Chapter Text
The sign was too big.
Enid had said this four times already.
She had said it when Theo carried it through reception.
She had said it when Mason found the drill.
She had said it when Caleb climbed the ladder.
And she said it again now, standing in the middle of the newly converted treatment room with both hands planted on her hips.
“It is definitely too big.”
Theo stepped backwards to admire his work.
“It needs to be visible.”
“From where?”
“The car park.”
“It’s inside.”
“Then from reception.”
“There’s a door.”
“Exactly. People need to know what’s behind it.”
Enid stared at the enormous black lettering mounted above said door.
DR ENID SINCLAIR
VETERINARY SURGEON
Underneath, in letters only marginally smaller:
WOLF PACK RESCUE
She slowly turned her head.
“Theo.”
“Yes?”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I could.”
“Not after I spent forty minutes getting that level.”
“You made Caleb get the level.”
Theo glanced at his brother.
Caleb, still standing on the ladder, lifted one shoulder.
“He did.”
“Traitor.”
“I’m holding a drill.”
“That doesn’t make you useful.”
“It literally does.”
Enid groaned and looked around the room.
Her room.
That was still strange.
Not strange in the way veterinary school had been strange at first, with its gleaming corridors and lecture theatres and the permanent sensation that everybody else had somehow been handed an instruction manual she’d missed.
Not strange like her first clinical placement.
Or her first emergency night.
Or the first time somebody had addressed her as Doctor and she’d looked over her shoulder before realising they meant her.
This was a different kind of strange.
This was familiar made new.
Wolf Pack Rescue had existed for almost as long as Enid could remember.
Technically longer.
Murray and Esther Sinclair had started taking in abandoned animals when Eli and Caleb were still little enough to believe every creature that crossed the threshold was permanently theirs.
It had started with two kennels behind the old family house.
Then four.
Then eight.
Then someone had surrendered a litter of puppies.
Then somebody else had found an injured lurcher on the bypass.
Then the local council had called because a hoarding case had left nineteen cats needing emergency placement.
Then a farmer had rung Murray at one in the morning because somebody had dumped three spaniels beside his gate.
At some point, without anyone sitting down and deliberately deciding it, Wolf Pack had stopped being something the Sinclairs did around ordinary life.
It had become ordinary life.
The old paddock had become exercise runs.
The machinery shed had become kennels.
The long brick outbuilding had become cattery space, isolation rooms and storage.
The family kitchen had spent several years containing more bottles of veterinary disinfectant than actual food.
Enid had learned to measure puppy formula before she learned long division.
She had known how to clean a kennel properly before she could reliably remember where she had put her school shoes.
By eight, she could identify most common flea treatments by packaging.
By ten, she knew exactly which of her brothers would cave first if a foster puppy cried at night.
Caleb.
Always Caleb.
He liked to insist otherwise.
He was lying.
Now, twenty-odd years after Murray had erected those first two kennels, Wolf Pack occupied several acres at the edge of town, had a proper reception building, forty dog kennels, two cattery blocks, rehabilitation paddocks, quarantine rooms, a small wildlife unit and a waiting list of volunteers longer than Esther knew what to do with.
And now it had this.
A veterinary treatment room.
Consultation space.
A small operating theatre.
Recovery kennels.
Imaging equipment that had taken months of fundraising and one extremely generous anonymous donation from someone in town whom Murray still pretended not to know.
And a sign large enough to announce Enid’s qualifications to passing aircraft.
She turned slowly beneath it.
“You know I can take it down.”
Theo gasped.
Mason looked up from the cupboard he was assembling.
“You wouldn’t.”
“I absolutely would.”
“You’d hurt Mum’s feelings.”
Enid stopped.
Theo smiled.
Dirty tactics.
“You’re vile.”
“Effective.”
“She cried when it arrived,” Caleb added.
Enid looked up at him.
“You’re also vile.”
“She did.”
“I hate this family.”
“No, you don’t,” Mason said.
Enid sighed.
No.
She really didn’t.
She looked around again.
The room smelled faintly of paint, disinfectant and new cabinetry. Esther had placed a small vase of yellow flowers beside the computer despite Enid explaining that treatment rooms did not traditionally require floral arrangements.
Murray had installed another sink because apparently two were inadequate.
Eli had sourced most of the equipment.
Caleb had done the electrics.
Mason had spent three weekends repairing the old plumbing.
Theo had apparently dedicated his contribution to signage-based humiliation.
They had all been preparing for her to come home long before she actually did.
That was the part Enid was still trying not to think too hard about.
Home.
Properly.
Not for Christmas.
Not for Easter.
Not for three days between placements.
Not because Wolf Pack was short-staffed and she could steal seventy-two hours between exams.
Home.
Her boxes were back in her childhood bedroom until she found somewhere of her own.
Her books had reclaimed shelves Esther had been using for towels.
Her battered university mug sat beside Murray’s in the kitchen.
Her old waterproof coat had somehow still been hanging on its peg in the boot room when she’d arrived three days earlier.
She had left at eighteen knowing exactly why she was going.
She had never once doubted where she intended to come back.
Still, standing here now, with her name mounted above a door at the place that had shaped almost every part of her life, Enid felt something deep inside her settle.
Not excitement exactly.
Something quieter.
A click.
A piece returning to the place it had always belonged.
Theo dropped an arm around her shoulders.
“You’re doing the face.”
“What face?”
“The emotional one.”
“I don’t have an emotional face.”
