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Wednesday had found her.
Deep into the Canadian wilderness, Wednesday had spent four months and four days combing overgrown trails, checking water sources and sheltered spots where Enid might have stopped to drink or sleep, and searching for any sign of Enid’s passage: prints impressed in the ground or tufts of blonde fur snagged in the brush. Anything that might have pointed closer to her, really.
She’d hunted her down as she’d promised—and in the end, she’d made good on her words.
That much had never been in doubt. Wednesday wasn’t the type to stop halfway through a mission, especially of that importance, and failing simply wasn’t something she had wasted time contemplating. Out of all people, Agnes, too, had been just as determined when she’d offered her help. Grounded after her runaway attempt, she hadn’t been able to join the search in person, but she’d made it her mission to dig up any scrap of lycanthropic folklore ever written, whispered, or half-believed about Alphas and send it to her.
She’d received all of Agnes’ findings through Enid’s phone—in Wednesday’s possession only temporarily—and most of it was exactly what she’d expected: old wives’ tales, myths, and regional legends. Wednesday had gone through it whenever Fester, and she had set up camp for the night, and until the phone’s battery eventually died one day, but following one of the website links Agnes had forwarded her, something had caught her eye—a werewolves’ nursery rhyme.
It went like this:
A wolf born under a blood-red moon,
Is sworn to meet a bitter doom,
Bound to run and forget their name,
With nowhere to hide, no place to claim.
To free them of this lonely snare,
One soul only can truly dare,
The one who cares the most of all,
For the wolf’s heart through any fall.
A drop of blood drawn from that soul,
Brushed to fur while moonbeams roll,
That’s what ends the restless roam,
And finally grants the wolf a home.
It read just like what it was: a whimsical little bedtime jingle for werewolf pups. The kind of thing meant to be murmured in the dark to restless children. And a part of Wednesday had treated it as such.
Thinking that that ‘one soul’ mentioned in the nursery rhyme could have been her, that she’d cared for Enid’s heart as if she somehow possessed special access to Enid’s inner workings, had felt…unrealistic. Unearned. However, the part about a hypothetical drop of her blood being all she needed to let go of to bring Enid back had rang believable. Wednesday had dealt with enough rituals to know that blood was one of the most common currencies in the supernatural economy. Spirits, curses, bindings—blood greased the wheels of all of it.
That part of the rhyme, at least, had spoken a language she recognized. So, a small part of her had clung to those words, probably with the same naivety the children they were actually meant to would have. It had made her feel all the more pathetic, but being proud hadn’t been something she could have afforded.
So when the night she’d found herself face to face with Enid had finally come, and the wolf had been busy sniffing her like some skittish dog, wet nose grazing her cheek enough to tickle, Wednesday had decided to put her trust in those words. She’d taken her small dagger and sliced it across her palm, reopening the old scar she’d gotten from another blood-related curse. Scarlet had trickled down her hand, glinting under the moonlight, and she’d reached up to press it against the matted fur between the wolf’s ears.
She’d done everything as the rhyme had prescribed: she’d shed blood, painted Enid’s fur with it, and the moon had been overhead as witness to the whole 'ritual'.
And something had indeed happened. Wednesday had seen it the moment a flicker of pain had crossed Enid’s eyes. She’d stumbled backward, body collapsing in on itself in a mix of shifting bones, retracting claws, and shortening limbs until fur gave way to flesh and the wolf was gone, leaving Enid on the ground, human and shivering. Wednesday had crouched beside her then, shrugging off her coat and wrapping it around Enid.
What the nursery rhyme had conveniently neglected to mention was the part where, after turned back into a human, Enid would promptly fall into unconsciousness and stay like that indefinitely.
Seventy-two hours had gone by since then.
And that was without counting the ten-hour drive from Quebec's southern border back to New Jersey—and Enid had spent every single one of those hours sleeping. That’s what Wednesday told herself to call it. Sleeping. That’s what it looked like. Her face was peaceful enough, save for the faint crease between her brows, and her breathing was steady, chest rising and falling in quiet rhythm; she just…wasn’t waking up.
And tonight was the third night, Wednesday had dinner with her family while Enid stayed upstairs still…sleeping. Lurch was the one who’d taken her from Fester’s arm the day they’d arrived home and carried her to Wednesday’s room, settling on her bed.
Waiting for Enid to wake up had become a test of endurance, and Wednesday knew she was failing the moment she let her mind mull over every ‘what-if’ that had started taking root in her head, planting themselves there quicker than she could pull them out—like what if she’d been faster in her search? What if she’d found her sooner? Maybe then Enid wouldn’t have been trapped in her wolf form for so long, and her transition back to human would’ve been easier and without the side effect of this deep, unreachable sleep she seemed unable to escape from.
And then there was the worst one. What if she didn't wake up at all?
That thought was a like trapdoor, one she’d learned to step around. In those three days she’d spent waiting, she’d already given in more than once and had taken a peek inside, and what she’d seen was something she had no means to handle. Because the idea of Enid never opening her eyes again—of Wednesday having found her only to lose her again—would be, even by her warped sense of irony, an especially cruel punchline. She had already gone through
Enid’s possible death once,
How could she—
“…Wednesday?”
A voice, her mother’s, sliced through Wednesday’s spiraling thoughts just as she was about to slip and tumble down that cursed shaft again. It yanked her back to the dining room chair where only her body had been sitting, her mind too busy drifting off to stay anchored on the black velvet of her seat.
Wednesday blinked once. Then again. Twice, consecutively, before realizing she had no idea how long she’d been ‘gone’ in her own head. It must have been a while, though, because the world outside had rearranged itself in her absence. Rain pattered against the windows before her, the ones that overlooked the family cemetery in the backyard, and the occasional lightning slashing the sky bleached the tombstones white before they drowned once again in the dark.
Unfortunately, the nice evening weather didn’t match the atmosphere inside the room. In fact, every head at the table had swivelled towards her—her brother’s, frozen in his usual clueless expression, a spoon held mid air, and her father’s, whose permanent fixture of a smile had gone stiff at the edges. And, much to her horror, concern was visible in both, as if they were observing some particularly sad zoo exhibit, and pity was all they could muster.
Being on the receiving end of such degrading looks made her feel like the subject of an experimental form of psychological torture. One she hadn’t consented to.
And then there was her mother.
From the corner of her eye, Wednesday caught the elegant tilt of her mother’s head—one that deepened when Wednesday finally turned to meet it, almost in a questioning way. Had her mother asked her something, and she’d missed it?
The silence hanging in the room said as much—everyone was waiting for her to say something.
What exactly, Wednesday couldn’t tell. Maybe she would’ve known if she hadn’t zoned out mid-dinner. It wasn’t unusual for her; she had to find a way to survive family dinners after all, but being caught doing it? That was a first. But she intended for it to be the last—she had to get it together. So she straightened her posture against the back of her chair and addressed the whole table.
“Did I miss the memo about tonight’s staring contest?” Wednesday said, letting her voice slice through the quiet. “In that case, I’ll only join in if I get to bury the loser and the prize is something practical. Like a shovel.”
“Wednesday, darling…” Morticia began, setting down her spoon. It clicked against the rim of her black porcelain bowl, and in a way, that small chime stood out just like the hint of worry in her mother’s otherwise smooth voice. “We were just wondering if everything is…alright?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?” Wednesday could think of a few reasons, but obviously, she kept them to herself.
