Nevermore, My Broken Heart

Chapter 10: Woe Be Mine

Santiago pushed through the double doors of Jericho General's psychiatric evaluation wing, her boots squeaking against polished linoleum. The antiseptic smell hit her immediately—that particular hospital cocktail of bleach and industrial air freshener that never quite masked the underlying scent of human desperation.

She'd told herself she was here for the coroner's preliminary report on Judi Spannegel, but her feet had carried her to the fourth floor first. The Jane Doe case had been eating at her for a week, ever since she'd found the woman huddled in that storage room like a wounded animal.

"Sheriff Santiago." Dr. Shepard emerged from the nurses' station, clipboard in hand and the kind of measured expression that could go either way. "I was hoping you'd stop by today."

Her pulse quickened. "Good news or bad news?"

"Cautiously optimistic news." Dr. Shepard gestured toward Room 412. "She's had her first real breakthrough since admission. Started this morning, actually—quite suddenly."

They walked past other rooms where muffled conversations leaked through partially closed doors. The sheriff caught fragments—family members pleading with patients, medical staff explaining medication schedules—the familiar soundtrack of institutional recovery.

"What kind of breakthrough?"

"Visual recognition improved dramatically. She successfully identified common objects during cognitive testing—cup, pen, clock. Yesterday she couldn't manage basic shapes." Dr. Shepard flipped through pages on her clipboard. "Response to verbal cues is more consistent. She's making eye contact during routine interactions instead of staring through us."

"Any indication what triggered the change?"

"That's the interesting part—it happened overnight. Sometimes trauma recovery works that way, but usually we see gradual improvement over weeks or months." Dr. Shepard paused outside Room 412. "This was more like... something unlocked."

Through the door's small window, she could see the woman sitting upright in bed instead of curled against the wall. Her posture looked more aware, less defensive. The hospital gown had been replaced with actual clothing—simple but dignified.

"She's eating solid food now," The doctor continued. "Speaking single words when prompted. Still can't tell us her name, but the neurological responses suggest memory pathways are reestablishing themselves."

"Can I see her?"

"Briefly. Don't expect conversation, but she might recognize you. You were the first safe person she encountered."

An unexpected tightness formed in Santiago's throat. In her line of work, positive outcomes were rare enough to feel precious when they arrived. Knowing that her decision to approach carefully instead of aggressively might have made the difference felt like a small victory against the violence that dominated her recent cases.

"Doctor, I need to ask—how long before we might get answers? Real answers about who she is, where she came from?"

"Weeks, possibly months. But today's progress is encouraging. Whatever institution failed her so completely, she's beginning to remember that not all authority figures mean harm."

Her radio crackled. "Sheriff, coroner's ready for you downstairs whenever you are."

She keyed the mic. "Copy that. Five minutes."

Duty called, but she found herself reluctant to leave this rare pocket of hope.

The temperature dropped with each level as she descended three flights of stairs to the basement morgue, until her breath misted slightly in the fluorescent-lit corridor. The hospital's upper floors carried the sounds of recovery—monitors beeping, staff conversations, televisions murmuring comfort. Down here, silence reigned except for the steady hum of refrigeration units.

The coroner looked up from his examination table as she entered, latex gloves already stained with the grim business of determining cause of death. His hair combed backward, wire-rimmed glasses reflecting the harsh overhead lighting.

"Sheriff. Right on time." He gestured toward the covered form on the examination table. "Your Ms. Spannegel presented some interesting findings."

Taking in the organization of his tools and documentation, Santiago approached. After dealing with supernatural crime scenes for months, she'd learned to appreciate professionals who maintained normal procedures in abnormal circumstances.

"Walk me through it."

He pulled back the sheet. "Initial examination confirmed significant blunt force trauma consistent with your report from the scene. Contusions along the torso, fractured ribs, defensive wounds on the forearms where she attempted to shield herself."

With a nod, she recognized injuries that matched Wednesday's account of bringing down the shelves. "Cause of death?"

"That's where it gets complicated." He moved to the head of the examination table, his tone shifting to something more troubled. "Severe cranial trauma, but not from the falling debris. The skull shows evidence of targeted penetration—something with significant force applied to specific points."

"Meaning?"

"The parietal and temporal bones were breached in a pattern consistent with... consumption." His professional composure wavered slightly. "Approximately seventy-three percent of the brain tissue has been removed through these access points. The extraction appears to have been the immediate cause of death."

Santiago blinked. "Consumption. You mean something ate—"

"Large portions of the cerebral cortex, yes. The trauma pattern suggests teeth designed for this specific purpose—not random animal predation, but targeted feeding." He adjusted his glasses. "I've never seen anything quite like it in the twenty years I've been here."

