collar framing a face that Grandmama’s ministrations had rescued from indignity into slumber. Candlelight glazed his cheeks and caught a crescent bruise at his temple. By his folded hands rested a black book—cracked leather, thumbed edges, and an engraved title that announced a first-edition manual on medieval siege warfare.
A semicircle of chairs faced him, most already occupied.
Aunt Dementia sat nearest to the coffin, knitting black material. Grandmama slumped in a wingback chair, an extinguished cigar hooked to her lip, fast asleep. Vlad stood off to one side, handkerchief raised to eyes that kept straying toward the spikes with acquisitive interest. A cousin Enid couldn’t recognize just stepped away from the lectern after reading about boiling oil, and the family rewarded him with a small murmur of approval that somehow sounded faintly competitive.
Morticia, seated in the front row, patted two fingers against the closest seat, and Enid followed Wednesday’s cue to sit.
Another Addams approached the dais, fourteen in appearance and deeply thrilled. He adjusted the book, reading in an identical dry monotone about battering rams, reinforced gates, and the best type of wood for building defense towers. Enid folded her hands atop her lap and tried to seem attentive rather than alarmed.
“It was Ichabod’s favorite pastime,” Morticia whispered to Enid, inclining her head. “Being read to from his siege manual. He claimed it sharpened his mind and, more importantly, unsettled his enemies.”
On her other side, Gomez beamed, volume a notch lower than theatrical as he added, “Each Addams is to spend time with him. We honor life through obsession—it soothes the bereaved and flatters the dead.”
Enid swallowed and glanced from the coffin, to the book, to the occupied chairs. “So it’s… storytime? Just with more—uh—trebuchets.”
Morticia’s mouth curved. “Yes, darling.”
At the lectern, the cousin finished a paragraph and bowed. Aunt Dementia gave a curt nod, Vlad sighed into his handkerchief, and Grandmama snored sharply.
Morticia rested her hand on Wednesday’s knee. “Querida, your turn.”
Wednesday rose, drawing every eye in the room as she mounted the dais and took up the manual, opening the marked section. “In any prolonged siege, the trebuchet is not merely a weapon; it is a statement. It informs those cowering behind stone that height, fortification, and inherited arrogance remain poor substitutes for ingenuity.”
Her cadence remained neutral, but fondness lay beneath. She read a dense passage on counterweights, release angles, and the mathematics of ruin, pausing once to turn a page and once more to touch the margin where some previous reader—Ichabod, surely—had scrawled analysis. At a note detailing the catapulting of infected corpses over city walls for psychological effect, the corner of Wednesday’s lips twitched.
“Uncle Ichabod maintained that this was the chapter where strategy became art,” she remarked. “He was right.”
Watching her there beside the iron maiden, book in hand, face composed into something graver and softer than Enid had ever seen in public, shifted something fundamental. This was Wednesday in her native language, untouched by school corridors and reluctant social concessions and all the defensiveness she wore against lesser company. This man had understood what the rest of the world would have called grotesque and treated it as inheritance, interest, promise, and Enid could see that understanding reflected now in the set of Wednesday’s shoulders, in the care with which she handled the book, in the tiny thread of warmth winding through her recital.
For a brief, disorienting moment Enid simply thought:
Oh.
Wednesday finished the paragraph with the same measured cadence she had maintained throughout, then closed the book gently and rested her palm on its scarred leather cover. For a moment, she simply stood there, looking at Ichabod’s face. “You should have seen the clock coming. But if you had to go, being bludgeoned by a cursed family heirloom is acceptably on theme.”
She replaced the manual on its stand, inclined her head once to the body in the iron-maiden coffin, and stepped down. A ripple moved through the assembled family—murmurs of approval, a few chuckles from cousins who recalled Ichabod’s feud with the clock.
Morticia dabbed delicately at one eye. “She always was his favorite.”
Enid watched Wednesday cross back toward her seat, watched the way candlelight caught at the angles of her face and made her look carved from something older and stranger than bone. That small, almost-tender smile Wednesday had just worn blazed in Enid’s memory.
Oh, she thought again, understanding settling deeper. Oh, I am in so much trouble.
Before Wednesday could reclaim her chair, a figure materialized in the doorway—Mr. Cryptwell, the family lawyer, dressed in a suit so dark it absorbed nearby joy. He crossed to Gomez and whispered something that made Gomez’s eyes light up and clap Wednesday on the shoulder.
“Mi pequeña!Word about the will—there appears to be a codicil with ‘mysterious conditions.’”
Morticia rose, smoothing her gown. To Enid, she added. “We won’t be long, darling. Stay here.”
Wednesday shot her a glance Enid couldn’t parse, then the three of them swept out in Cryptwell’s wake. Pugsley, who had been fidgeting behind, immediately drifted toward the back where Thing was engaged in a competitive card game with Lilith. That left Enid alone with a corpse, a siege manual, and far too many candles.
A lull opened in the reading rotation. Another addams stepped down, and no one immediately moved to replace him.
