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Rain had been striking the windows of Ophelia Hall since breakfast.
Not falling.
Striking.
It rattled against the glass in cold, determined sheets, turning the sky beyond Nevermore into a shapeless smear of grey. The gargoyles dripped. The courtyard had become a shallow lake. Even the ravens had abandoned the roof and retreated somewhere less offensively damp.
Enid lay curled on her bed with her back to the room.
Her injured arm rested awkwardly across her stomach, encased from wrist to elbow in a cast the colour of institutional disappointment.
The nurse had offered her a choice.
White.
Grey.
Or a shade of blue so pale it appeared to have died several days earlier.
Enid had selected white because, at the time, she had imagined everyone signing it in colourful pens.
That had been yesterday.
So far, Yoko had written Bite me beside a tiny cartoon fang, Ajax had drawn something that might have been a wolf or an unusually hairy potato, and Eugene had carefully added three bees wearing party hats.
Wednesday had written nothing.
Enid told herself she did not care.
She pulled the blanket higher over her shoulder.
Behind her, the rapid tapping of Wednesday’s typewriter continued.
It had been continuing for nearly forty minutes.
Enid knew because she had spent every one of them staring at the same damp patch of stone wall while composing increasingly dramatic summaries of her current existence.
Enid Sinclair, vibrant young werewolf, defeated by a training hurdle and condemned to perish in a rain-soaked prison while her roommate documented murders six feet away.
The typewriter stopped.
Enid closed her eyes.
Silence stretched across the room.
Then Wednesday said, “Your sulking has become distracting.”
“I’m not sulking.”
“You have sighed seventeen times.”
“I’m breathing.”
“Badly.”
Enid burrowed further beneath the blanket. “I broke my arm.”
“Technically, you fractured the radius.”
“Oh, good. That’s so much more cheerful.”
“It is a less severe injury.”
“It still hurts.”
Wednesday’s chair scraped against the floor.
Enid remained facing the wall.
She heard footsteps approach her bed, measured and unhurried.
The mattress dipped slightly behind her.
“You were given pain medication.”
“It makes me sleepy.”
“You have spent most of the afternoon attempting to sleep.”
“I’m resting.”
“You are festering.”
Enid turned her head enough to glare over her shoulder.
Wednesday sat on the edge of the bed, spine perfectly straight, her expression as sympathetic as a gravestone.
“I am not festering.”
“You have refused lunch, ignored three messages from Yoko and threatened to bite Ajax when he offered to draw a second potato.”
“It was supposed to be a wolf.”
“That remains unproven.”
Enid’s mouth twitched.
She suppressed it.
Wednesday noticed.
Of course she noticed.
Her eyes narrowed slightly, as though she had identified a structural weakness in a fortified wall.
Enid turned away again.
“I just want to stay here.”
“No.”
Enid blinked. “No?”
“No.”
“You can’t say no to me lying on my own bed.”
“I just did.”
Before Enid could protest, Wednesday seized the edge of the blanket and pulled it down.
Cold air rushed over Enid’s shoulders.
“Wednesday!”
“Sit up.”
“I don’t want to.”
Wednesday grasped Enid’s uninjured wrist.
Her fingers were cool and firm.
“Your current position is compressing your injured arm, your hair is becoming entangled beneath you, and you have somehow wrapped yourself so tightly in this blanket that you resemble a brightly coloured corpse prepared for burial.”
“Maybe that’s the aesthetic I’m going for.”
“It lacks dignity.”
Wednesday pulled.
Enid could have resisted.
Even with one arm, she was stronger than Wednesday. She could have remained exactly where she was, buried beneath the blanket and the rain and the miserable little knot that had settled beneath her ribs during training yesterday.
Instead, she allowed Wednesday to drag her upright.
Her injured arm throbbed as she moved.
Enid hissed.
Wednesday released her immediately.
The change in her expression was almost invisible, but Enid saw it.
The sharp tightening around her eyes.
The fractional parting of her lips.
Wednesday’s gaze dropped to the cast.
“Did I hurt you?”
The question was quiet.
Enid’s irritation dissolved around the edges.
“No. It just aches when I move too quickly.”
Wednesday’s jaw tightened.
Enid knew that expression too.