The camp incident flashed through her mind, the zombie's arrest during the chaos. Following its escape during the Willow Hill chaos, she'd written him off as a shambling, mindless creature that would probably collapse from decomposition within days.

"Doctor, how much brain tissue would something need to... to sustain itself? To recover from injuries?"

"That's outside my expertise, but based on the extraction pattern, whatever did this was selective. Higher brain functions, memory centers, cognitive processing areas." His voice carried scientific fascination warring with revulsion. "Almost like it knew exactly what it needed."

Her radio crackled again. She silenced it quickly, mind racing through implications. If it had fed on Judi's brain and targeted specific regions, it wasn't the mindless zombie they'd assumed. It was something far more dangerous—something that could think, plan, potentially even learn.

"Any idea on timeframe? When this happened?"

"Based on decomposition rates and environmental factors, sometime between three and four days ago."

Pulling out her phone, she scrolled to the incident timeline. Judi had somehow escaped the immediate devastation, only to encounter something worse in the aftermath.

"I need this report expedited," the sheriff said. "And I need it classified. Limited distribution only."

He raised an eyebrow. "Sheriff, if there's a dangerous animal or—"

"There's a dangerous individual. One we thought was dead." Her jaw tightened as she considered next steps. "I'm issuing an APB for the subject who did this. Previous assessment was incorrect—it's mobile, organized, and lethal."

"Subject? You mean human?"

"Previously human." She wasn't about to explain the finer points of zombie taxonomy to the coroner. "Doctor, I need your absolute discretion on this. The public doesn't need to panic about the specific nature of these injuries."

The coroner nodded slowly. "I'll code it as animal attack for the preliminary report. But Sheriff, if there's something out there that can do this kind of damage..."

"I'll handle it." Conviction filled her voice, though she didn't entirely feel it. Between Tyler's capture and transfer to that maximum security facility upstate—good riddance to that particular nightmare—and now this revelation about the zombie, her county was becoming a supernatural disaster zone.

At least Tyler was someone else's problem now. She'd specifically requested they place him as far from Nevermore and Wednesday Addams as possible. The kid had enough trauma without her obsessed Hyde potentially breaking out of a local facility.

But the zombie was different. A thinking predator with a taste for human intelligence. Literally.

"Send me everything as soon as it's ready," Santiago said, pulling the sheet back over Judi's remains. "And Doctor? If anyone asks, this was a library accident. Period."

His nod was grim but professional. "Understood."

Already shifting to tactical considerations, she headed for the elevator. Whatever the zombie had been before, feeding on Judi's brain had likely transformed it into something exponentially more dangerous. The question was: what did a regenerated zombie with enhanced cognitive function want next?

She had a sinking feeling she was about to find out.

Wednesday's consciousness surfaced gradually, pulled from dreamless sleep by pale light that filtered through their spider-web window. The digital clock on the nightstand displayed 6:23 AM in stark green numbers, but for once the early hour felt irrelevant against more pressing observations.

Curled against her side lay Enid, one arm draped across Wednesday's waist while her face pressed into the curve of her shoulder. Deep and even breathing indicated the first genuinely peaceful sleep she'd managed since Tyler's attack. No tremors, no restless shifting, no desperate grip that spoke of nightmares clawing at the edges of consciousness.

The contrast was striking. Their first night together had been punctuated by Enid's distressed murmurs, the way she'd startled awake with gasps that spoke of terror playing out behind closed eyelids. Now she slept with the boneless relaxation of someone who'd finally stopped fighting.

Because I'm in love with you.

The confession echoed through Wednesday's mind, each word carrying implications that her analytical nature couldn't help but examine. Months of hidden feelings. The careful way Enid had watched her during conversations, the protective positioning that went beyond friendship, the specific terror about being unable to shield Wednesday from harm.

Evidence had been accumulating for weeks, misinterpreted through the lens of assumptions that proved devastatingly wrong.

Her thumb traced an unconscious pattern against Enid's shoulder, the gesture foreign but somehow essential.

I don't know how to do this.

The admission felt simultaneously liberating and terrifying. Emotional navigation remained a frontier she'd never explored, full of variables she couldn't control and outcomes she couldn't predict. But as she watched the morning light play across Enid's peaceful features, Wednesday recognized something fundamental had shifted between them—not just acknowledgment of feelings, but the complete demolition of walls that had kept them carefully separated.

Enid's devastation pressed against her consciousness like a physical thing. Without my powers, I'm just some ordinary girl who fell in love with someone extraordinary. The self-assessment carried such brutal inaccuracy that anger kindled in Wednesday's chest. Not at Enid, but at every circumstance that had led her vibrant roommate to such crushing self-doubt.