Aunt Dementia’s gaze swung toward Enid like a searchlight finding its target. “You, wolf girl, the dead don’t like gaps in attention. Read.”
Enid startled, heat flushing her cheeks. “Uh—me?”
“Ichabod would be offended if you sat idle while his favorite book gathered dust. He was particular about being properly entertained, even in death. Especially in death.”
Several pairs of dark eyes pivoted toward Enid. Vlad looked up from his spike assessment, Lilith craned her neck, and even Thing paused mid-deal.
Her throat dried, but she rose regardless, because sitting under that scrutiny felt worse than whatever awaited at the lectern. When she reached the manual, she flipped to a random page that announced itself as On the Art of Undermining: Tunnels, Fires, and the Collapse of Defensive Walls.
“Uh.” Enid cleared her throat. “‘When attempting to collapse a defensive structure from below, the sappers must first assess the composition of the foundation. Stone that has weathered centuries may appear immutable, but every fortress carries the seeds of its own destruction within its mortar.’”
Her voice shook on the first line, too thin and bright for a room of shadows and grief, but the words themselves were strange and beautiful in their brutality, and by the second sentence she let warfare carry her forward. It described shoring supports with green timber designed to burn, the careful placement of kindling and pitch, the mathematics of making an enemy’s stronghold eat itself from the inside out. By the third paragraph, she was almost enjoying herself.
“‘Thus does the patient general transform stone to dust without ever breaching the gate,’” she finished, “‘for the greatest victories are won beneath the notice of those who believe themselves impenetrable.’”
Enid closed the book with more confidence than when she’d opened it and glanced at Ichabod. His face remained serene, but she imagined—hoped—that in whatever afterlife Addamses occupied, he could see this: all these people who loved him, sitting by his body, reading his favorite words.
“For what it’s worth,” she whispered, “your family really loves you.”
Dementia’s knitting needles paused for the briefest moment, then she pronounced, “Acceptable.”
Enid decided to take this as approval.
Later, after more rotations and polite corpse-sitting and one alarming moment when Grandmama woke up, looked directly at Enid, said “good stomach” with apparent approval, and fell back asleep, the family began to disperse. Some headed toward other wings to refuel or conspire; others clustered in corners to whisper about wills and codicils and the “mysterious conditions” Mr. Cryptwell had mentioned. The oppressive candle heat had made Enid’s head swim, and when a gap opened in the crowd, she slipped out through the nearest doorway.
The hall outside was cooler, lined with dark wood paneling and runner carpet that muffled her footsteps. She’d barely had time to lean against the wall and memorize the nearest escape routes when Wednesday appeared beside her, apparently having escaped the will discussion.
“I hear you didn’t disgrace yourself,” she said without preamble, taking up position close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. “Ichabod would have appreciated your emphasis on structural collapse. That passage was one of his favorites.”
Enid huffed a laugh. “High praise.”
“From me, yes.”
Enid paused for a beat, soaking up Wednesday’s presence, before she asked the question that had been nagging the back of her skull. “Were you close to him?”
Wednesday’s eyes traveled down the hallway, tracing the candlelight. “He taught me my first poisoning technique when I was six. Strychnine in the soup. He said it was important to start with something elegant—odorless, efficient, with a satisfying timeline. Nothing so crude as arsenic.” A tiny smile ghosted across her face. “I laced Cousin Bernard’s tomato bisque during a family dinner. It took Bernard eleven minutes to realize something was wrong. Ichabod timed it with a stopwatch.” She hesitated, and something almost warm crept into her tone. “He said I had promise.”
Enid could picture it: a young Wednesday in the same dark braids, hunched over a cauldron or perhaps just a pot, a lanky old man in a bloodstained waistcoat correcting her grip on a vial, both of them utterly absorbed in the art of making dinner homicidal.
“He was correct,” Wednesday added, more quietly. “He usually was.”
“Ichabod sounds like he really understood you. The way your brain works. What you care about.”
Wednesday shrugged. “He had the least disappointing intellect of my family. And he never asked why I enjoyed what I do; he only asked how far I intended to take it.”
Enid stepped closer, enough that her sleeve brushed Wednesday’s. “Well, I think he’d be proud you’re the one reading trebuchet poetry over his dead body.”
Wednesday’s lips twitched. “An accurate assessment. He always appreciated appropriate levels of drama.” Her shoulder relaxed, pressing slightly into Enid’s. “He also would have approved of your reading.”
“I was just trying not to embarrass myself.”
“You exceeded that baseline significantly.” Wednesday turned her head, meeting Enid’s eyes. “Aunt Dementia rarely offers praise. ‘Acceptable’ from her is equivalent to a standing ovation.”
Enid felt warmth bloom in her stomach, stupid and stubborn and completely inappropriate for a funeral setting. “I’ll add it to my resume. ‘Praised by immortal knitting aunt for corpse entertainment skills.’”
Before Wednesday’s lips could curve, Graves appeared at the far end of the hall.
“Miss Wednesday,” he intoned. “Mr. Cryptwell requests your presence in the blue drawing room. There appears to be a secondary codicil requiring your signature.”