It was the one Wednesday had worn in the infirmary after the healer confirmed the fracture. Wednesday had stood beside Enid’s bed with her hands clasped behind her back, staring at the cast as though it had personally offended her.
The training instructor had called the injury an unfortunate accident.
Wednesday had called the training instructor an incompetent sadist with the spatial awareness of a concussed pigeon.
The instructor had heard her.
Enid had been too drugged to prevent what followed.
“I’m okay,” Enid said.
“You are not.”
“I will be. Werewolf healing, remember? A week or two and I’ll be back to normal.”
“That does not mean you are required to enjoy the interim.”
Enid looked down at the blanket gathered across her lap.
“That’s kind of the problem.”
Wednesday waited.
She did not fill the silence with reassurance. She never rushed to smother discomfort beneath cheerful phrases or promises that everything would be fine.
She simply remained.
Enid picked at a loose thread with her uninjured hand.
“I know it’s not a big deal,” she said. “I know it’ll heal fast. But everything’s harder with one arm. Getting dressed. Doing my hair. Carrying my books. I couldn’t even cut my pancakes this morning without asking someone.”
“You could have stabbed them whole.”
“That is not how pancakes work.”
“It is how knives work.”
Enid gave her a tired look.
Wednesday inclined her head, conceding the point.
“And I’m going to miss training,” Enid continued. “Everyone else will keep improving, and I’ll just be sitting there watching. Again.”
“Again?”
Enid immediately regretted the word.
She stared at her cast.
The little bees smiled up at her.
“When I first transformed,” she said slowly, “everyone acted like everything would be different. Like I’d finally caught up. Like I’d proved I wasn’t broken.”
Wednesday became very still.
“But apparently I’m still the person who falls wrong during the easiest drill,” Enid said. “I heard some of the others laughing.”
“They were laughing at the instructor.”
“No, they weren’t.”
“Then provide their names.”
Enid glanced at her.
Wednesday’s expression had gone completely blank.
Dangerously blank.
“No.”
“I only intend to speak with them.”
“Your speaking sometimes involves antique weaponry.”
“Only when conversation becomes repetitive.”
“Wednesday.”
“I will refrain from permanent damage.”
“That is not comforting.”
“It was not intended to be.”
Enid sighed.
Eighteen, Wednesday’s expression seemed to say.
Wednesday stood.
For one horrible moment, Enid thought she was leaving.
Instead, she crossed to her desk and opened the bottom drawer.
“What are you doing?”
“Correcting the situation.”
“You can’t murder everyone who makes me sad.”
“I can.”
“Wednesday.”
“I have chosen not to. You should appreciate my restraint.”
She removed a small black box from the drawer and returned to the bed.
Enid stared at it.
“What’s that?”
Wednesday placed it beside her and opened the lid.
Inside were at least twenty tiny bottles of nail polish.
Enid’s mouth fell open.
There were glossy blacks, metallic silvers, deep purples and reds dark enough to resemble blood beneath moonlight. Beneath them sat several slim brushes, dotting tools and a small collection of metallic decorations arranged in neat compartments.
Enid looked from the box to Wednesday.
Then back to the box.
Then to Wednesday again.
“You own nail polish?”
“I have fingernails.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only one you require.”
Enid picked up a bottle with her good hand.
It was pink.
Not a muted pink. Not a dusty rose that Wednesday might plausibly describe as the colour of diluted organs.
Bubblegum pink.
Enid held it up.
Wednesday’s face remained impassive.
“This is yours?”
“It was confiscated from Pugsley after an incident involving a chemistry set and Uncle Fester’s left boot.”
“What was he doing with bubblegum-pink nail polish?”
“I elected not to ask.”
There was also yellow.
Turquoise.
Lilac.
A shimmering green.
Enid’s eyes widened further with every bottle she uncovered.
“Wednesday Addams, have you secretly been collecting nail polish?”
“No.”
“You have a nail-art brush.”
“I have six.”
“Why?”
Wednesday took the pink bottle from her and placed it back into the box.
“Give me your hand.”
Enid stared.
“Are you going to paint my nails?”
“That is generally what one does with nail polish.”
“You hate colour.”
“I tolerate it under controlled conditions.”
Enid looked down at her uninjured hand.
Her nails were bare. She had removed the chipped polish before training yesterday, planning to repaint them that night.
Then she had broken her arm.