Tyler's obsession with her had stolen more than Enid's supernatural abilities—it had taken her fundamental sense of identity, her confidence, her belief in her own worth. The device that suppressed outcast powers had somehow convinced her that she'd become ordinary—a conclusion so wrong it bordered on offensive.

Wednesday's mind began working through the problem. Enid's werewolf abilities remained absent, that much was confirmed. But other evidence suggested the effects weren't permanent—Bianca's and Kent's siren voices had returned, Bruno's own werewolf abilities came back during desperate times, Ajax's snakes had reawakened. Whatever Tyler had used created temporary suppression, not permanent damage.

The psychological impact, however, proved more complex.

I can't protect anyone anymore. The desperate words had torn from Enid's throat with conviction that spoke of days spent cataloguing her own inadequacies. Three days of isolation had transformed normal trauma response into something darker, more destructive—a systematic dismantling of everything she believed about herself.

Instinctively, Wednesday's arm tightened almost imperceptibly around Enid's sleeping form. The protective gesture felt natural despite her general discomfort with physical affection, as if her body understood what her mind was still processing.

Morning light gradually strengthened, casting familiar shadows across walls that had witnessed their friendship's evolution from antagonistic cohabitation to close friendship.

Now it would become something else entirely.

The future stretched ahead like an unexplored continent, filled with challenges Wednesday couldn't yet anticipate. Enid's powers might return, or might remain absent indefinitely. Judi's escape ensured ongoing threats that would test whatever bond they'd forged. The supernatural world would continue demanding responses that required capabilities neither of them possessed alone.

But as she listened to Enid's steady breathing and felt warmth seep through her wrinkled uniform, Wednesday recognized one certainty that superseded all other variables: they would face whatever came next together.

Together.

The word resonated with a significance that felt both enormous and exactly right.

Against Wednesday's side, Enid stirred, her body shifting with the slow emergence of consciousness. The change registered immediately—the subtle quickening of breath, the way muscle tension gradually replaced sleep's boneless relaxation. Wednesday kept her breathing carefully measured, unwilling to announce her wakefulness until Enid had oriented herself.

A soft intake of breath signaled the moment Enid registered their position. Her body went rigid, every muscle locking into place as awareness flooded back. Wednesday felt Enid's arm tighten involuntarily around her waist before conscious thought kicked in and she began the careful process of extraction.

"Oh," Enid breathed, the single syllable carrying layers of realization and embarrassment.

Moving away proved excruciating—Enid lifting her arm with deliberate slowness, her face reddening as she discovered how thoroughly they'd become entangled during sleep. Wednesday's own awareness sharpened painfully as warmth receded, leaving cool spaces where Enid's body had pressed against hers.

Both girls sat up simultaneously, creating careful distance while avoiding the minefield of direct eye contact. The spider-web window framed them in morning light that felt too bright, too revealing after the gentle shadows they'd shared.

"I didn't mean to..." Enid's voice trailed off as she gestured vaguely at the space between them, her cheeks still flush with embarrassment.

"It's fine," Wednesday replied, though her voice carried a stiffness that hadn't been present the night before.

The careful control she prided herself on felt fragile, threatened by proximity that made her hyperaware of every detail—the way Enid's uniform had wrinkled during sleep, the soft morning light catching rainbow streaks in her hair, the lingering scent of vanilla that seemed to cling to Wednesday's own furrowed uniform.

They moved around each other carefully, each gesture chosen to avoid accidental contact. Slipping from beneath the colorful sheets, Wednesday crossed to her dresser, her bare feet silent against cold floors. Behind her came the soft rustle of bedding, the gentle creak of springs as weight shifted.

"We should probably..." Enid began, then stopped, apparently unable to complete the thought.

Fingers closing around a fresh uniform, Wednesday found the familiar fabric providing refuge from complexity that felt too vast to navigate successfully. "Shower," she agreed, though the word emerged more tersely than intended.

She gathered her bathroom caddy. Toothbrush, facial cleanser, a small bottle of shampoo—concrete objects that demanded no emotional interpretation.

Across the room, Enid busied herself with similar preparations, pulling clothes from her own dresser while maintaining the distance they'd established. Her movements carried the same studied casualness Wednesday recognized from her own performance, both of them working to project normalcy while internally cataloguing every sensation.

Unspoken questions hummed in the air between them, neither seemingly prepared to voice them. Wednesday caught herself stealing glances at Enid's reflection in their shared mirror, noting the way her roommate's fingers trembled slightly as she brushed through sleep-tangled hair.