Wednesday narrowed her eyes. “If he uses the phrase ‘unexpected clause' again, I may stab him,” she muttered, then glanced at Enid. “Stay on this floor. Avoid any rooms with more than two locks on the outside. I will return shortly.”
Enid nodded. “Got it. No voluntarily entering prison cells.”
“Or oubliettes.”
“Or oubliettes.”
“Or conservatories with moving plants. The Venus flytrap in the west wing conservatory has developed territorial tendencies.”
“So… the hallway?”
Wednesday gave a sharp nod and strode off after Graves.
Just as Enid exhaled, a door banged open down the corridor, and a young woman stepped out, tugging a black leather jacket over a tank top. Her head was shaved to a soft dark stubble, a faint scar bisected one eyebrow, and a tattoo of a snake disappeared beneath her sleeve as she wiped something suspiciously red from her knuckles.
She spotted Enid instantly and paused. “Ah—the werewolf,” she said by way of greeting, voice low and accented faintly.
Enid straightened, wolf instincts responding to another predator. “And you’re… Morticia-Anne?” she hazarded, recalling the genealogy lecture.
“Mort,” the girl corrected with a scowl. “Only my grandmother calls me Morticia-Anne, and she’s been dead for forty years. So unless you’re Mee-maw reincarnated or perhaps possessed, it’s Mort.” She leaned against the wall, one booted ankle over the other, and raked her gaze openly over Enid, taking in the neat black dress, lavender nail polish, and braced posture. “You clean up well for someone Wednesday dragged out of a school with a dress code problem.”
“I had help,” Enid replied, keeping her tone steady. “Wednesday provided the dress.”
Mort raised an eyebrow. “She measured you for it, right? Wednesday doesn’t do approximations. If she bought you funeral clothes, she calculated your exact dimensions down to the inch. Probably while you were sleeping.” Without waiting for an answer, her position shifted from casual assessment to something more direct. “Listen—you’re gonna have a rough week, Sinclair. The family tests outsiders. On purpose, maybe. But also because we forget other people break easier than we do.” She jerked her chin toward the parlor doors. “They like you so far, though.”
“So that’s… good?”
“That’s the problem. When they like you, the tests get more creative. They’ll want to see what you’re made of, and whether you’re worth keeping around.”
“I can handle myself,” Enid shot back, because she had survived sixteen years of not being enough, and she could survive a week of Addams hospitality.
Mort’s mouth curved. “Perhaps. I mean, you’re a werewolf—you heal fast, you’re tougher than you look, you can probably bench press half the cousins here. That’s useful.” She uncrossed her ankles, tapping a slow beat against the wall with one knuckle. “But you’re not an Addams. You weren’t raised with arsenic in your baby bottle and booby traps in your playroom. You don’t automatically look at a buffet and think, ‘Which of these dishes is going to try to kill me, and in what way?’ You don’t have seventeen escape routes memorized for every room you enter.”
“Wednesday’s been coaching me,” Enid added quickly. “On the food thing.”
“Wednesday will try to run interference. It’s in her nature. She’ll watch your food, your footing, your exits. She’ll put herself between you and the worst of it. But she can’t protect you from all of it.” Mort met Enid’s eyes, direct and unblinking. “Some of the tests are about her, too. Whether she’ll compromise. Whether she’ll choose you over tradition. Whether loving someone outside the family has made her soft.” She paused, shrugging. “The older generation just likes to check.”
Enid swallowed, pride prickling. “I’m not here so Wednesday can babysit me. I came because she asked. I came to support her, not the other way around.”
Mort’s gaze sharpened. “Good. Keep that attitude, it’ll keep you alive longer.” She studied Enid for another moment, and whatever she saw apparently passed muster, because her posture loosened. “Look me up if you need help. And I mean that literally, Sinclair. West wing, third floor, room with the punching bag and the Romanian death metal. If a corridor starts screaming at you or you find yourself accidentally engaged to a ghost, I can probably walk you through it.”
Enid let out a startled, slightly manic laugh. “That’s a thing?”
“During the last family reunion, we had to annul three haunt-marriages and wrestle a possessed suit of armor.” Mort pushed off the wall entirely, gave Enid one last glance, and added, softer than before, “Wednesday doesn’t bring people here. Ever. You know that, right? So you’re either very special or very doomed. Possibly both. We don’t really distinguish around here.”
Enid watched Mort flash a sharp grin and saunter back down the hall, whistling a funeral march.
You’re either very special or very doomed.
She looked back at the closed parlor doors, imagined Wednesday standing over Ichabod’s coffin reading about trebuchets with grief softening her mouth, and straightened her shoulders.
Whatever tests the Addamses had in mind, she was not going to be the girl Wednesday regretted bringing. She was going to survive this week. She was going to prove she belonged here—or at least that she belonged next to someone who did. And if that meant eating things that moved and dodging traps designed for people raised on poison, so be it. Enid had faced worse than an eccentric family with creative hospitality.
…Probably.