She extended her hand carefully.
Wednesday took it.
Her touch was unexpectedly gentle.
She rested Enid’s fingers across her own palm and examined each nail with grave concentration.
“What colour?” Wednesday asked.
Enid smiled faintly. “You’re letting me choose?”
“You are already injured. Further cruelty would be gratuitous.”
“Pink.”
Wednesday reached for the bubblegum bottle.
“And blue.”
Wednesday selected turquoise.
“And maybe yellow.”
A third bottle joined them.
Enid glanced at the darker collection. “You should add black too.”
Wednesday’s eyes lifted to hers.
“For balance,” Enid said.
“Naturally.”
Wednesday arranged the bottles beside her, placed a folded towel across Enid’s lap and began.
Enid had expected a simple coat of polish.
She should have known better.
Wednesday did not perform simple tasks.
She conquered them.
Her hands were astonishingly steady. She painted each nail with slow, perfect strokes, never touching the surrounding skin. Pink went on Enid’s thumb. Turquoise covered her index finger. Yellow brightened the next.
Wednesday left two nails black.
Then she opened the box of brushes.
“You’re doing actual nail art?”
“Remain still.”
“I am still.”
“You are vibrating.”
“I’m excited.”
“It is medically concerning.”
Wednesday dipped the thinnest brush into black polish.
On the pink nail, she painted tiny curling vines.
On the turquoise, she added a black spiderweb so delicate that Enid held her breath while watching it appear.
Across the yellow nail, Wednesday created a miniature line of black paw prints.
Enid stared at her.
Wednesday’s head was bowed, dark braids falling over her shoulders. Her lashes cast faint shadows against her cheeks. Every movement was careful. Precise.
Patient.
Enid had never thought of Wednesday as patient.
Not with anyone except her.
“You’re really good at this,” Enid said.
“I have excellent fine motor control.”
“From autopsies?”
“And cello.”
“That is the most Wednesday answer possible.”
“I could have mentioned lock-picking.”
“That somehow makes it worse.”
Wednesday moved to the next nail.
On the black background, she painted a tiny crescent moon in silver.
Enid watched the curve take shape.
The rain continued beyond the window, but it no longer sounded quite so hostile.
“Why do you have all this?” she asked.
Wednesday did not look up.
“I acquired it.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“It was poorly phrased.”
Enid nudged her knee with her own.
Wednesday gave her a warning look.
“Stay still.”
“You’ve been hiding a miniature nail salon in your desk. I deserve answers.”
Wednesday resumed painting.
“I purchased the supplies during the holiday.”
Enid blinked. “You bought them?”
“Yes.”
“For yourself?”
“No.”
The room seemed to become quieter.
Enid looked at the rows of colour.
None of the bottles appeared to have been opened.
Except the black.
Her throat tightened.
“You bought them for me?”
Wednesday began painting a silver star beside the crescent moon.
“You frequently complain that your dominant hand produces uneven results when painting the opposite one.”
Enid remembered.
She had said it months ago.
Once.
While repainting her nails at their desk and grumbling because the tiny flowers on her right hand looked as though they had been drawn during an earthquake.
Wednesday had not replied.
Enid had assumed she was not listening.
“You remembered that?”
“I remember most things you say.”
The admission was delivered casually.
Almost coldly.
It landed inside Enid with the force of something warm and enormous.
She looked down at Wednesday’s hand cradling hers.
“You were planning to do this anyway?”
“No.”
“But you bought everything.”
“I was preparing for a likely eventuality.”
“Which was?”
Wednesday capped the silver polish.
“You asking.”
Enid smiled.
“I never did.”
“No.”
“So you just kept it all in your drawer?”
“Yes.”
“For months?”
Wednesday’s mouth tightened.
“It became increasingly inefficient.”
A laugh escaped Enid before she could stop it.
Wednesday’s shoulders loosened almost imperceptibly.
Enid watched her choose another brush.
“You know,” she said, “most people would have just told me to cheer up.”
“Most people are tedious.”
“They might’ve brought me chocolate.”
“You have three bars hidden behind your pillows.”
Enid gasped. “You know about those?”
“They are poorly concealed.”
“You never took them?”
“I am not a thief.”
“You stole Xavier’s lock picks last week.”
“He was using them incorrectly.”