What does this mean? What happens now?

These questions circled through Wednesday's mind like persistent ghosts, demanding attention she wasn't equipped to provide. Everything between them had shifted, but the mechanisms for navigating this new reality remained frustratingly unclear.

"I should..." Wednesday began, then found herself equally unable to complete the thought. Her usual repertoire of language felt inadequate against everything they'd acknowledged and everything that remained unresolved.

Their eyes met briefly in the mirror before both looked away, the moment stretching with awkward awareness that felt both precious and unbearable.

With her hand on the bathroom caddy, Wednesday paused, drawn by Enid's unsettled energy pulling at her awareness like gravity. Behind her came the telltale sounds of nervous fidgeting—the soft rustle of fabric, the quiet intake of breath that preceded one of Enid's characteristic verbal spirals.

"Wednesday, wait." The words tumbled out in a rush, exactly as anticipated. "I need to—I mean, about last night. I think I might have—"

"Don't." The single word cut through Enid's gathering momentum instantly. Turning to face her roommate directly, Wednesday's dark eyes met uncertain blue. "Whatever you're about to say, don't."

Enid's mouth opened, then closed, confusion flickering across her features. "But I—"

"You're about to tell me you said too much. That your confession was the product of exhaustion or trauma or some other mitigating factor." Quiet certainty filled Wednesday's voice. "You're going to attempt to minimize what you shared, to make it smaller and more manageable for my benefit."

The accuracy of her assessment was written across Enid's face in real time. Her roommate's hands twisted together, a gesture Wednesday had learned to recognize as distress made manifest.

"I don't want you to feel obligated," Enid said, her voice small. "Just because I dumped all my feelings on you doesn't mean you have to—"

"Enid." Wednesday's interruption emerged gentler than her usual corrections, though no less firm. "Stop diminishing yourself."

Setting her bathroom caddy aside, she took a deliberate step closer, closing some of the careful distance they'd established. The movement required conscious effort—her instincts still whispered warnings about emotional vulnerability—but Enid's obvious distress overrode her defensive programming.

"What you told me last night wasn't a burden to be managed," Wednesday continued, her mind working to translate complex feelings into words Enid could accept. "It was the truth. Rare, unfiltered truth that most people spend their entire lives avoiding."

Enid's breathing hitched slightly, hope and uncertainty warring across her expressive features. "But I know this isn't... I mean, you don't do feelings. And I basically just exploded all over you with mine."

"No. You trusted me with yours. There's a significant difference."

Studying Enid's face, Wednesday noted the way morning light caught the remnants of tears on her cheeks, the exhaustion that lingered despite genuine sleep. Three days of isolation had etched lines that shouldn't exist on someone so young, testament to pain she'd carried alone.

"This is complex," Wednesday acknowledged, her voice dropping lower. "Your abilities remain absent. Neither of us possesses adequate experience navigating emotional matters of this magnitude. External threats continue to exist."

She watched Enid's expression begin to crumple, the careful hope dimming as Wednesday catalogued obstacles.

"However," Wednesday continued before despair could fully take hold, "complexity doesn't negate value. It simply requires patience and a careful approach."

"What does that mean?" Enid's voice carried the desperate need for clarity.

Fingers finding the edge of the colorful bedspread, Wednesday sought stability as she ventured into unfamiliar terrain. "It means we proceed carefully. Without predetermined expectations or artificial timelines. We address your recovery as our primary concern while allowing... this... to develop organically."

The word 'this' hung between them, inadequate but somehow capturing the unnamed thing that had shifted in their dynamic. Wednesday lacked vocabulary for relationships that existed outside traditional categories, but perhaps simple words mattered less than acknowledgment.

"You're not running away," Enid said, and it wasn't quite a question.

"I don't run." Wednesday's mouth curved into something that almost resembled a smile. "I strategically retreat when necessary. This isn't one of those situations."

Relief flooded Enid's features so powerfully that Wednesday felt an answering tightness in her own chest. Seeing her roommate's obvious gratitude created uncomfortable recognition of how thoroughly she'd failed to provide reassurance when it was needed most.

"I told you last night that I wasn't going anywhere," Wednesday said, her voice carrying a quiet promise. "That remains accurate. Regardless of what happens with your abilities, regardless of how long it takes us to understand what we're doing."

Enid's hand moved toward Wednesday's, then hesitated, uncertainty making her fingers tremble in the space between them. The gesture was so tentative, so careful, that something shifted in Wednesday's chest—not the sharp analysis that usually drove her actions, but something warmer and more protective.