“You absolutely have an emotional face.”
“She does,” Mason said.
Caleb nodded.
Enid looked between them.
“I could have stayed away.”
“No, you couldn’t,” Theo said cheerfully.
“I could.”
“You phoned Mum during finals to ask whether Peanut’s ear infection had cleared.”
“He was uncomfortable.”
“You requested photographs.”
“Because nobody here understands what ‘less red’ means.”
“You asked Dad to hold a ruler beside it.”
“That was for scale.”
Caleb climbed down from the ladder.
“You were always coming back.”
Enid opened her mouth.
Stopped.
Because he hadn’t said it teasingly.
He had said it simply.
Like the sky was blue.
Like Enid was home.
She looked away before Theo could accuse her of doing the emotional face again.
“I still hate the sign.”
“Liar,” Theo said.
“I’m taking your name off my Christmas list.”
“You’ve never bought me anything good anyway.”
“I bought you noise-cancelling headphones.”
“For you.”
“For everyone.”
The outer door opened.
Esther appeared carrying a cake.
Of course she did.
Behind her came Mrs Wilkins from the bakery, carrying another cake.
Enid stared.
“Mum.”
Esther smiled.
“Look who popped in.”
Mrs Wilkins immediately put her cake down and opened both arms.
“There she is.”
Enid was hugged before she could escape.
Not that she particularly wanted to.
Mrs Wilkins had known her since she was five and had once kept a box behind the bakery counter specifically because Enid used to collect stale sausage rolls for training treats.
“I heard you were back.”
“I got back Sunday.”
“And a proper vet now.”
Enid smiled.
“Apparently.”
“Your mum showed me the certificate.”
Enid’s eyes closed.
“Mum.”
“What?”
“You showed Mrs Wilkins my certificate?”
“She wanted to see it.”
“I did,” Mrs Wilkins confirmed.
“Half the town has seen it,” Theo added.
Enid turned.
“What?”
Mason abruptly became extremely interested in the cupboard.
Caleb looked at the floor.
Theo’s expression became radiant.
“I may have photographed it.”
Enid inhaled.
Esther handed her a knife.
“Cake?”
“No. Murder.”
“You can murder him after tea.”
“Thank you.”
Mrs Wilkins patted Enid’s cheek.
“We’re proud of you, sweetheart.”
And just like that, any remaining capacity Enid possessed for righteous outrage vanished.
She swallowed.
“Thank you.”
Mrs Wilkins smiled.
“You always said you were coming back.”
There it was again.
Always.
As though nobody in town had ever genuinely entertained the possibility that Enid Sinclair might become anything other than exactly what she had promised at twelve years old, kneeling in a muddy kennel with a half-starved collie pressed against her legs.
A vet.
Here.
For them.
For all of them.
Enid glanced toward the treatment room.
Toward the ridiculous sign.
Maybe it wasn’t too big.
She would still never admit that to Theo.
Absolutely not.
By Tuesday morning, Enid had been congratulated by seventeen people.
Three had brought flowers.
Five had brought food.
Mr Harris from the garage had offered to service her car for free.
Mrs Patel at the post office had informed Enid that she had always known she was clever.
A woman Enid barely remembered from primary school had stopped her outside the chemist to say she’d heard “little Enid” was home.
Little Enid was twenty-six years old and had spent the previous year placing IV catheters in animals considerably less cooperative than the average human toddler.
Apparently this was irrelevant.
Small towns did not acknowledge adulthood in any meaningful sense if they had once seen you wearing jelly shoes.
Enid didn’t mind.
Mostly.
She had missed it more than she’d realised.
She had missed walking into the shop and knowing the person behind the counter.
Missed Murray waving at six different cars during the five-minute drive from the house to the rescue.
Missed the bell above reception.
Missed the particular smell of clean bedding, dog food and damp grass that no amount of university training had ever managed to make unpleasant to her.
She had even missed Theo.
Which was unfortunate.
She was halfway through her first proper morning clinic when he wandered into the treatment room without knocking.
Enid didn’t look up from the small terrier on the table.
“Out.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You’re breathing.”
“I do that a lot.”
“Practice elsewhere.”
Theo leaned against the doorway.
The terrier, Muffin, growled at him.
Theo looked offended.
“I brought her in.”
“And she clearly regrets it.”
Muffin’s owner, Mr Reeves, laughed from his chair.
“She doesn’t like men.”
Theo pointed.
“She likes Dad.”
“She tolerates Dad because he has biscuits.”
“That’s basically how I tolerate Dad.”
Enid pressed her stethoscope lightly against Muffin’s chest.
“Can you stop distracting my patient?”
“She weighs seven kilos and tried to eat me in reception.”
“She has standards.”
Mr Reeves laughed again.
Theo folded his arms.
“You know, university changed you.”
“It taught me boundaries.”
“No, it made you mean.”
Enid listened carefully.
Heart rate good.
Breathing clear.
Muffin’s issue was, according to Mr Reeves, that she’d started licking one paw obsessively.
Enid shifted her attention to it.
Slight redness between the pads.
Nothing dramatic.
“Any changes at home?”
“No.”
“New cleaning products? Road grit? Different walks?”
Mr Reeves frowned.
“They sprayed the paths behind the allotments last week.”
“There we go.”
She glanced up.
“Probably irritation from whatever they used. I’ll clean it properly and give you something topical. Try to keep her off that path for a few days.”
Theo remained in the doorway.