Wednesday painted the outline of a tiny wolf onto Enid’s final nail.
It was not cartoonish.
It was elegant and sharp, its head lifted towards an invisible moon.
Enid’s smile faded into something softer.
“Thank you,” she said.
Wednesday’s brush paused.
Then continued.
“Gratitude is unnecessary.”
“It’s really not.”
“I am painting your nails, not donating an organ.”
“You’d probably make donating an organ sound less serious.”
“It depends on the organ.”
Enid studied her.
The intense concentration.
The careful grip.
The way Wednesday had positioned herself so Enid’s injured arm would not be bumped.
“You’ve been doing a lot for me since yesterday.”
Wednesday added silver to the wolf’s eye.
“I escorted you to the infirmary.”
“You carried me.”
“You were disoriented.”
“You threatened the instructor.”
“He remains incompetent.”
“You brought all my homework back.”
“You dislike falling behind.”
“You cut up my dinner.”
“You were attempting to eat pasta with a spoon.”
“It was all I could manage.”
“It was grotesque.”
“And now you’re painting tiny wolves on my nails.”
Wednesday finally looked up.
Enid’s heart stumbled.
There were moments when Wednesday’s expression became difficult to read because it contained too little.
This was not one of them.
There was too much.
Concern.
Annoyance.
Tenderness so carefully buried it had become part of the landscape.
“I would do almost anything for you,” Wednesday said.
Enid forgot about the rain.
Forgot about her arm.
Forgot how to breathe with any degree of subtlety.
Wednesday looked back down and cleaned the brush against the edge of the bottle.
“Within reason,” she added.
Enid stared at her.
“Within reason?”
“Yes.”
The words had escaped too easily.
Wednesday seemed to realise this now.
Her posture stiffened.
She began organising the brushes with excessive attention.
Enid’s pulse quickened.
“How far does within reason go?”
Wednesday closed one bottle.
“That depends upon the request.”
“Would you carry my books for the next two weeks?”
“Yes.”
“Help me braid my hair?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
“Let me choose the music while we study?”
“No.”
Enid laughed.
“There’s the boundary.”
“Some forms of suffering are unnecessary.”
Enid shifted slightly closer.
Wednesday’s eyes flicked towards her.
“What about going into Jericho and buying me hot chocolate?”
“Yes.”
“With whipped cream?”
“Reluctantly.”
“Rainbow sprinkles?”
“I said within reason.”
Enid grinned.
Her heart was beating too quickly now.
The questions had begun as teasing.
They did not feel like teasing anymore.
Wednesday must have noticed.
She noticed everything.
Yet she did not pull away.
Enid looked down at their joined hands.
Wednesday was still holding hers.
“What about kissing me?”
Wednesday stopped moving.
Outside, thunder rolled somewhere beyond the school grounds.
Enid’s courage nearly abandoned her.
She could laugh.
She could pretend it was another joke and ask whether Wednesday would also fight a dragon or wear a pink jumper.
But Wednesday had gone utterly still.
Not disgusted.
Not angry.
Just still.
Enid swallowed.
“Would that be within reason?”
Wednesday raised her eyes.
Her gaze moved across Enid’s face with painful slowness.
“Your question is insufficiently specific.”
Enid’s lips parted.
“Specific?”
“Location matters.”
The sound that escaped Enid was somewhere between a laugh and a squeak.
Wednesday continued, perfectly serious.
“A kiss to the forehead could be interpreted as comfort. A kiss to the hand might be considered archaic. A kiss to the cheek varies greatly depending upon cultural and personal context.”
Enid’s face had become impossibly hot.
“And a kiss on the lips?”
Wednesday’s fingers tightened around hers.
“That would be considerably less ambiguous.”
Enid’s voice softened.
“Would you?”
Wednesday regarded her for several long seconds.
“Yes.”
The answer was immediate.
Quiet.
Certain.
Enid’s stomach flipped.
She shifted closer again until their knees pressed together.
“Would you date me?”
For the first time since Enid had met her, Wednesday Addams looked caught entirely unprepared.
Her eyes widened.
Barely.
But enough.
“You have combined two separate requests,” she said.
“I know.”
“A kiss does not automatically constitute a romantic agreement.”
“I know.”
“Dating involves prolonged social interaction, emotional vulnerability and shared activities often selected without regard for efficiency.”