Closing the remaining distance, Wednesday's pale fingers intertwined with Enid's in a gesture that felt both foreign and inevitable. The contact sent electricity through her nervous system, but she maintained it despite her instinctive desire to retreat.

"One step at a time," she said, the words emerging softer than usual. "No pressure. No expectations beyond honesty and patience."

"Together?" Enid's voice carried the same desperate hope that had threaded through her confession the night before.

"Together," Wednesday confirmed, her thumb brushing across Enid's knuckles in a gesture that surprised them both with its tenderness.

Breaking the contact reluctantly, Wednesday moved back toward the door, her bathroom caddy and fresh uniform tucked under one arm. The familiar routine provided anchor against the emotional complexity that had redefined their entire dynamic in the span of twelve hours. Her fingers closed around the door handle, cool metal offering momentary refuge from the warmth that still lingered where Enid's hand had touched hers.

"I'll be back shortly."

The hallway's dim lighting welcomed her with blessed anonymity, a neutral space where she could process without Enid's perceptive gaze cataloguing every micro-expression. Pulling the door closed behind her, the soft click marked the boundary between their shared intimacy and the world beyond.

Then she heard it.

A squeal of pure, unfiltered joy erupted from their room—high-pitched and absolutely delighted, the sound muffled by the door but unmistakably Enid. It carried no trace of the hollow performance that had characterized her behavior for days, no careful modulation designed to convince herself or others that everything was fine. This was genuine euphoria breaking free after three days of suppression, happiness so authentic it seemed to vibrate through the ancient stonework.

Wednesday froze in the corridor, her hand still resting against the door handle as the sound registered fully. After months of hidden feelings, after the devastating confession that had torn through Enid's defenses like a blade, after her desperate fear that admitting the truth would destroy everything between them—this. Simple, uncomplicated joy at discovering her feelings weren't unrequited.

The sound faded quickly, probably smothered by Enid's recognition that their neighbors might hear, but its echo seemed to linger in Wednesday's consciousness like a melody she couldn't shake. When had anyone ever responded to her presence with such unguarded happiness? When had she ever been the source of someone's genuine delight rather than their calculated tolerance?

Rare, unfiltered truth, she'd told Enid moments ago. But perhaps the squeal was equally rare—a response unmarked by pretense or social conditioning, driven purely by relief and gratitude and something deeper that Wednesday wasn't ready to name.

The corners of her mouth curved upward before she could prevent the gesture. Not the sharp smile that accompanied successful manipulations or solved mysteries, but something smaller and more genuine. Something that acknowledged the strange pleasure of being someone's source of happiness rather than their source of unease.

As she headed toward the bathroom, her bare feet silent against worn floors, that impossible sound replayed in her mind. Whatever careful steps lay ahead, whatever challenges they'd face as they navigated this new terrain together, at least she now understood one fundamental truth: making Enid Sinclair happy was a sensation she could grow accustomed to experiencing.

Perhaps emotional complexity wasn't entirely unbearable after all.

The late afternoon sunlight filtered through Nevermore's ancient windows, casting long shadows across the courtyard where Enid found herself face-to-face with Bruno for the first time since her four-day disappearing act. Her stomach twisted with guilt as she took in his expression—relief mixed with the kind of careful concern that spoke of someone who'd been genuinely worried.

"I'm so sorry," she began, the words tumbling out in a rush before she lost her nerve. "Bruno, I'm really, really sorry about ignoring all your calls and texts. I know you were worried, and I just... I couldn't handle talking to anyone."

He studied her face, those warm eyes taking in details that probably revealed more about her emotional state than she wanted to admit. But instead of the hurt or frustration she'd braced herself for, his shoulders relaxed with visible relief.

"Hey, you're talking now. That's what matters." His voice carried that steady warmth she'd come to associate with safety, no trace of resentment despite how thoroughly she'd shut him out. "I was scared you were going to disappear completely."

"I almost did." The admission hurt, but he deserved the truth. "I was so lost, Bruno. I felt like I was suffocating and taking everyone down with me, so I thought if I just... stayed away from everyone, maybe I could figure out how to be okay on my own."

"And did you? Figure it out on your own?"

Enid's cheeks flushed as memories from the previous night flooded back—Wednesday's careful tenderness, the way her feelings had spilled out uncontrollably, the impossible relief of discovering her feelings weren't one-sided.

"Not exactly," she said, unable to suppress the smile that tugged at her lips. "Wednesday and I... we talked. Really talked. About everything."

Bruno's expression shifted, something that looked suspiciously like satisfaction flickering across his features. "Yeah? How'd that go?"

"Better than I thought possible." The words came out softer, wonder still threading through her voice. "She doesn't hate me for being in love with her. She actually... I think she might feel something too. We're going to take things slow and figure it out together."