“Well, you’ve barely touched your henbane soup,” Morticia added, eyes drifting from W’s face to what was set in front of her. “Lurch added an extra pinch of hemlock so it tastes more bitter, just the way you like it.”
Soup. Right, that’s what they were eating tonight, she’d almost forgotten about it.
She looked down at the swamp colored liquid almost filling the bowl to the brim, the olive brown surface was swirling in circles around the spoon she must have used to stir it with while she’d left her body on autopilot. The tiny flecks of yellow from the henbane flowers were following that same lazy motion. Her mother was right; everything was untouched. Just as Lurch had served it.
And Wednesday realized she hadn’t felt a pang of hunger all evening—probably would have sat through the whole meal oblivious of its absence if her mother hadn’t pointed it out. And all because, for the past few days, the only absence she thought was worth registering was that of a person.
At the thought, a small sigh slipped from her nose, and the wisp of steam curling from her bowl like a smoke signal was swept away, along with the acrid scent of crushed leaves.
“I just seem to have lost my appetite, mother,” Wednesday said, careful to keep her tone even and free of any wavering.
Unlike her mother, Wednesday was an expert when it came to masking what she didn’t want to show.
Or, at least, that what she’d always thought. Then Morticia hummed in her direction—a low, velvety sound that carried half sympathy and half suspicion—and at that, Wednesday knew her mask must not be fitting her as snugly as it usually did. So Wednesday redirected the spotlight on someone else before her mother, too noisy for her own good, looked too closely and started picking apart that malfunction.
“Perhaps it’s Pugsley’s fault,” Wednesday said, flicking her eyes toward her brother. “After all, most things are.”
She didn’t bother disguising the accusation; she simply lobbed it across the table where her brother was sitting and currently slurping his soup, vacuuming it straight through his spoon. The grotesque symphony of squelches and gulps he was orchestrating with his mouth was practically contributing to acoustic pollution.
But as Pugsley’s head jerked up, he blinked at her with the wide-eyed innocence of someone who wasn’t going to own up to their crime. “What did I do?”
“You’re inhaling that soup like an elephant afflicted with severe respiratory problems,” Wednesday leaned forward. “The sounds you’re making are putting me off.”
“Are you sure it’s not the other ‘elephant in the room’ that’s putting you off?” He muttered the words into his bowl as his eyes fixed very deliberately on anything but Wednesday.
Unfortunately for him, she possessed functioning ears, so she heard him—and unfortunately for her, so did the rest of the table. And for a beat, no one so much as shifted in their chair.
Everyone around that table knew what the ‘elephant in the room’ Pugsley had dared bring up was. They all had noticed.
Because at the end of the day, they all had noticed. They had noticed that ever since she’d come home, something about her had been…off. That she’d been distracted in a way that neither fit nor suited her. Just that morning, she’d lost a fencing match her father had coaxed her into, and the night before, she’d butchered a cello piece, her fingers slipping over notes she could normally play in her sleep. And when she’d try to resume her study of Aunt Ophelia’s diary, she couldn’t make sense of a single passage because the text grew more indecipherable with every page she turned, and she couldn’t tell if that reflected her aunt’s poor mental state or her own.
Her family knew all of that. And worse, they knew why it was happening.
They knew her thoughts had been orbiting a single point lately. Enid. They knew she’d been worried about her. And they knew that this worry was…emotionally compromising her.
In short, they knew entirely too much for Wednesday's liking.
At least they’d had the good sense not to ask her about it. No one had attempted the even more suicidal endeavor of coaxing her into admitting any of it aloud—trying to talk about who made her feel what and why was like juggling grenades while blindfolded: one wrong move and you’d lose an arm, and not in a figurative sense.
And that was common knowledge.
If Pugsley had slipped up and unintentionally forgot was only because he’d underestimated how fine her hearing was. Feeling ambushed nonetheless, her fingers clamped down on her spoon a beat too hard. But she forced the tension out of her hand before anyone—especially her parents—noticed.
Because even if they were pretending not to, they were paying attention.
The way her mother’s hand had drifted to her napkin, smoothing an invisible crease, and how her father had raised his wineglass, acting as if he was studying the color, gave it away. What they were really doing was trying to gauge her reaction without getting caught in the crossfire if said reaction included Pugsley getting blades thrown at him.
Speaking of sharp objects…
“Pugsley…” Wednesday fixed him with a glare, and the lights from the five-arm candelabra set between them flickered under it, as if even fire had the good sense to flinch when caught in her line of sight. “You're lucky I’m holding a spoon instead of a knife right now.”
“If I were, I would’ve already jammed it into one of your eyes.” She let the threat sit a beat before adding. “And no—you wouldn’t get to pick which one.”
Pugsley’s still-intact eyes widened at the clarification. “That’s not fair! I’m just saying what I know everyone is thinking.”
“You read minds now? Curious,” Wednesday said, arching a brow, even though he was right. “I wasn’t aware we had another psychic in this family.”
“Come now, children,” Morticia interjected, calmly swooping in to diffuse the tension with the precision of a bomb squad. “You know what I think about fighting at the dinner table: if you have to draw blood, wait to do it over the dessert.”
“Listen to your mother, hijos,” Gomez said, pointing his stubby index finger in the air and wagging it between Wednesday and her brother. “Having good table manners is important.”
Before either Wednesday or Pugsley could decide whether to listen or not, Lurch entered the room. Heavy footsteps echoed through the dining hall as he circled the table. He stopped in front of the seat next to Wednesday’s, where an empty chair was drawn close beneath the edge of the table, and there, on the mirror-polished mahogany, he set down the cloche he was carrying.
“Thank you, Lurch,” Wednesday said.
Wednesday eyed the silver dome beside her. She knew whatever was under was for Enid, but she’d still felt compelled to show Lurch some gratitude. After all, she was the one who’d asked him to cook something separately, something ’just in case Enid wakes up’, that’s what Wednesday had told him, and most importantly, something free of any poison or live creatures. She knew her request had been a challenging one, given that most of the recipes in her family cookbook could double as assassination attempts for most people’s digestive systems. But, still, for the past few days, at every meal, Lurch had come up with something and served an extra plate.
And what had that amounted to? A series of untouched dishes slowly congealing under shining metal. The more meals passed without Enid needing one, the more her request felt like asking to add another seat to the table for an imaginary friend. It felt childish. Wednesday knew she should have told Lurch he could stop cooking something no one ended up eating anyway, but if she had, it would’ve felt too much like giving up the idea that Enid could wake up at any moment. So she never did.
As Lurch’s departing groan drifted down the hallway, Wednesday’s eyes snapped away from lingering on the dome.
But it didn’t matter that Wednesday had been quick to tear her eyes away from it; her mother, ever the meticulous observer, had already picked up on it. She’d probably been on the lookout for an opening she could use to bring that cursed ‘elephant in the room’ back into the conversation. Her mother must’ve reasoned that breaching the subject was safe now. After all, Pugsley had just done it: he’d poked the bear, and somehow he’d remained unmaimed.
Letting him live had clearly sent the wrong message, Wednesday realized it now.
“If you’re worried about Enid, darling, I’m sure there’s no need to be,” Morticia said to her, as she rested her forearms neatly along the table’s edge.