Enid smiled nervously. “That sounds horrible.”
“It does.”
“But?”
Wednesday looked at their hands.
Enid waited.
The rain whispered against the windows now, softer than before.
“I have spent several months attempting to determine why your absence makes our room intolerably quiet,” Wednesday said. “Why your distress causes me disproportionate irritation. Why I am willing to endure your music, your perfumes and the alarming number of decorative pillows you continue to introduce into our living space.”
“Wednesday…”
“I concluded that my attachment to you had become inconvenient.”
Enid’s heart squeezed.
“That doesn’t exactly sound like a yes.”
“I am not finished.”
“Sorry.”
Wednesday’s thumb brushed once across the side of Enid’s finger.
“It is inconvenient,” she continued, “because I cannot remove it. Attempts at ignoring it have been unsuccessful. Attempts at rationalising it have produced equally unsatisfactory results.”
Enid could feel herself smiling now.
She could not stop.
Wednesday’s gaze lifted.
“I would prefer to date you rather than continue conducting failed experiments.”
Enid’s smile became enormous.
“So that’s a yes?”
“It is a begrudging surrender to overwhelming evidence.”
“That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“That reflects poorly on your previous admirers.”
Enid laughed.
Then glanced at her nails.
“Are they dry?”
“No.”
“Right.”
She looked at Wednesday.
“So I can’t touch anything?”
“Not without damaging the design.”
“That’s tragic.”
“I fail to see why.”
“Because I really want to kiss you, and I can’t use my hands.”
Wednesday’s eyes darkened.
“That is not a requirement.”
Enid’s breath caught.
Wednesday leaned closer.
Slowly enough that Enid could have moved away.
She did not.
Their noses almost touched.
“Is this still within reason?” Enid whispered.
Wednesday’s gaze dropped to her mouth.
“Barely.”
Then she kissed her.
Wednesday’s lips were cool and careful, the first touch so light that Enid wondered whether she had imagined it.
She leaned forward.
Wednesday responded immediately.
Her free hand rose to Enid’s jaw, holding her with a tenderness that felt more intimate than the kiss itself. Enid wanted to wrap both arms around her, wanted to tangle her fingers in Wednesday’s braids and pull her closer.
Instead, she sat with one arm in a cast and the other held stiffly in the air, fingers spread to protect the wet nail polish.
It was ridiculous.
It was perfect.
When they parted, Wednesday remained close.
Enid opened her eyes.
Wednesday was looking at her with an expression Enid had never seen before.
Soft.
Unprotected.
Terrifyingly fond.
Enid smiled.
“Can we do that again?”
“Yes.”
“Now?”
“No.”
Enid blinked. “Why not?”
Wednesday took her hand and inspected the nails.
“You smudged the wolf.”
Enid gasped.
“I did not!”
Wednesday tilted her finger towards the light.
One of the tiny silver ears had blurred.
“Oh no.”
“Your recklessness has consequences.”
“I think the kiss was worth it.”
Wednesday reached for the brush.
“Remain still.”
Enid watched her repair the wolf.
Her arm still ached.
Training would continue without her. The rain remained cold, the sky grey, and tomorrow she would still need help buttoning her uniform.
None of it had vanished.
But the miserable knot beneath her ribs had loosened.
Wednesday painted the final silver line and blew lightly across Enid’s nail.
Enid stared.
“You just blew on my nails.”
“The polish requires drying.”
“That was adorable.”
Wednesday’s face hardened. “Retract that statement.”
“Never.”
“I could leave.”
“You wouldn’t.”
Wednesday carefully placed Enid’s hand back across the towel.
“No,” she admitted.
Enid’s smile softened.
“How long until they’re dry?”
“Approximately fifteen minutes.”
“And then?”
Wednesday began packing the bottles into their box.
“Then I will escort you to Jericho.”
“For hot chocolate?”
“Yes.”
“With whipped cream?”
“If you insist.”
“And rainbow sprinkles?”
Wednesday closed the lid.
“Do not exploit my affection.”
Enid leaned her head against Wednesday’s shoulder.
Wednesday stiffened.
Then, gradually, relaxed beneath her.
“What about another kiss?” Enid asked.
Wednesday rested her cheek lightly against Enid’s hair.
“That,” she said, “remains within reason.”