"I'm happy for you, Enid. Really." The sincerity in his tone made her chest tighten with gratitude. Here was someone she'd dated, someone she'd hurt with her confused feelings, and he was genuinely celebrating her happiness. "You deserve someone who sees how amazing you are."

Tears pricked at her eyes as the full weight of his grace hit her. "You're incredible, you know that? I treated you terribly when we were dating, all confused about my feelings, and then I completely ignored you for three days when you were just trying to help."

"You were figuring yourself out. That's not terrible—that's normal." Bruno's hand found her shoulder, a gesture of friendship that carried no lingering romantic tension. "Besides, I could see how you looked at her, even when we were together. Took me a while to understand what it meant, but I got there eventually."

Heat flooded her cheeks. "Oh god, was it really that obvious?"

"Only to someone who was paying attention. And only because I cared about you enough to notice." His smile was gentle, completely free of bitterness. "I wanted you to be happy, even if it wasn't with me."

The simple kindness of it made her want to cry all over again. "Bruno, I need you to know—if Wednesday hadn't talked to you yesterday, I don't think any of this would have happened. I was spiraling so hard, convinced I had to handle everything alone. But you made her realize I was in trouble."

"She was already worried about you. I just gave her some missing pieces." He paused, studying her face. "She really cares about you, you know. I've never seen her look that desperate about anything."

"Wednesday? Desperate?" The idea seemed almost impossible.

"When she realized you were hurting and she didn't know how to help." Bruno's voice dropped lower, more serious. "She was beating herself up pretty hard about not seeing what was happening sooner."

"I was trying so hard to protect everyone from my breakdown that I ended up hurting her too."

"But you're not doing that anymore, right? You're letting people in?"

She nodded, meaning it completely. "I'm done hiding. No more pretending I'm fine when I'm not. I promise."

"Good." Bruno's relief was palpable. "Because we were all worried about you. Ajax, Bianca, Kent—everyone noticed you disappearing."

"I'll make it up to everyone," she said earnestly. "Starting with actually showing up to things again and answering my phone like a normal person."

"Speaking of showing up," Bruno said, his expression shifting toward something that might have been amusement, "don't you have somewhere to be? Didn't you say something about meeting up with Wednesday?"

Butterflies exploded in Enid's stomach at the reminder. "I did. I should probably..." She trailed off, suddenly nervous about what Wednesday might want to discuss.

"Go," Bruno said, giving her shoulder an encouraging squeeze. "And Enid? Whatever happens, you've got people who care about you. Don't forget that."

She nodded and then made her way through Nevermore's corridors toward the music wing, butterflies dancing in her stomach with each step. The past few days had left her feeling like she was walking on unfamiliar ground—still fragile around the edges but no longer hollow inside, still worried about her missing abilities but no longer consumed by the crushing certainty that she was worthless without them.

Wednesday wants to see me.

The thought sent warmth spiraling through her chest, different from the desperate clinging of the night before. This felt steadier somehow, less like gasping for air and more like finally learning to breathe again after a long time underwater.

As she approached the music classroom, the haunting melody of a cello drifted through the corridors. The sound was achingly beautiful—complex and layered in a way that could only come from someone with genuine skill. Wednesday's playing had always impressed her, but this felt different. More expressive, somehow. Less like technical perfection and more like actual emotion being channeled through strings and bow.

Enid paused outside the door, listening to the music wash over her. Whatever Wednesday had planned, it was clearly important enough to involve her beloved cello. The melody crescendoed, then gentled into something that sounded almost like hope.

She pushed open the door and stopped short.

At the front of the classroom sat Wednesday with her instrument cradled between her knees, dark eyes focused on the sheet music before her. But she wasn't alone. Isadora Capri stood near the piano, her striking ginger hair catching the afternoon light as she observed the cello performance with the intensity of someone evaluating technical execution.

Both women looked up as Enid entered, and she felt heat creep up her neck under their combined attention.

"Sorry, I didn't realize you had company," Enid said, suddenly uncertain. Had she misunderstood Wednesday's invitation? Was this a music lesson rather than… whatever she'd been hoping for?

Setting aside her bow, Wednesday rose from her chair, her expression carrying that familiar analytical quality that softened slightly when her gaze met Enid's. "You're precisely on time. Professor Capri and I were just finalizing arrangements."

"Arrangements?" Enid's eyebrows rose as she looked between them.

The professor also rose to her feet, her presence commanding attention even in silence. When she spoke, her voice carried the direct intensity Enid had learned to expect from Nevermore's most enigmatic instructor.