Enid finally looked at him.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re doing a face.”
“I don’t have a face.”
“You unfortunately have several.”
Mr Reeves looked between them with great enjoyment.
Theo pushed away from the frame.
“Just seeing whether you’re finished soon.”
“Why?”
“No reason.”
Enid narrowed her eyes.
Theo smiled.
Suspiciously.
She returned to Muffin.
“Whatever you’re planning, don’t.”
“I haven’t planned anything.”
“That’s worse.”
He vanished.
Enid looked at Mr Reeves.
“He’s been like this since birth.”
“So has Muffin.”
The terrier growled again.
Enid smiled.
“I like her.”
Twenty minutes later, Muffin left with medication, strict instructions and renewed contempt for Theo.
Enid washed her hands and glanced at the clock.
11:43.
She had another appointment at twelve.
A cat vaccination at twelve-thirty.
Then lunch.
Then the afternoon rounds.
She had spent years dreaming of this.
Not glamorous surgery.
Not prestigious referrals.
This.
Muffin Reeves and her itchy paw.
Vaccinations.
Old dogs who needed arthritis checks.
Rescue animals arriving frightened and leaving healthier.
Being close enough that if something went wrong in the kennels someone only had to walk twenty metres and yell her name.
She turned toward the computer.
The door opened again.
“Theo.”
“Not Theo.”
Enid looked up.
Murray stood there.
He smiled.
“Disappointed?”
“Deeply.”
“Your mum sent this.”
He placed a mug of tea beside her.
Enid glanced at it.
“Why?”
“Because she thinks you’ve forgotten drinks exist.”
“I haven’t.”
“You have.”
She picked it up.
It was exactly how she liked it.
“Thanks.”
Murray lingered.
That was unusual.
Her father was not generally a lingerer. Murray existed in a permanent state of half-completed movement. There was always a dog to collect, a fence to repair, somebody to call.
Enid took a sip.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Dad.”
He looked toward the door.
Then back at her.
“It’s Tuesday.”
Enid waited.
“Yes.”
Another pause.
“Right.”
Murray scratched the back of his neck.
Enid lowered the mug.
“Is Tuesday code for something?”
“No.”
“Are we being inspected?”
“No.”
“Council?”
“No.”
“Delivery?”
“No.”
“Then why are you saying Tuesday like it’s contagious?”
Murray smiled faintly.
“You’ll see.”
And left.
Enid stared after him.
Her family was being weird.
Admittedly, that did little to narrow things down.
At twelve fifteen, Esther appeared.
“Are you busy this afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“With?”
“Work.”
Esther gave her a look.
Enid sighed.
“Rounds. Rehab checks. Clementine’s weight. Admiral’s eye. Fig’s dental follow-up. Jasper’s home-check paperwork. Why?”
“No reason.”
Enid stared.
Esther smiled.
“Lovely.”
Then she left.
At twelve forty-five, Eli came through reception.
He did not work at the rescue full-time anymore, but that had never stopped any Sinclair from appearing whenever they pleased.
He leaned into Enid’s room.
“You here until five?”
Enid put down her pen.
“Why?”
“Curiosity.”
“No.”
“You’re not?”
“No, I’m not answering questions from anybody related to me until one of you explains what’s happening.”
Eli nodded thoughtfully.
“Fair.”
Then he walked away.
Enid actually got out of her chair.
“Eli!”
Nothing.
At one ten, Caleb asked whether she was doing the afternoon kennel walk-through.
At one twenty, Mason asked whether she had met “her” yet.
Enid stopped him.
“Met who?”
Mason froze.
“Nothing.”
“Mason.”
“Got to go.”
“You’re thirty years old!”
“Still faster than you.”
He disappeared.
Enid stood in the corridor.
“This family is deranged.”
A volunteer walking past with a basket of towels nodded sympathetically.
“Always has been.”
“Thank you, Paula.”
“Welcome home.”
At one forty-two, Theo entered Enid’s treatment room carrying half a sandwich.
Enid pointed at him.
“No.”
“I’ve said nothing.”
“You’re going to.”
“I was going to ask if you wanted the other half.”
“What is it?”
“Chicken.”
Enid eyed him.
“Why?”
“Because I love my sister.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“Then what are you about to do?”
Theo took a bite.
“The novelist usually arrives around two.”
Enid blinked.
“What novelist?”
Theo stared at her.
“The novelist.”
“That did not clarify anything.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“Wednesday Addams.”
Enid stared.
“The Wednesday Addams?”
“There are apparently multiple Wednesday Addamses now?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes. That Wednesday Addams.”
Enid glanced instinctively toward reception.
“Why does Wednesday Addams come here?”
Theo took another bite.
“That is the question.”
“What does she want?”
“No idea.”
“Is she adopting?”
“No idea.”
“Has anyone asked?”
Theo looked wounded.
“Obviously.”
“And?”
“No idea.”
Enid slowly leaned back against the counter.
Now that he had said the name, she remembered hearing something about it.
Wednesday Addams had bought Holloway House.
Everyone knew because everyone knew everything.
Holloway House sat outside town beyond the old stone bridge, a large dark property that had been empty for nearly four years after the previous owner moved to Scotland.
There had been talk for weeks when the sale went through.
Then considerably more talk when somebody discovered who had bought it.
Wednesday Addams.
Internationally bestselling novelist.
Award winner.
Translated into more languages than Enid could name.
Author photographs in which she looked personally offended by the continued existence of photographers.