“She’ll be up before you know it.” Her voice softened into that confident and pleased tone whenever her intuition showed her things that no one could see yet. “I’m good at reading people’s spirits, and I can feel hers is a strong one. Very resilient.”
As Wednesday should've expected, her mother wasn’t left alone on her quest to fuss over her. Her parents always worked in tandem after all, always tag-teaming even the most unnecessary of interventions such as this one. So when her father joined in too, Wednesday slid towards him the most unimpressed of stares.
“Yes! Your friend is a fiery one!” he said.
“Fester told us he saw that pup in action, how she was this close to tearing you apart when you found her. This close,” Gomez repeated, pinching the air between his index and thumb, leaving a sliver of air between them. “And that kind of fire is not easy to put out.”
Wednesday had been holding back from rolling her eyes all evening, but hearing that that was the narrative Fester had been spreading around was about to make her lose all restraints.
Fester just loved theatrics. He could make a stubbed toe sound like a battlefield amputation. Normally, she wouldn’t mind, especially when she was little. Back then, he used to add a touch of carnage to all his bedtime stories so that her sleep could always be filled with nightmares. But now? His flair for drama had recast her as the hapless victim of a feral werewolf, which was insulting to both her competence and the truth—a complete wrong reconstruction of what had happened...
Fine—Wednesday couldn’t deny that maybe there’d been something beyond simple predatory instinct in the way Enid had slowly stalked toward her that night she’d found her, making each of her heavy steps look like the last before she lounged. But—and that was the important part—Wednesday had stood her ground. Despite all the show Wednesday knew Enid was just putting on, she’d stayed calm and enjoyed the vaguely sadistic streak Enid had leaned into to play with her.
So, really, she’d had everything under control. Why would Fester omit that detail from his storytelling? Wednesday didn’t know—maybe he was just jealous Enid hadn’t tried to rip him apart, too. Anyway, before she could set the record straight, her father continued his intrusion.
“Don’t fret, my little throwing star, Enid will get her spark back,” he declared, brandishing his spoon like a makeshift wand and punctuating each word with a faint nudge of that utensil through the air, as if he could cast a spell to make whatever he said easier to believe.
“Wait!” Pugsley jumped in before their father’s spoon had even finished his last flick, eyes lighting up with the gleam of someone who’d just stumbled upon what they were convinced was a stroke of genius. Which, in Pugsley’s case, was highly unlikely.
“Speaking of sparks…Maybe I could try to give her a little shock and see what happens.”
Pugsley’s hand rose, digits wiggling as tiny erratic sparks snapped to life and danced between his fingertips. There was a faint smell of something singed in the air now, and Pugsley’s excitement at the anticipation of a new test subject crackled louder than the electricity itself. As if Wednesday would just let him use Enid as his guinea pig.
“Enid is not one of those dead rats you try to resuscitate for your experiments, Pugsley,” Wednesday said, voice sharpening just enough to land like a corrective verbal slap on her brother's wrist. “So make sure to keep your electrified hands off unless you want me to cut the power out of them with my axe. You’re already on thin ice.”
Pugsley’s gaze flicked briefly to his sparking fingers before sighing. His sparks fizzled out with a disappointed hiss, the smell of burning dissipated, and his hand lowered slowly back to the table, chastened at last.
“And as for you,” Wednesday said towards her parents, levelling her tone to sound disinterested with the whole thing.
“I don’t see why you both think Enid’s state has any influence on mine. I assure you I’m neither worrying nor fretting, or whatever other synonym you think fits the situation.”
As she spoke, across the table, her parents exchanged a look. One of those silent, telepathic glances parents think their children don’t notice—and maybe most children were actually that oblivious. It might have worked on Pugsley, but not on Wednesday. She could clearly tell what that look stood for; they were checking if the other too had noticed how in denial she was.
Which was simply not true. Wednesday was not in denial; she wasn’t lying to herself—just to her parents.
But of course she couldn’t say that.
“…however, what I can say,” she started again, tone turning sharp enough to get both her parents' attention back on her, “is that your faculty to draw rational conclusions will deteriorate if you two keep co-owning one brain cell only.”
“Clearly, the decline has already started,” Wednesday said, and with that, she finally stood up, removing the napkin draped across her lap as she did. “And I’d rather not witness the madness it leads you to, so if you’ll excuse me.”
Her mother sighed, but as she folded her hands in her lap, her knowing smile stayed soft and obstinately patient. Her father looked like he wanted to say something else—probably how he wouldn’t mind going insane and lose all faculties as long as he had her mother beside him or something equally maudlin—but, mercifully, he thought better of it.
So Wednesday seized the silence to make her exit, glancing at her brother as she headed for the door. He’d ditched the cutlery and was now downing his soup straight from the bowl, like some starved medieval peasant, both hands cupped around it as he tipped it up to his mouth.
“While you’re still lucid, can you make sure Pugsley doesn’t choke to death?” Wednesday said to her parents. “That’s supposed to be my job, and I’d hate for him to steal my moment.”
“We’ll keep your brother alive for you, darling, but Wednesday…”
Morticia’s hand drifted out just as Wednesday moved past her, letting delicate fingers brush her elbow. The gesture was light enough not to feel like an imposing roadblock, but it worked as well as one because Wednesday did stop in her tracks.
“Keep in mind what your father and I said,” Morticia said, “And maybe try to rest, will you?”
“I am not tired,” Wednesday replied, almost instantly.
She wasn’t lying. She didn’t feel tired. Just last night, she’d managed to sleep two hours on her armchair, and that was only two hours less than her usual four. She’d fine-tuned her sleep over the years so that it could be as efficient as possible—once her eyes were closed, she jumped straight into deep sleep, skipping all the other lighter stages. She didn’t need to rest and take a nap; she wasn’t a toddler.
However, her mother kept regarding Wednesday with her black-eyeshadow-rimmed eyes. She’d always let them speak for her whenever words failed to land with her daughter, and tonight they were tinted with a quiet kind of worry. Her attempt to keep it elegant and subtle was almost flawless, but Wednesday could see through it. And she couldn’t ignore it.
“But I’ll try.” If Wednesday’s tone softened, it was only by degrees, but her mother had picked up on it, and that was enough.
With a nod, she acknowledged her father’s small smile, and before she could see the same relief spread on her mother’s face, Wednesday resumed her path out of the dining room.
The foyer greeted her with lightning flashing through the windows flanking the front door. For a moment, everything was bathed in white light, making the shadow of the stuffed bear angled toward the entrance to greet guests with its open-mawed grimace grow longer across the floor, stretching away as if trying to escape its owner. Wednesday’s own shadow pointed towards the grand staircase that loomed ahead. Candelabras hung on the walls lit every step of the two curved flights sweeping upward like a pair of arms inviting you deeper into the house, every nook and secret passage.
As she started her climb up one of them, more thunder rolled overhead. The house shook from top to bottom, the chandelier hanging from the ceiling trembled too, and the chiming of crystal pendants swaying against each other mixed with the fading rumble.
Once reached the first-floor landing, she took the corridor stretching on her left and walked past the ‘STOP, BLASTING AHEAD’ sign hung on Pugsley’s bedroom door before she reached hers. She’d always feel uneasiness at the thought of leaving Enid in there unsupervised. Anytime Wednesday had to step away, she imagined that if Enid were to wake up alone and caught sight of the guillotine tucked in the corner or the collection of sixteenth-century crossbows hung on the wall, she’d assume she’d been kidnapped again, this time by a proper serial killer, and she’d likely fall unconscious again.