"Your werewolf abilities," Capri said without preamble. "Wednesday believes I might be able to help restore them."

Enid's breath caught in her throat, hope and terror colliding so violently she felt dizzy. "You can do that?"

"Possibly." The professor's expression remained carefully neutral. "But I want to be clear about limitations and risks before we discuss specifics. False hope serves no one."

Taking a step forward, Wednesday positioned herself where she could maintain eye contact with both Enid and Capri. "I've agreed to join Professor Capri's orchestra for Saturday's gala," she said, her tone carefully neutral. "In exchange for her assistance with your recovery."

Enid's eyes widened. This was Wednesday—who avoided group activities with religious devotion, who considered most social gatherings a form of torture, who had once described school performances as "institutionalized mediocrity designed to showcase the lowest common denominator."

"You what?" The question emerged as barely a whisper.

"The gala requires a full orchestra," Wednesday explained. "Professor Capri needed a cellist. I needed someone with expertise in lycanthropic transformation."

Gratitude crashed through Enid's chest so powerfully that her knees nearly buckled. Wednesday had traded her solitude, her carefully maintained distance from Nevermore's social obligations, for the possibility of helping restore abilities that might not even be recoverable.

"Wednesday," she breathed, tears already blurring her vision. "You hate performing. You hate being on display."

"I hate many things," came the matter-of-fact reply. "That doesn't prevent me from enduring them when the circumstances call for it."

The careful way Wednesday spoke around the deeper truth made Enid's throat tighten with emotion. This was love expressed in Wednesday's language—practical action that cost her something personally, delivered without fanfare or expectation of gratitude.

Moving to the front of the classroom, Professor Capri commanded their attention. The afternoon light caught the copper highlights in her hair, emphasizing the intensity in her eyes as she prepared to deliver what was clearly difficult information.

"I need to be transparent about my limitations," she began. "I have no prior experience with supernatural abilities being suppressed for this duration. What Tyler Galpin's device accomplished goes beyond anything I've encountered throughout my years."

Enid's heart sank slightly, hope dimming as reality asserted itself. Of course it wouldn't be simple. Nothing in her life ever was.

"However," Capri continued, "there is one possibility. Tomorrow night brings a blood moon—an event that significantly amplifies lycanthropic energy. I believe we could attempt a lunar re-attunement ritual."

"Re-attunement?" Wednesday's voice carried sharp curiosity. "Explain the methodology."

"The ritual would help reconnect Enid with her wolf spirit," Capri explained, her gaze shifting between them. "Whatever the device did, it severed the connection between her human consciousness and her lycanthropic nature. A blood moon's energy might be powerful enough to re-establish that bond."

Hope flared anew in Enid's chest. "You think it could actually work?"

The professor's expression remained carefully neutral. "Possibly. But I won't lie to you about the risks involved."

"What risks?" Wednesday asked, though her tone suggested she'd already begun calculating potential complications.

"Blood moons make werewolves more feral, less controlled," Capri said bluntly. "If the ritual successfully triggers Enid's transformation, she might lose human consciousness entirely. She could become violent toward anyone nearby—especially those she's most desperate to protect."

The possibility sent a wave of terror through Enid's chest. The thought of hurting Wednesday, of becoming the very threat she'd been terrified of being unable to defend against, chipped away at her heart.

"How violent?" Wednesday pressed.

"Full lunar madness," came the unflinching reply. "No recognition of friend versus foe. Pure predatory instinct aimed at anything that moves."

Overwhelmed by the weight of possibilities, Enid sank into one of the chairs. "So I could get my powers back, but I might hurt you in the process."

"I've learned to control myself during blood moons," Capri said, settling into her own chair. "But that control took decades to develop. Meditation techniques, understanding my own triggers, recognizing the warning signs. This level of mastery doesn't happen overnight."

"What would the ritual require?" Wednesday asked.

"Time to gather proper materials and prepare the ritual space," the professor explained. "Sacred herbs, moon-charged crystals, protective circles. This isn't something that can be improvised safely."

Staring at her hands, Enid processed the impossible choice. Risk everything for a chance to reclaim what she'd lost, or accept that her werewolf abilities might be gone forever. The silence stretched between them as she weighed hope against terror.

"I want to try it," she said finally, the words emerging stronger than she felt.

Wednesday turned to study her face. "The risks—"

"I know the risks," Enid interrupted gently. "But I also know what it feels like to be powerless. To watch everyone I care about face danger while I can't help." She met Wednesday's dark gaze directly. "I need to try, Wednesday. I need to know if I can get my wolf back."

"And if you lose control during the transformation?"

The question hung heavy in the air, loaded with implications neither wanted to fully examine. Enid's throat tightened as she forced herself to voice the truth.