Enid had read three of her novels at university.
Two deliberately.
One because a classmate had abandoned it in the student kitchen and Enid had started reading while waiting for pasta water to boil.
She had missed a lecture because of that one.
Wednesday’s books were dark.
Clever.
Uncomfortably observant.
The sort of stories that made Enid stop halfway through a paragraph because a sentence had reached inside her ribcage and rearranged something.
She had never seen an interview with Wednesday.
There weren’t many.
From what Enid remembered, she avoided publicity whenever possible.
“She’s been coming here?”
“Every Tuesday.”
“How long?”
“Six weeks.”
“And none of you knows why?”
Theo’s expression soured.
“We have tried.”
Enid smiled.
“Define tried.”
“Dad took week one.”
“Okay.”
“Mum took week two.”
“Right.”
“Eli took week three.”
Enid’s smile grew.
“Why does this sound like a military campaign?”
“It became one.”
“Theo.”
“Caleb had week four.”
“Oh my God.”
“Mason week five.”
Enid’s eyes narrowed.
“And you?”
Theo looked away.
Enid laughed.
“You got week six.”
“I don’t want to discuss it.”
“You absolutely got week six.”
“It wasn’t a competition.”
“That is exactly what somebody says when they lose.”
Theo pointed his sandwich at her.
“You weren’t here.”
“No. I was finishing the qualification that allows me to legally tell you you’re an idiot.”
“You could do that before.”
“Now I have letters after my name.”
“Vet letters don’t make insults more authoritative.”
“They do emotionally.”
Theo glared.
Enid grinned.
“So what happened?”
“Nothing.”
“How many words?”
“I didn’t count.”
“Because it was bad?”
“I asked thoughtful questions.”
“That sounds terrifying already.”
“I asked whether there was a particular temperament she preferred.”
“And?”
“She said, ‘No.’”
Enid bit her lip.
Theo continued with dignity.
“I asked whether she’d owned dogs before.”
“Reasonable.”
“She said, ‘Yes.’”
“Progress.”
“I asked what breed.”
“She said, ‘Several.’”
Enid laughed.
Theo’s glare intensified.
“You wouldn’t have done better.”
“I wouldn’t have tried so hard.”
“What does that mean?”
Enid shrugged.
“Maybe she doesn’t want to chat.”
“She keeps coming back.”
“That doesn’t mean she wants six Sinclairs interrogating her.”
“We don’t interrogate people.”
Enid stared at him.
Theo reconsidered.
“Fine. Mum interrogates people.”
“So do you.”
“I converse intensely.”
“You’re exhausting.”
“It’s charming.”
“Has anyone considered just letting her look?”
Theo opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Enid stared.
“Oh my God.”
“We let her look.”
“While talking at her?”
A pause.
“She is a world-famous author.”
“Which probably means everyone talks at her.”
“That doesn’t mean she dislikes conversation.”
“You just spent five minutes telling me she barely answers.”
Theo frowned.
The bell above reception rang.
He went still.
Enid watched his entire expression change.
Then he looked at the clock.
1:58.
His head turned toward reception.
Enid followed his gaze.
“That her?”
Theo swallowed the rest of his sandwich far too quickly.
“Your turn.”
Enid’s eyes widened.
“My what?”
Theo stood.
“Your turn.”
“No.”
“You’re the only Sinclair she hasn’t defeated.”
“Defeated?”
“I said it wasn’t a competition.”
“You’ve all turned an introverted woman visiting an animal rescue into a family tournament.”
“When you phrase it like that, it sounds bad.”
“It is bad.”
Footsteps sounded beyond the corridor.
Theo looked toward them.
Then back at Enid.
“May the odds be ever in your favour.”
Enid shoved his shoulder.
“Go away.”
“Gladly.”
He vanished through the side door.
Coward.
Enid shook her head and reached for her clipboard.
She had rounds to do.
If Wednesday Addams wanted to wander around the rescue in complete silence, she was welcome to.
Enid had spent years dealing with clients whose cats wanted to remove her fingers.
A quiet novelist was not remotely frightening.
She stepped out into reception.
And stopped.
Wednesday Addams stood beside the front desk.
Enid had seen photographs.
Of course she had.
Everyone had.
But photographs had failed to communicate several things.
Firstly, she was smaller than Enid expected.
Not tiny.
Just compact in a way that made the severity of her presence more striking rather than less.
Secondly, the cameras had not exaggerated the black.
Black coat.
Black trousers.
Black boots.
Black bag hanging from one shoulder.
Dark hair braided neatly down her back.
Even the umbrella hooked over one arm was black despite the fact it was not currently raining.
Thirdly, photographs couldn’t adequately capture the way she looked at things.
Not stared.
Looked.
There was a difference.
Her attention was unnervingly complete.
At that moment, she was reading the noticeboard beside reception.
Not glancing at it.
Reading it.
The volunteer rota.
The fundraiser poster.
A photograph of a recently adopted spaniel.
An appeal for old towels.
A laminated warning about kennel cough.
Her eyes moved with deliberate precision.
Esther was nowhere to be seen.
Murray had mysteriously disappeared too.
Traitors.
Enid glanced through the reception window.
Theo’s head immediately vanished behind a stack of dog-food boxes.
She was going to kill him later.
Wednesday turned.
Her gaze landed on Enid.
Then on her scrubs.
Then briefly on the embroidered name above her chest.