That’s why she’d left her door ajar before going down for dinner so that if Enid were to wake up while she was gone, at least she wouldn’t have thought she was locked in and panic—she did that too easily sometimes.
With a light push, her door creaked open, warmth meeting her as she stepped inside—an unfamiliar, heavy kind coming from the radiator stationed next to the closet. She’d never used that old fixture, so usually it existed solely to collect dust and provide a place for spiders to weave their webs.
If, for the past few days, she’d decided to turn it on to bump up her room’s usual fifty-four degrees Fahrenheit, it wasn’t because her preferences had suddenly changed. She still liked the air of her room to be crisp enough to sting—she found the chill kept her productive during her writing time, an incentive to keep her fingers moving if she didn’t want them to go numb from the cold. But she’d figured Enid wasn’t as keen on low temperatures as she was. Wednesday remembered her mentioning that werewolves were hot-blooded creatures, so she had made a rare concession. Enid would have complained about freezing once awake, so Wednesday was just acting one step ahead.
The rain tapping and skittering down the panes of her bay window kept time with the click of her steps as she moved further into the room.
There on the bed was Enid. She was turned to the side, half of her face squished against a black pillow while the other half caught the lamplight on the nightstand. A black quilt was draped over her and shaped itself along the huddled girl hiding beneath it. Crawling around that bundled silhouette came Thing, circling the bed until he met Wednesday at its end.
“She’s still sleeping,” Thing tapped somewhere near Enid’s feet.
Wednesday leaned against the footboard, arms crossed. She hoped even in the dim glow of her room, Thing could see how her gaze had flattened at the obviousness of his statement. “Astute observation, Thing. Nothing gets past you.”
Her tone teetered dangerously close to the line between her usual deadpan and something just a tad harsher. She hadn’t meant for it to come out like that, but the silence that followed made the unfairness of it hard to ignore anyway. Thing, who always kept Enid company whenever Wednesday couldn’t, was just as troubled by the situation as she was, and yet he didn’t bleed his irritability all over her. Apparently, even a severed hand had a better grasp on emotional regulation than she did—but maybe that was surprising only to her.
The tiny percussions of Thing’s index told her that he would not indulge her mood tonight, and that something akin to an apology was in order. She had to take a deep breath for that.
“I apologize,” Wednesday said at last, a little strained but sincere. “It seems like my tolerance for idiocy is running lower than usual lately. It’s not your fault.”
The phrasing was still a little cutting, but the barb curved inward this time, aimed squarely at herself for not knowing how to deal with feeling so…she didn’t even know how to call it. Perhaps ‘helpless’ was the word that fit. Back when she’d been searching for Enid, she’d been actively doing something useful to get her back, but now there wasn’t anything Wednesday could do.
The fact that she was hiding it so poorly and everyone in her house, limbs and oblivious brother included, could see it only aggravated her more.
“Maybe you need something to take the edge off.” When his fingers started tapping again, it was softer in a way that meant she was forgiven. “Try wall Pugsley alive. It’s been a while since you last did it, and that always cheers you up.”
“Maybe,” Wednesday mused, the word delivered with a hollow sort of consideration. She wasn’t seriously entertaining the idea—not because it was wrong. Inflicting torment on her brother did, in fact, ‘cheer her up’. Usually. But sealing her brother behind stacks of bricks and concrete posed no appeal to her now. Even the prospect of hearing his muffled screams and pleas for air fell flat, and that would always spark something viciously gleeful in her.
She’d always get a particular gleam in her eyes when plotting ways to torture her brother, and Thing probably saw that look missing from her face. He shifted closer to her and began signing again, his fingers tapping and gliding over the fabric under him, smoothing it with every word like he was trying to smooth her worry.
“You need to be patient. She’ll wake up.”
Wednesday looked down at him and exhaled slowly through her nose. If one more person—or appendage—uttered that insufferably vague mantra at her, she might have had to make herself explode and take everyone within the blast radius with her. Of course, she didn’t say that to Thing. She’d already snapped at him once and apologized for it. She had no intention of giving him any more reasons to demand another apology. One amends per day was a limit she physically could not exceed.
So she dipped her chin in a nod and watched him drag himself towards the nightstand, where a glass of water brought by her mother had been sitting since that morning. He walked around it, used the drawers’ knobs to climb down onto the floor, and then scuttled his way out the door, closing it behind him.
The echo of his fingertips skittering along the floor wasn’t the only thing he left in his wake. In the silence, his words flapped around her like a swarm of persistent mosquitoes she desperately wanted to swat into oblivion.
You need to be patient.
What did that even mean?
Wednesday huffed at that. Her hand slid along the iron railing of the footboard, fingers curling around the cold metal as if she could wring sense out of it. It was true that not knowing when Enid would flash her one of those manic smiles again made her restless, but why would she even try being patient? Patience was just what people resorted to when they had run out of better options, and Wednesday, along with a well-sharpened knife, always had a trick up her sleeve to solve any situation. Yes, even this one.
She just had to try a different approach. Something more…direct.
With that set in mind, she moved to sit down on the edge of her bed beside Enid. The mattress softened as it dipped under her weight, but she didn’t let her posture get comfortable. She straightened up, pulled her shoulders back, and fixed her eyes on Enid.
“Enid,” Wednesday said, voice low but firm. “You need to wake up, and you need to do it now. I am not asking nicely; this is an order.”
The words came out clipped and neat, but they didn’t hit anything. With no one listening to them, they just…hung there, weightless, dissolving in the hush of rain tapping at the window. The only reaction her monologue received was the roll of another thunder; it rumbled somewhere far off, and to Wednesday’s ears it sounded like someone laughing at her.
Which, fair. Maybe she deserved to be mocked. Issuing ultimatums to an unconscious person was, objectively speaking, the kind of insanity only people on the brink would entertain. But these were trying times, and desperate times called for humiliatingly desperate measures. So when Enid didn’t stir, Wednesday pressed on.
“If this is your way of challenging me, then I must warn you,” Wednesday said, “you can’t win. In fact, I’ll sit right here until you do as I say.”
To no one’s surprise, Enid stayed exactly as she was, stubbornly keeping up with her sleeping beauty act, not even a hitch in her even breath.
Drifting down, pulled toward the unmoving quiet of Enid’s face, Wednesday’s eyes studied the way the faint lamplight traced her cheek, looking for even the slightest of twitches that suggested Enid wasn’t as far away as it felt. But she found nothing—not in her lashes lying perfectly still nor in the slight downturn of her lips, usually always so quick to curve into those irritating smirks or pouts.
Then there was a lonely strand of blonde hair dyed a faded blue that had fallen out of place. It had slipped free from the rest, dragged across Enid’s closed eyelid, and curled down the bridge of her nose.
She didn’t know what possessed her, but at the sight of that misplaced strand, her hand lifted from its disciplined post on her knee and reached out for it. She pinched it between her index and thumb like she was using a pair of tweezers to perform a delicate surgical procedure and carefully swept it back, joining the escapee with the rest of the hair hooked behind her ear.
By the time her fingertips had hovered over that stray thread of gold, Wednesday had caught on the fact that such a gesture did not belong to her—could not. It was much too gentle to be something she’d consciously authorize. She blamed whatever misguided impulse her brain had fired off to her hand. Surely, a round of electric shock would have been enough to reboot it, but until then, she made sure to reel that mutinous hand back to herself. She then crossed her arms, almost as if to lock her hands in a position they could not wander from, and even scooted a few inches away. For good measure.
Defeated—not only in her attempt to command Enid awake but also in her ability to police her own extremities—Wednesday attempted to restore something resembling composure. There was nobody there to witness her failures and slip-ups, but dignity demanded she pretend anyway.
“Fine, have it your way,” she murmured.
“I should probably make the most of this silence anyway.” She turned toward the wall, giving Enid her back, with the same air of someone dismissing an opponent they were sorely losing to. And considering Wednesday’s was losing to someone who wasn't even trying to win, the loss felt particularly humbling.
“This is the longest I’ve spent in your presence without any of your nonsense assaulting my ear canals.”
The more she talked, the more her words began to lose their bite; they felt flimsy when they were just thoughts forming in her head and even more so when she spoke them out loud.
Because the truth was, she would’ve preferred Enid’s nonsense over this quiet.
Any nonsense: the latest celebrity feud, which public figure had been ‘cancelled’ over what, or the ever-rotating carousel of school scandals—Enid would’ve argued that even hermits living in caves like Wednesday needed updates about the outside world from time to time. I’m just trying to keep you in the loop; that’s what she would have said. And even though the only loops Wednesday cared to discuss were the ones tied into nooses around necks, she would’ve endured even the most ridiculous of gossip just to hear Enid’s voice.
The admission sat in her skull heavier than it had right to be, and while she tried to understand why the clock on the wall struck eleven o’clock. That’s when she realized she’d just spent the last several minutes staring at a wall and staging imaginary scenarios in her own head.
She pressed her lips together, not particularly thrilled to acknowledge the downward trajectory her sanity was taking. Not helping was also the fact that she could do nothing but watch it plummet even further until she would inevitably reach the point where she’d start having full-blown hallucinations.
That stage seemed to be already knocking at her door when moments later she began sensing a phantom nudge against the small of her back.
Naturally, she stayed put. She refused to acknowledge or validate any byproduct of her own spiralling imagination. But then it happened again, and this time it wasn’t some delicate, ghostly tap. It was a jab, sharper and more insistent, as if something was trying to push her off her own bed.
If she gave in and turned around was just enough to confirm there was nothing there, and she was, like she’d already established, quite simply losing it.
The thick fabric of her quilt rustled against the mattress as legs stretched under it. A knee, which Wednesday figured was the same one that jabbed her earlier, poked out from it, and Enid slowly rolled on her back. Wednesday caught a glimpse of the deepening crease between Enid’s brows before her hands crept up to her face to rub away three days’ worth of sleep as if she were swiping layers of condensation off a foggy mirror.
Wednesday didn’t dare move, even her breath stalled, if this was a hallucination, then she wanted to indulge it a little longer, and she didn’t want to risk it disappearing.
So she sat there and watched as Enid finally dragged her hands down from her face to draw in a shallow breath. Watched as she tried to sit upright and nearly failed at it—wobbling through the dizziness as if the room itself had decided to tilt out from under her. But somehow she made it, bracing on her elbows first, forearms trembling under the effort, and then pushing herself off her palms.
The black quilt slipped off her shoulders to pool on her lap, revealing the hoodie she was wearing, same color as the quilt she’d shrugged off, and that too belonged to Wednesday.
As Enid adjusted to the new position, she kept her head bowed, hair slipping forward in a tangled, uneven curtain that concealed most of her face, though what little Wednesday could see was pinched tight with discomfort. Beneath her bangs, Enid was pressing a hand to her forehead, fingers splayed as if she was battling a particularly insidious headache.
And as Enid was trying to keep her skull from splitting apart, Wednesday decided she couldn’t keep sitting there like a decorative piece of furniture. She had to say something, but she didn’t know what. She wasn’t good with reunions, so she turned the moment into a quick neurological check before it could turn into anything else.
“Enid, look my way,” Wednesday said, lifting her hand in the air and holding up three fingers with precise, almost surgical steadiness. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
Her voice came out quieter than she intended, but it seemed to reach Enid anyway. The small line between her brows unwound as if Wednesday’s voice had given her something solid to latch onto in that tilting room, and slowly, Enid’s eyes cracked open. They drifted toward the raised hand in front of her, skimmed past the fingers entirely, and locked onto Wednesday’s face.
“…Wednesday?” Enid said, her voice rough, uncertain around the edges.
Wednesday exhaled through her nose, ignoring the relief she felt by just hearing her own name, and narrowed her eyes at Enid.
“Wrong answer,” Wednesday lowered her hand. “There’s a high chance your cognitive functions might be comprom—”
Before Wednesday could finish her diagnosis, Enid sprang forward and tackled her in a hug, the impact nearly knocking Wednesday off balance and tipping her back against the bed frame. For a moment, Wednesday simply blinked at the wall behind Enid’s shoulder.
“I see your sense of personal space has stayed the same,” Wednesday said at last, using the little air Enid hadn’t managed to squeeze out of her. “Still as nonexistent as ever.”
Wednesday heard a breath of laughter puff out near her ear, and since Enid’s hold around her had reached levels of tightness that could put straitjackets and boa constrictors to shame, she wouldn’t be surprised if what she heard next was the creaking of her straining ribs. But she didn’t push Enid away. Strangely enough, the thought of doing that didn’t even cross her mind. Her lungs didn’t need air anyway. She could function without it. Back when she and her brother used to dare each other into breath-holding contests, he was always the one who succumbed to oxygen deprivation and passed out first. Not her.
No, the real problem wasn’t the risk of asphyxiation. What Wednesday was concerned about was the strange feeling that had punched straight through her ribs and lodged inside her chest like a live wire the moment Enid had reached for her.
The more Enid buried her face in her shoulder, the more that feeling started spreading and warmed its way to what were supposed to be the coldest and unreachable parts of her. She didn’t have a name for what that was—naming feelings was one of those activities she didn’t deem worthy of her time. But whatever this…thing was, she didn’t need a name for it to know she didn’t trust it. Or want it. Or have the faintest idea what to do with it. And before she could figure it out, Enid was speaking again.
“I missed you,” Enid said, words half-lost and muffled into Wednesday’s shoulder. Then, quieter, she added, “I didn’t think I’d see you ever again.”
By the way it was spoken, that confession didn't seem meant to be heard by anyone, but Wednesday acknowledged it without words anyway, letting her own arms and hands move from stiffly hanging at her sides to rest on Enid’s back. Wednesday supposed she was trying to reassure her, and before she could start questioning if she was doing this correctly, somewhere near her ear, she felt Enid let out a long breath through her nose. It was the kind that sounded like it had been trapped for months, and with it, her shoulders loosened.
The tension melted off Enid’s frame, and Wednesday felt the shift happen right beneath her hands.
That nameless, inconvenient sensation flared again in Wednesday’s chest. She should have probably shoved it down into the deepest, darkest pit inside her so it would never see the light of day again, but then her fingers curled. Her palms pressed. And because her better judgment had probably taken a vacation, her arms began to draw Enid in closer, and that was done for her own reassurance. As if the fact that she was able to pull Enid tighter was the only proof she needed to confirm this really wasn’t just all an elaborate hallucination she was having while staring at a wall.