Dr E. Sinclair
Something almost imperceptible shifted in her expression.
“Another Sinclair.”
Enid blinked.
Then smiled.
“The last one.”
Wednesday’s eyes flicked toward the corridor where Theo had disappeared.
“A questionable claim. There appear to be hundreds of you.”
A laugh escaped Enid before she could stop it.
Not polite laughter.
Real laughter.
Wednesday looked at her.
Enid couldn’t tell whether she’d expected that reaction.
“Sorry.”
“For what?”
“Nothing.”
“Then your apology was inefficient.”
Enid’s smile widened.
“Fair.”
She stepped closer and held out a hand.
“Enid Sinclair.”
Wednesday looked at the offered hand for perhaps half a second before taking it.
Her grip was cool and brief.
“Wednesday Addams.”
“I know.”
Enid immediately regretted the words because they sounded horribly celebrity-ish.
But Wednesday only raised an eyebrow.
Enid clarified.
“My family has been talking about you for six weeks.”
“That sounds unfortunate.”
“For everyone involved.”
A pause.
Then, unexpectedly:
“Agreed.”
Enid bit back another laugh.
She glanced at her clipboard.
“I’ve got rounds to do.”
Wednesday said nothing.
Enid looked toward the kennels.
“You can come with me if you want.”
Wednesday’s gaze returned to her.
No sales pitch.
No questions.
No explanation.
Just an offer.
After a moment Wednesday said:
“Acceptable.”
Enid nodded.
“Great.”
She turned.
Wednesday followed.
Behind the reception wall, something thudded.
Probably Theo dropping whatever he was using to eavesdrop.
Enid didn’t look back.
The main kennel block was quieter in the early afternoon.
Most of the younger dogs had been exercised after lunch and were sleeping off the excitement.
The older dogs preferred this time of day.
Fewer visitors.
Less noise.
Enid pushed open the first gate and waited for Wednesday to come through before closing it carefully behind them.
“Do you want the official tour?”
“No.”
“Excellent. I hate giving it.”
Wednesday looked at her.
“You work here.”
“I’ve been here since I could walk. The rehearsed version feels weird.”
“You have been employed since infancy?”
“Unpaid labour. Very family business.”
“Child exploitation.”
“Exactly.”
Wednesday’s mouth moved.
Barely.
Enid almost missed it.
Interesting.
They passed the first few kennels.
Enid checked water bowls as she went.
Adjusted bedding.
Made a note on her clipboard.
Wednesday walked beside her without asking anything.
And Enid, true to what she’d told Theo, didn’t try to make her.
At kennel six, a long brindle nose appeared through the bars.
Enid stopped.
“Hello, beautiful.”
The greyhound’s tail gave one cautious sweep.
Wednesday stopped too.
“That’s Clementine.”
Enid crouched and let the dog sniff her fingers through the gate.
“She came in about four months ago. Somebody found her tied to a railing outside a supermarket.”
Wednesday’s face didn’t change.
Her gaze moved to the dog.
“She was terrified of men when she arrived. Really terrified. If Dad or any of the boys came within about ten feet, she’d flatten herself against the back wall.”
Clementine pressed her nose against Enid’s knuckles.
“Caleb spent three weeks sitting outside her kennel backwards.”
Wednesday looked at Enid.
“Backwards.”
“Eye contact frightened her. So he’d bring a book, sit with his back to the gate and ignore her.”
Enid smiled.
“He complained constantly about the concrete being uncomfortable.”
“How long?”
Enid glanced up.
Wednesday was looking at Clementine.
Not at her.
“How long what?”
“Before she approached him.”
Enid thought.
“Twenty-three days.”
Wednesday’s eyes shifted slightly.
“You remember the exact number.”
“Of course.”
Clementine wagged again.
Enid stood.
“Day twenty-three, Caleb was halfway through his lunch and she crept up behind him and stole half his sandwich.”
“What filling?”
Enid blinked.
“Chicken.”
“An intelligent choice.”
“She ate it and ran away.”
“More intelligent.”
Enid smiled.
“Now he sits down and she tries to climb into his lap.”
Wednesday watched the dog for several more seconds.
“What changed?”
“Nothing dramatic.”
Enid leaned lightly against the kennel door.
“He kept showing up.”
Wednesday went still.
Just for a fraction of a second.
Then she looked at Clementine again.
Enid didn’t notice enough to question it.
“She still doesn’t love strangers,” Enid continued. “She’ll probably need a quiet home. No kids. Somebody patient.”
“Will she get one?”
“Eventually.”
“You’re certain.”
“Yep.”
“Optimistic.”
“Experience.”
Enid tapped the kennel card.
“She isn’t difficult. She just needs the right person.”
Wednesday’s gaze moved from the card to Enid.
“You make a distinction.”
“Between?”
“Difficult and unsuitable.”
Enid frowned slightly.
“I guess.”
She glanced at Clementine.
“Most of the time when people say an animal is difficult, what they mean is the animal isn’t convenient.”
Wednesday looked at her for a long moment.
Enid smiled.
“Sorry. Occupational soapbox.”
“You have been qualified for approximately five minutes.”
Enid’s mouth fell open.
“How do you know that?”
Wednesday looked pointedly toward the enormous banner visible through the open end of the building.
WELCOME HOME, DR SINCLAIR!
Enid closed her eyes.
“I’m going to murder Theo.”
“I assumed a celebration had occurred.”
“It has been occurring for three days.”
“A prolonged ordeal.”