Only when she registered Enid easing her grip, she made sure to do the same before Enid could feel Wednesday resisting and still holding onto her. She’d have been insufferably too smug about it. However, when they pulled apart, Wednesday still caught the faintest glimmer of something knowing in Enid’s eye.
“So, did you miss me?”
Enid tilted her head to the side in a way that didn’t make it clear if she was genuinely wondering that or if she was just teasing her. Either way, Wednesday wasn’t sure she would have known how to answer.
She didn’t ‘miss people’.
Solitude was something she curated with intention and precision, cutting those she let orbit around her down to the bare essentials. Her family didn’t count—they were constants, immovable fixtures, a permanent condition of her existence, whether she liked it or not. Most people, though? Wednesday had always believed the fewer people around her, the better it was. People were just temporary variables, and variables were bound to create instability. Why would she want to depend on someone to the point of not being able to function if they were taken out of her equation? She never saw a point in it, but then the variable that was Enid had squeezed and cemented herself in Wednesday’s life.
For that, Enid was a statistical irregularity. An exception. And the sense of solitude she’d felt looming over her at the forced separation from Enid had certainly been a unique one, too. It hadn’t been the kind of misery she knew how to embrace. Not the kind she’d usually seek out and thrive in. The way her sanity had been decaying lately was a perfect example of that.
“Enid,” Wednesday said as she chose a workaround that would spare her from explicitly uttering four simple words. So instead of a yes, I missed you’ she came up with, “If your absence had left me indifferent, I wouldn’t have spent four months looking for you.”
Enid was fluent in that unspoken language that Wednesday always switched to when trying to express anything resembling a real human feeling. So her gaze simply flicked up, searching Wednesday’s face, and then she hummed, the sound warm with understanding. “Weird way of saying yes, but it’s fine. I’ll take it.”
“Good. Any other questions?” Wednesday said, her voice flattening into its usual dry register. “Preferably non-rhetorical ones this time around.”
“How did it happen?”
Wednesday glanced back at her. “How what happened?”
“Capri said there was no turning back if I wolfed out again. So how come I am…me again?” A crease formed between Enid’s brows as the question settled in her own mind. "I mean, not that I'm complaining, I just..."
“I can’t remember anything about how I changed back…” she added, frowning deeper as she rummaged through the fogged-over edges of her memory and came up with nothing beside another spike of pain through her head. Her face scrunched as if thinking too hard had physically punished her for it.
Wednesday leaned over to grab the glass sitting on her nightstand and silently handed it to Enid. A mumbled ‘thanks’ later, and Enid downed the whole thing in seconds.
“So you don’t recall anything?” Wednesday asked. “Nothing at all?”
Enid gulped down the last sip of water and then shook her head. Her eyes stayed low, fixed on the glass she held, now empty, just like her memory seemed to be.
Being grateful for Enid’s amnesia came with a flicker of guilt, but, in the end, Wednesday knew that Enid not remembering was for the best.
Because that way, Wednesday could’ve kept the truth about the rhyme, the ritual, about what it meant for it to have worked locked away. If she told Enid that the spell had demanded the person who cared about her heart more than anyone else and that it had answered with Wednesday, she’d have to confront what she’d spent years treating like something she had to hide.
Caring.
She’d sworn off it the day Nero died.
When she’d knelt in front of her pet’s tombstone and vowed never to spill tears again, she’d also instructed herself that if she’d ever had the misfortune of caring about someone, she would’ve never let it show and never let anyone know.
Because if being forced to watch Nero get assassinated in front of her had taught her anything was that there would always be someone out there, much like those who had run over N until he’d become one with the asphalt, who’d try to take away what she cared about for the sole fact that it meant something to her.
That’s how she’d learned that attachment was nothing but a liability. Caring made you predictable and vulnerable. Having your feelings dragged into the open painted a neat, bright target on your heart and gave whoever was looking for an easy way to get to you a clear shot at it. Hearing Tyler threatened to kill Enid all those months ago had only come as a confirmation of that.
To acknowledge her care for Enid would be like admitting to having a weak spot, and she could not afford anyone knowing about it. Not even Enid herself.
So, borrowing a page from her uncle Fester’s talent for spinning stories to his liking, Wednesday assembled a version of that night’s events that made her role small and safely incidental.
“Well, there’s not much to remember,” Wednesday said, airily dismissive as she rewrote history in real time. “I found you. You changed back. End of story.”
“Just like that?” Enid asked, skepticism tugging at her mouth as she wiped it with the back of her hand.
Without missing a beat, Wednesday repeated, “Just like that,”
To say Enid looked unconvinced would be an understatement. Wednesday could practically hear the gears turning behind Enid’s eyes as she lined up follow-up questions in her head, because of course she wasn’t going to let that conversation drop that easily. Wednesday was just beginning to calculate how best to derail the inevitable interrogation when something pricked at the edge of her attention.
A sound.
The sighs of floorboards being tested under steps that were drawing closer. So faint it should’ve drowned beneath the rain hammering the roof and the wind combing through tree branches just outside the window—but Wednesday had inherited her mother's bat-like hearing, so she’d caught it anyway.
Enid, on the contrary, was blissfully unaware, still circling about that topic. “But there must have been something else, something that triggered my transformation, how else would—”
“Shh.” Wednesday lifted a finger between them, cutting off Enid’s probing so that she could focus. She angled her head just slightly, listening, trying to isolate that noise and pinpoint its source. She ruled out it being Grandma Squint’s doing. Wednesday was used to her ghost cackling and stomping around the attic during stormy nights like the one raging outside, but unlike hers, this noise was different. It belonged to someone who didn’t know they were the ones making it.
Enid squinted at the finger hovering inches from her face and scoffed, clearly affronted at the way she was being silenced. “Did you just shush me?”
“I sense a presence,” Wednesday informed. “It’s getting closer.”
Enid’s indignation at being silenced evaporated, taking second place in her list of concerns. Her eyes widened as the word ‘presence’ caught up with her brain.
“A presence? Wait, you mean like…like a ghost?!” Enid said, her voice gradually lowering and pitching up at the same time, somehow. As she whispered/shouted, panic rushed in where irritation had been a moment earlier. “Please, Wednesday, tell me you’re just messing with me, and we’re not actually about to get killed by a demonic ghost or something!”
There was no hypothetical 'we' in that sentence. Wednesday had no intention of dying in such embarrassingly pedestrian circumstances. But before she could correct Enid, two polite knocks tapped against her door. This time the sound was heard by both of them, even too well. Startled by it, Enid almost jumped out of her skin.
Her hand shot out on instinct for the closest solid thing available, clutching at Wednesday’s sleeve, fingers curling tight enough to wrinkle the fabric and catch Wednesday’s wrist along with it. Once again, the grip was close to a cut-circulation level of tight. Wednesday glanced down at it, unfazed, noting how those four months as a wolf might have erased Enid’s ability to dose her strength.
There was a third knock, and Enid swallowed, eyes glued to the door. “Well,” she said weakly, “if it is a ghost, at least it’s one with manners.”
“I doubt it, we don’t have those kinds of ghosts around here,” Wednesday said. “I’m afraid it is something much more...”
The door opened then, and a shadow slipped inside as lightly as a breeze through a cracked window, something that shouldn’t be there, but it was inevitable—and when Wednesday saw who it belonged to, she nearly wished Enid had been right about there being a murderous ghost.
“Mrs. Addams!” Enid blurted, halfway caught between relief and alarm, her brain still trying to catch up with how the situation had quickly developed.
“…alive,” Wednesday finished flatly, resignation settling in as she fixed her mother with a long, assessing look. Her mother’s timing was always suspiciously impeccable.
“Oh, Enid!” Morticia said, joining her hands in front of her chest. Even in the soft light of her room, she could see her black eyes shining when they landed on Enid. “Seeing you out of your catatonic state is wonderful news!”
Enid straightened a little under the attention, and the hand still loosely wrapped around Wednesday’s wrist lifted almost out of reflex to smooth down her hair. Wednesday assumed she was trying to look ‘presentable’ in front of her mother, as though Morticia might judge her based on something as trivial as disheveled hair. Enid could have had three eyes and a trunk for a nose, and Wednesday's mother would still be fond of her if only for the fact that she'd accomplished what no one else ever had before her, which was becoming Wednesday’s friend.
“I knew it all along; it was just a matter of time,” Morticia continued, certainty ringing through her voice as if the outcome had never once been in doubt.
“But tell me, dear. How are you feeling?” she asked gently, though it seemed she didn’t really need Enid to give her an answer, one lingering look at her face, and Wednesday’s mother knew what was wrong. “If your head keeps bothering you, I suggest putting it in a screw press. You’re welcome to use the one we have in our playroom. That usually does miracles for Fester’s migraines.”
“Oh…um, thank you,” Enid said carefully, trying to hide her confusion behind an overtly polite tone, the same way she’d thanked Wednesday for the porcelain doll she’d gifted her.
Wednesday had appreciated the effort then, might have even found her struggle entertaining to watch. And judging by the pleased curve of Morticia’s smile, now her mother did too.
“Also, thank you,” Enid added, sincerity softening her voice. “For letting me stay here. Wednesday must have shown up with me out of nowhere. I’m sorry if I—”
“Don’t even mention it,” Morticia said, waving Enid’s concern away as though it were no more than dust in the air. “It’s not something I get to say often since our Wednesday is…extremely selective with her company, but our house is open to all her friends, so you’re welcome to treat it like it’s your own.”
“Besides, I should be the one thanking you,” she continued, her tone gaining weight. “I know what you’ve risked to save my Wednesday all those months ago. And without you freeing her, she wouldn’t have been able to get to my dear Pugsley or Thing in time. So really, you rescued more than one Addams that night.”
“Oh, I mean, I just thought that...if Wednesday could risk her life trying to save mine, then I would do anything for her too. That’s all.” Enid said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. And at that, Wednesday felt Enid’s quick glance sweep toward her, as if she was subconsciously addressing Wednesday directly rather than just speaking about her to her mother.
Wednesday looked away before Enid did, but Morticia’s keen eyes were already cataloguing that little exchange, her head tilted by the smallest degree, as though she were observing a rare phenomenon unfolding right under her nose and connecting threads only she could see. And when she seemed pleased with whatever conclusions she’d drawn from her ‘study’, a satisfied hum slipped past the smile forming on her face.
Wednesday could already tell what her mother was so delighted about. Hearing Enid talk about her daughter like that must have been her confirmation that sending Wednesday to Nevermore had gone just as she’d intended: with Wednesday meeting a person who fit right in with her.
“Well, I couldn’t be more glad to hear Wednesday has found someone who matches her intrepidness,” Morticia said. “That’s a quality all Addams have. What makes us go to any length when looking out for those we care about.”
“Family, after all, is the one thing worth risking everything for,” Morticia mused, and even if she hadn't meant to, her words landed with a certain finality.
“Yours must be worried sick about you,” Morticia added. “If you wish to get in touch with your parents, you can count on our carrier bat, Abigail, to deliver a letter for you anytime. I bet they would love to hear news from you.”
And at that, like some sixth sense flicking on, Wednesday felt the shift beside her before she even saw it from the corner of her eye—the way Enid’s gaze dropped just a fraction and her shoulders stiffened, as though someone had accidentally poked a bruise Enid had forgotten was there or convinced herself wasn’t there. But she swallowed that feeling down and nodded at her mother. A small gesture, followed by an equally small smile forced into place.
That reaction was as subtle as the flickering of a flame dimming under a draught of unknown origin. The only difference was that Wednesday knew where the ‘draught’ sneaking up on Enid to snuff her light had come from—it was the mention of her family.
Wednesday’s mother, on the other hand, had no clue and no reason to suspect anything. If she noticed anything different about Enid, she must have reasoned it was her headache acting up again. In fact, she took that as her cue to leave so she could rest.
“Well, I’ll go now, but know that Gomez and I are just a staircase away. Come to us if you need anything,” Morticia said before her eyes flicked to Wednesday one last time to emphasize her next reminder. “Make sure to be a good host Wednesday.”
Wednesday didn’t respond. She realized she hadn’t said more than a word during this whole exchange, but caught between the weight of her mother’s knowing looks and the quiet tension radiating off Enid did not know how to approach—dealing with both her mother and Enid being in the same room at the same time was a logistical nightmare. So, Wednesday gave her mother a nod just to put an end to the interaction. And when even the last tentacle of the train spilling from Morticia’s dress slithered out the door, silence settled in.
Breaking the quiet first was Enid, a fleeting smile brushing across her face as though it had wandered there by accident rather than intention. “Your mom’s really nice.”
“I’d say she has the tendency to rumble,” Wednesday replied, voice even, almost dry, her gaze drifting briefly toward the door her mother had exited through as if confirming the absence of further maternal interventions. Her finger tapped once against the knee her hand was draped on before going still again. “But what she said is true. If you want, then you can stay here.”
Wednesday deliberately avoided bringing up the family topic again; Enid had looked anything but thrilled when her mother had mentioned it before. But she still wanted to make sure that Enid knew that if she thought she didn’t have somewhere she could go back to, or want to go back to, Wednesday’s house could be that place.
Enid nodded; she seemed to understand that she could take Wednesday’s offering without having to explain herself. Wednesday understood what it was like to have something you’d rather perish than talk about, so she would not pretend that from Enid. However, Enid wasn’t like Wednesday; when it came to walking through the discomfort of opening up, Enid didn’t step around it.
“I know that…after all that has happened, I should want to go back home more than anything right now. But I just—” Her gaze drifted around the room as if the right words might be lurking in some shadowy corner, waiting to be coaxed out. When they didn’t appear, her eyes finally dropped to her lap, where her hands worried at the cuffs of 'her’ hoodie, and she settled for, “I just don’t know what's waiting for me there.”
“I mean, my family, they...they're not like yours. They wouldn't risk everything for me," Enid continued softly, her voice catching around the same words Wednesday’s mother had used earlier. "Alphas can't be part of a pack, and my family won't go against pack rules just to side with me. I already know it."
"That's why they didn’t come look for me,” Enid continued. “It would have taken them less than a day to track me down if they had just followed my scent, but they didn’t."
"My mom must be too busy thinking about how much of a problem I am again,” she murmured, and Wednesday watched something small and wounded flicker across her face. Something she’d clearly felt before, grown up with, and knew how to make go away on command; in fact, she blinked, and it was gone.