“Thank you.”
They moved on.
Wednesday did not ask where Enid had studied.
Did not ask how long she’d been away.
Did not offer congratulations.
Oddly, Enid appreciated that.
She had heard congratulations so often in the last seventy-two hours that the word had almost lost meaning.
They stopped outside the cattery next.
A large battered ginger-and-white tom sat on the highest shelf inside his enclosure.
One eye.
Half an ear.
Expression of profound disgust.
Enid brightened.
“And this is Admiral.”
Wednesday studied him.
“Appropriate.”
“He used to be called Keith.”
Wednesday slowly turned her head.
“By whom?”
“Previous owner.”
“That explains why he appears furious.”
Enid laughed.
Admiral opened his remaining eye wider as though personally offended by the noise.
“We renamed him.”
“A rare example of administrative intervention improving a life.”
“You really hate Keith.”
“I have nothing against Keiths generally.”
“Only feline Keiths?”
“Specifically this one.”
Admiral stood, stretched and moved toward the front of the enclosure.
Wednesday lifted one finger.
He sniffed it.
Then turned around and presented his back.
Enid nodded.
“He likes you.”
“He has just dismissed me.”
“That is liking you.”
“Your standards for affection are disturbing.”
“You met my family.”
Wednesday considered that.
“Fair.”
They continued.
Enid found herself talking without thinking about it.
Not at Wednesday.
Not exactly.
Just telling her things as they passed.
“This is Jasper. He was abandoned when his owners moved house. He can open cupboards, so his adopters need child locks even if they don’t have children.”
Jasper barked.
“He also lies.”
Wednesday glanced at her.
“How?”
“He pretends he hasn’t been fed.”
“That is not lying. It is advocacy.”
“Don’t encourage him.”
Next kennel.
“Tilly. Six puppies. All rehomed.”
A small spaniel mix bounced toward the bars.
“Tilly likes carrots.”
Wednesday frowned.
“Why?”
“No idea.”
“Dogs cannot taste sweetness as humans do.”
“Oh, she doesn’t want to eat them. She carries them around.”
Wednesday looked at Tilly.
Tilly proudly picked up an orange rubber toy shaped vaguely like a vegetable.
“That isn’t a carrot.”
“She can’t read.”
Another enclosure.
“Fig.”
A tiny white cat was asleep inside a blanket cave.
“She’s deaf.”
Fig’s head immediately emerged.
Enid smiled.
“She can, however, detect Dreamies opening from a completely different building.”
Wednesday looked suspicious.
“That appears inconsistent.”
“Science can’t explain everything.”
“Science can explain most things.”
“Not Fig.”
Fig stared at Wednesday.
Wednesday stared back.
Neither blinked.
Enid waited.
The staring contest continued.
“Should I come back later?”
“No.”
“Who’s winning?”
“Me.”
Fig sneezed.
Wednesday nodded.
“As expected.”
Enid laughed again.
It kept happening.
That was the strange part.
Wednesday wasn’t trying to be funny.
At least Enid didn’t think she was.
She simply said things with complete seriousness that struck Enid somewhere between dry observation and accidental comedy.
And every time Enid laughed, Wednesday glanced at her.
Not annoyed.
Not exactly.
More as though cataloguing the reaction.
They reached the rehabilitation corridor.
A young collie was sleeping in the first pen, one hind leg heavily bandaged.
Enid’s expression softened.
“This is Banjo.”
Wednesday looked through the gate.
“He was hit by a car.”
She flipped a page on her clipboard.
“Pelvic fracture. Tibia too. Surgery went well. He’s doing great.”
Banjo lifted his head.
Enid crouched.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
The dog wagged weakly.
“He’s starting hydrotherapy next week.”
Wednesday looked at the bandaged leg.
“Will he recover fully?”
“Probably.”
“Probably.”
“Bodies don’t make guarantees.”
Wednesday looked at her.
Enid shrugged.
“We do what we can.”
She checked Banjo’s notes.
“Pain score’s been good. Appetite’s finally back.”
She glanced at Wednesday.
“He also hates rain and has recently discovered Theo will give him cheese if he makes his eyes enormous.”
Wednesday regarded Banjo.
“Useful knowledge.”
“For him or you?”
“Yes.”
Enid smiled.
They moved on.
And this continued.
Animal after animal.
Story after story.
Wednesday listened to all of them.
That was what Enid noticed most.
People often smiled vaguely when Enid talked about the rescue animals.
They listened to the dramatic bits.
The abandonment.
The injuries.
The cruelty.
Then their attention wandered when Enid explained that Jasper preferred blue blankets or Clementine hated squeaky toys or Fig slept upside down.
Wednesday didn’t.
If anything, she seemed more interested in those details.
She remembered names immediately.
Asked specific questions.
Never once said poor thing.
Never once reached into a kennel without checking first.
Never made the kissing noises people made at nervous dogs.
Never crouched directly over frightened animals.
Enid noticed all of that too.
By the time they reached the far end of the old-dog wing, she had stopped thinking of Wednesday Addams as Wednesday Addams.
International novelist.
Celebrity.
Person whose books had once made Enid miss a pharmacology seminar.
She was simply Wednesday.
Quiet.
Odd.
Sharp.
Very interested in everything despite behaving as though nothing impressed her.
They reached the final kennel.
The occupant was asleep.
Or pretending to be.
Pickle had turned twelve several months earlier.
His breed was officially listed as terrier cross.