Enid exhaled slowly, the breath leaving her like something heavy being set down at last, and she faintly shook her head towards nothing in particular. “I don’t know…I guess it’s been a while since my family actually felt like one, so…”
Wednesday had listened to every single word, still and attentive in that way she only reserved for things that mattered, and the sadness that laced each one of them lodged in the middle of her chest, pressing tight between her ribs.
But the worst part was that no matter how much she listened, she knew she wouldn’t be able to understand the shape of Enid’s hurt. Not fully.
Wednesday clashed with her own family often—sometimes with words, sometimes with blades—but she had never once doubted the way she felt about them and never had to wonder if they cared or not. If anything, she’d always been overwhelmed by how much they did and by how nothing she could ever do to push them away could ever be enough for them not to care. Even when she didn’t want them to, they were there. Especially then.
But what she had learned to understand was that Enid was the kind of person who made caring feel inevitable. Once Wednesday had started—even though it had happened accidentally at first and continuing doing it was deeply inconvenient, given Wednesday’s long-standing opinion on the matter—it had stopped being a choice. If Enid’s family didn’t feel the same pull, then, in Wednesday’s book, they were simply a waste of space. Wednesday had already dealt with those kinds of people before, and whenever they crossed her path or the one of someone she cared about, her sense of justice snapped to the only reasonable solution:
Lighten the load of morons this world carries on its back and simply eliminate the problem.
That was what she intended to do now, too.
“You know what they say about families…” Wednesday started. “You don’t get to choose which one you end up with, but you can choose how to dispose of them.”
Enid closed her eyes at that, a tired chuckle slipping out of her, which Wednesday realized was probably just the equivalent of an eye roll now that her headache wouldn’t allow the physical version without more pain drilling through her skull.
When she opened her eyes again, for the first time since speaking about her family, the heaviness in them had shifted. It wasn’t gone, but it had softened. “Wednesday, I don’t think anyone says that.”
“I can help you brainstorm some ideas,” Wednesday said, ignoring her because whenever she started imagining consequences for people who deserved them, she could hardly be stopped. “Or if you want to keep it simple, a classic house fire always works great, and it’s a clean job.”
“Really, it’s fine Wednesday. I think that…” She hesitated, fingers curling loosely into the fabric pooled in her lap, then released the breath. “…you know, instead of killing who doesn’t care about me i’d rather focus on looking for people who do.”
Wednesday blinked at her, genuinely baffled by the concept. “Won’t that take longer than starting a house fire?”
“Actually I’m well underway,” Enid said, softness settling into something steadier. “I’ve already found one person.”
Wednesday’s expression didn’t change. She made sure of that. But something in her chest shifted anyway, unmistakably. She obviously knew who Enid was referring to. Wednesday might have been a bit clueless when it came to picking up and decoding sentimental undertones in conversations, especially when they involved her, but she wasn’t that dense.
Enid, however, must have thought she was because she felt the need to spell it out for her. “I’m talking about you, dummy,” she said, playfully jamming a finger into her arm for even more emphasis.
Wednesday did not object to the name, nor recoil from the contact. After a brief internal assessment, she concluded Enid’s bold behavior was likely the result of a concussion she’d probably suffered while wandering those Canadian woods; she must have hit her head on more than one tree.
“That’s…kind of what I meant that night at the Lupin cages, too. When I talked about packs and you being mine,” Enid continued. “Do you remember?”
Wednesday nodded. She did remember. Although just like back then, she didn’t know what to say. Her mind supplied her with nothing useful—no retort or dismissal sharp enough to deflect or hide behind.
She always liked to have one of those ready to use for any eventuality, but she didn’t know how to respond to this kind. One where she had to confront the fact that she’d stuck around another person long enough to form some sort of partnership, alliance, or whatever relationship being part of a pack entailed. There was a serious possibility that the reason she couldn’t think of anything to say was that she simply didn’t mind Enid thinking they were a pack.
And the most unsettling part was that Wednesday didn’t mind thinking it herself.
“I think I’ve always felt like I had to earn my spot or make myself fit if I wanted to be part of a pack,” Enid continued, taking advantage of Wednesday’s silence. “A part of me always thought I’d never really belong to one because of that, let alone have one of my own, but…”
Her words trailed off just as her eyes settled on Wednesday, searching. There was something almost cautious in that glance, as though the rest of the sentence depended on what she might find in Wednesday’s face.
“…with you, I know I don’t have to prove anything or be someone I’m not for you to care.” Then she paused with the faintest crease forming between her brows.“Does that… make sense?”
Strangely enough, it did. Wednesday even found herself relating to what Enid was describing, because that sense of being accepted without conditions was exactly what she felt when she was with Enid. Though what was the best way to articulate that out loud, she didn’t know—she was a writer, but she’s never struggled this much with words.
She could have spared the trouble if she’d just retreated behind her preferred kind of deflection, for example, by commenting on how unfortunate Enid’s taste in company was if she’d chosen to befriend Wednesday out of all people. But Enid was still watching her patiently, as if she trusted that whatever Wednesday said next would be worth waiting for.
If Enid was going to speak plainly on this matter, then Wednesday could at least try to do the same. “I think I might know what you mean.”
“It’s not often someone chooses to stand beside me with full knowledge of how sharp-edged I am,” Wednesday said, her voice steady, matter-of-fact. “Few have tried getting too close, and all left bleeding, but you stayed.”
She tilted her head slightly, allowing a sliver of her usual dryness to slip back into her voice. “Though I haven’t decided if what causes you to stick around is a lack of self-preservation or just blind obstinacy.”
Enid hummed softly, the sound thoughtful more than anything else, before a small curve tugged at the corner of her mouth, warmth slowly creeping in to spread where hesitation had been just moments before. “Maybe there’s a third option you haven’t considered.”
Wednesday’s brow lifted a fraction, curiosity sharpening her expression. “Then enlighten me,”
“Sorry, can’t do that,” Enid said, the faintest hint of teasing returning to her tone, too. “You’ll have to figure it out on your own.”
Wednesday narrowed her eyes faintly, though the irritation behind them wasn’t directed at Enid but rather at the implication that there might be something regarding that she had missed, because that never happened. She was too observant for these kinds of missteps. However, dwelling on it now was probably not going to end in a sudden revelation.
“Well, whatever the reason is,” Wednesday said, “if this kind of persistence were to come from someone else, I’d detest it, but because it’s you, I find that I don’t dislike it as much.”
Enid’s face slowly managed to shape itself into that fond expression she sometimes regarded Wednesday with. Admittedly, Wednesday could never stare at it for too long; the skin at the base of her neck would always start to prickle with the urge to turn away before she could try. And this time was no different; before Enid’s look could get any warmer, Wednesday’s eyes briefly flickered down and then skidded away at once to lie somewhere else, anywhere but Enid.
Some things never changed. Some others, however, were inevitably bound to it, it seemed.
The events of the last few months were just a result of that. It had all begun with that hug; things had only escalated after that. Now she was even attempting to have conversations about…feelings without the whole thing ending up in bloodshed. She knew who she had to blame, or thank, for all of this.
Perhaps one day she’d even manage to tell Enid how much she truly cared about her without dancing around it.
If she’d ever get that far, maybe she wouldn’t mind things changing.