This was veterinary shorthand for nobody had the faintest idea.
He was small.
Scruffy.
Mostly grey now, although patches of brown remained around his ears and back.
One ear stood upright.
The other had apparently retired from active service years ago.
He had three teeth.
Mild arthritis.
A heart murmur Enid wanted monitored.
A habit of stealing socks.
An intense dislike of rain.
And the emotional disposition of a man who had been asked to attend a meeting that should have been an email.
Enid stopped.
“That’s Pickle.”
Wednesday stared.
Pickle continued pretending to sleep.
“He looks deceased.”
“He wants you to think that.”
“Why?”
“So you leave.”
“A compelling strategy.”
Enid crouched and opened the lower hatch.
“Pickle.”
Nothing.
“Pickle, mate.”
One eye opened.
“Nope. You’re alive. Very inconvenient.”
Pickle’s eye closed again.
Enid glanced at Wednesday.
“He has arthritis, so don’t be fooled by the performance. Once food exists, he can move at previously undocumented speeds.”
“How long has he been here?”
“Eight months.”
Wednesday’s gaze sharpened.
“Why?”
Enid’s smile faded a little.
“Age, mostly.”
She leaned her shoulder against the gate.
“He’s had interest. People like him until they hear twelve.”
“Idiots.”
Enid looked at her.
Wednesday continued studying Pickle.
“He may live several more years.”
“Exactly.”
“Or not.”
“Also exactly.”
Wednesday’s eyes shifted toward her.
Enid appreciated that too.
No false reassurance.
No pretending age wasn’t relevant.
“People get scared of the medical side,” Enid said. “And the fact they might not get ten years with him.”
“A poor reason.”
“Maybe.”
“It is.”
Enid glanced at Pickle.
“I understand it a little.”
Wednesday’s expression changed.
“You disagree with me.”
“I think people are allowed to know what they can cope with.”
“If they require guaranteed longevity, they should purchase furniture.”
Enid laughed.
Pickle opened one eye again, apparently irritated.
Wednesday stepped a little closer to the kennel.
Pickle looked at her.
Wednesday looked back.
Several seconds passed.
Then Pickle deliberately turned his head away.
Enid nodded.
“That went well.”
“He ignored me.”
“He usually growls.”
Wednesday’s attention returned to him.
“Promising.”
Enid smiled.
“Want to meet him properly?”
“No.”
The answer came instantly.
Enid blinked.
“Okay.”
Wednesday looked at Pickle for another second.
Then stepped back.
Interesting.
Enid didn’t push.
“Come on. I’ve got one more check before you’re free from Sinclair captivity.”
“I was not aware I was captive.”
“You haven’t met Esther properly.”
“I have.”
Enid winced.
“My condolences.”
“She asked whether I was married.”
Enid stopped walking.
“Oh God.”
“Then whether I intended to marry.”
“I am so sorry.”
“She subsequently asked whether I ate enough.”
“Yeah. That’s Mum.”
“She offered me soup.”
“That is also Mum.”
“I declined.”
“She probably sent some home anyway.”
Wednesday looked at her.
Enid grinned.
“Check your car.”
For the first time, there was absolutely no mistaking it.
Wednesday almost smiled.
Not fully.
Barely even enough to change her mouth.
But something warmed at the edges.
There and gone.
Enid felt oddly triumphant.
She wasn’t sure why.
The last stop was the isolation wing, though they remained outside because Wednesday wasn’t gowned.
Enid checked the notes through the window.
A young spaniel slept curled against the back wall.
“He came in yesterday.”
Wednesday’s gaze shifted toward him.
“Name?”
“Doesn’t have one yet.”
“You rename them all?”
“Not all.”
“Keith suggests otherwise.”
“Keith was an emergency.”
Wednesday accepted this.
Enid looked through the glass.
“Sometimes we keep their names if they respond to them. Sometimes nobody knows what they were called.”
The spaniel twitched in his sleep.
“And sometimes?”
Enid glanced at Wednesday.
“Sometimes a new name helps.”
Wednesday said nothing.
Enid hadn’t meant anything profound by it.
She simply moved to the next sheet.
“He should be ok mostly exhaustion and malnutrition. Bloods look okay. We’ll know more in a couple of days.”
Wednesday studied him.
“Who found him?”
“Farmer near the bypass.”
“Owner?”
“No chip.”
“Collar?”
“No.”
Wednesday’s jaw tightened.
Enid saw it.
Tiny.
But there.
“He’ll be okay,” she said.
Wednesday looked at her.
Enid immediately corrected herself.
“We think he’ll be okay.”
“Better.”
Enid nodded.
She understood.
Certainty mattered when it was real.
So did refusing to manufacture it when it wasn’t.
They walked back toward reception.
For several metres, neither spoke.
It wasn’t uncomfortable.
That surprised Enid.
She was accustomed to silence becoming something she felt responsible for fixing.
With Wednesday, it simply existed.
Not empty.
Just quiet.
At reception, Wednesday stopped.
Enid glanced at the clock.
They had been walking for almost an hour.
It hadn’t felt like it.
“Well.”
Wednesday looked at her.
“You survived.”
“Was that in question?”
“My family made it sound statistically unlikely.”
“They are dramatic.”
“They’re Sinclairs.”
“I assumed the terms were interchangeable.”
Enid laughed.
Again.
Wednesday’s eyes lingered on her face.
Then moved away.
Enid shifted her clipboard beneath one arm.
“So… I guess that’s everyone.”
“For today.”
Enid blinked.
Wednesday looked toward the kennels.
Then back at her.
“I presume the population changes.”
“Oh. Constantly.”
“Then your statement was inaccurate.”
Enid smiled.
“Fine. That’s everyone currently residing here as of two fifty-four on Tuesday afternoon.”
“Better.”
“Thank you.”
Wednesday adjusted the strap of her bag.
Enid almost asked whether she was planning to adopt.
Almost.
Then remembered what she had told Theo.
Maybe Wednesday didn’t know.
Maybe she wasn’t ready.
Maybe she just wanted to look.
So Enid didn’t ask.
Instead she said:
“If you ever want to meet any of them properly, just tell us.”
Wednesday’s gaze flicked toward the corridor.
“Anyone?”
“Yeah.”
A pause.
“Even Pickle?”
Enid’s mouth twitched.
“Especially Pickle.”
“I have expressed no interest in Pickle.”
“Of course not.”
Wednesday narrowed her eyes.
Enid kept an entirely innocent expression.
“I’ll see you around.”
Wednesday nodded once.
Then turned and left.
The bell above the door rang.
Enid watched through the glass as she crossed the car park.
Black coat.
Black bag.
Black umbrella.
She never once looked back.
Enid looked down at her clipboard.
Well.
That had been…
Nice.
Strange.
But nice.
She turned toward the treatment room.
Six heads appeared.
Not metaphorically.
Six actual heads.
Murray from behind the office door.
Esther beside him.
Eli leaning around the corridor.
Caleb behind reception.
Mason crouched behind a box of donated blankets.
Theo somehow peering through the hatch from the staff kitchen.
Enid stopped.
Her entire family stared at her.
She stared back.
“Are you serious?”
Theo emerged first.
“What did she say?”
Enid frowned.
“What?”
“What did she say?”
“About what?”
“Anything.”
Enid looked around at them.
“She said loads of things.”
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Enid’s eyebrows rose.
“What?”
Theo stepped closer.
“How many?”
“How many what?”
“Words.”
Enid stared.
“Do you want me to estimate?”
“Yes.”
“No!”
Mason came forward.
“She asked you questions.”
“Yes?”
Caleb’s brow furrowed.
“Voluntarily?”
Enid slowly looked between them.
“Obviously.”
Murray folded his arms.
“What did she ask?”
“I don’t know. About Clementine. Banjo. Pickle. Tilly. Fig. Admiral.”
Esther blinked.
“She remembered their names?”
“Well, yeah.”
“She never asked me anybody’s name,” Theo said.
“You probably didn’t stop talking long enough.”
“That is slander.”
Eli looked thoughtful.
“What did you ask her?”
“Nothing.”
Now they all stared harder.
Enid laughed.
“What is happening?”
“You didn’t ask what she wanted?” Murray said.
“No.”
“Whether she was looking to adopt?” Esther added.
“No.”
“What breed she wanted?” Theo asked.
“No.”
“Whether she owns pets?” Caleb said.
“No.”
Mason gestured.
“What did you do?”
“My job?”
Six baffled Sinclairs.
Enid lifted her hands.
“I told her about the animals.”
Theo stared.
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t ask her anything?”
“Not really.”
“And she talked to you.”
“She isn’t mute, Theo.”
“That isn’t the point.”
“What is the point?”
Murray smiled.
That caught Enid’s attention.
Not teasing.
Just amused.
“She liked you.”
Enid rolled her eyes.
“She doesn’t know me.”
“She talked to you for nearly an hour.”
“She talked about animals.”
“That is still talking.”
Enid looked toward the front windows.
Wednesday had reached her car.
A black vehicle, obviously.
She opened the driver’s door.
Paused.
Reached into the passenger side.
Then stood completely still.
Enid narrowed her eyes.
Wednesday lifted something.
A plastic container.
Enid’s mouth opened.
Soup.
Esther smiled smugly.
“I told you.”
Enid burst out laughing.
Through the glass, Wednesday looked toward the building.
For one second, Enid thought she might have heard.
Impossible.
Still, their eyes met across the car park.
Enid lifted one hand.
Wednesday stared at her.
Then at the container.
Then back at Enid.
Her expression suggested she had been personally betrayed by soup.
Enid laughed harder.
Wednesday got into the car.
Drove away.
Theo leaned beside her.
“So?”
“So what?”
“Think she’ll be back next week?”
Enid watched the black car disappear through the gates.
She thought of Clementine.
Twenty-three days.
He kept showing up.
She thought of Admiral rejecting Wednesday with professional precision.
Of Fig losing the staring contest.
Of Pickle turning his head away.
Of Wednesday asking exactly how long Caleb had waited.
Of the almost-smile Enid wasn’t entirely sure she had seen.
“She has been every Tuesday for six weeks.”
“Seven now,” Murray corrected.
Enid glanced at him.
Seven.
Right.
Her week.
She looked back toward the empty gate.
“I suppose we’ll find out.”
Then she went back to work.
And for the rest of the afternoon, Enid Sinclair did not think about Wednesday Addams.
Except when she checked Clementine’s weight.
And when Admiral hissed at Theo.
And when Banjo refused his medication until somebody produced cheese.
And when Fig appeared to hear a treat packet from three rooms away.
And when Pickle sat beside his kennel door staring toward reception for no obvious reason whatsoever.
But apart from that?
Not at all.
Not even once.