"Then you'll have to stop me. Whatever it takes."

Wednesday's expression didn't change, but something flickered behind her eyes—not fear, but calculation.

"I'll be present during the ritual," she stated with absolute certainty.

"Wednesday, no." Enid shook her head frantically. "If I lose control, if I can't recognize you—"

"Then I'll adapt accordingly." Her voice brooked no argument. "You're not facing this alone."

The exchange drew interest from Capri, whose professional mask slipped slightly to reveal something that might have been approval.

"I can establish protective measures," the professor offered. "Containment circles, emergency sedatives. But understand—if things go wrong, they'll go wrong quickly."

The magnitude of what Wednesday was offering hit Enid fully, bringing tears to her eyes. Not just the gala performance, not just the possibility of recovery, but willingness to face genuine danger from the person she cared about most.

"You're sure?" Enid whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

Stepping closer, Wednesday's presence remained steady and reassuring despite the conversation's dire implications. "I'm sure."

The simple certainty in her voice made Enid's chest tighten with overwhelming gratitude. After days of isolation, of believing she'd become nothing but a burden, here was proof that she mattered enough for someone to risk everything.

"Thank you," she breathed, the words inadequate for the depth of what she felt. "Both of you. For caring enough to try."

Professor Capri rose to her feet, her movements purposeful as she prepared to begin whatever preparations the ritual would require. "Tomorrow at sunset, then. The ceremony will begin as the blood moon rises."

As afternoon light gradually dimmed outside the classroom windows, Enid felt anticipation and terror warring in her chest. Tomorrow night, she could either reclaim her werewolf abilities or potentially lose herself entirely.

But she wouldn't face it alone.

Wednesday stood before the ornate mirror in her mother's bedroom, her reflection multiplied infinitely in the antique glass that had witnessed decades of Addams family preparations. The room's gothic elegance pressed against her consciousness—velvet drapes that absorbed light like secrets, furniture carved from ebony that seemed to pulse with its own dark life, and candles that cast dancing shadows across surfaces polished to obsidian perfection.

The door whispered open behind her, silk against hardwood, as Morticia entered bearing an armload of black gowns that cascaded like liquid midnight across her arms. Each dress appeared to be a masterpiece of dark couture, fabrics that caught candlelight and held it prisoner, textures that promised both elegance and subtle menace.

"Five options," Morticia announced, arranging the gowns across her four-poster bed. "Though I confess myself surprised that we're having this conversation at all."

Her reflection stared back with characteristic stoicism as she approached the first dress—a Victorian Gothic creation that seemed designed to transform its wearer into a monument to elaborate suffering. Black lace cascaded in tiers, pearl buttons marched in formation from throat to hem, and a bustle that could double as architectural support dominated the silhouette.

"Surprised by what?"

"That my daughter, who has avoided nearly every social function at Nevermore, has voluntarily committed to performing before the entire academy."

She held the dress against her frame, immediately noting how the bustle would restrict movement and the lace would catch on any surface within a three-foot radius. The pearl buttons alone constituted a criminal offense against practicality.

"This would render me an immobile decoration," she observed, setting it aside with distain.

Morticia's smile carried maternal amusement as she watched her daughter dismiss careful craftsmanship with a single glance. "Perhaps the midnight siren design would suit you better."

The second gown emerged sleek and predatory, its plunging neckline designed to weaponize femininity in ways that made Wednesday's jaw tighten involuntarily. The fabric clung like a second skin, promising to reveal far more than she intended to display before Nevermore's assembled population.

"Absolutely not." She held it at arm's length as if it might contaminate her through proximity. "I refuse to provide entertainment beyond musical performance."

"Then explain," Morticia said, settling gracefully into her velvet chair, "what prompted this unprecedented choice."

Moving to the third option—a more conservative creation that still managed to suggest sophistication without demanding exhibitionism—Wednesday replied, "I required Professor Capri's expertise. She required a cellist."

"Expertise regarding what, precisely?"

"Enid's condition." The words emerged flatly, though her fingers tightened slightly against the dress's fabric. "Tomorrow night's blood moon presents an opportunity to restore her lycanthropic abilities. Professor Capri believes a lunar re-attunement ritual might succeed where conventional approaches have failed."

Morticia's dark eyes sharpened with interest. "And the cost of this assistance?"

"One evening of enduring orchestral mediocrity and social observation." Her tone suggested she was discussing necessary dental surgery. "A reasonable exchange for the possibility of returning Enid to her full capabilities."

"I see." Morticia's voice carried undertones that suggested she saw considerably more than Wednesday had intended to reveal. "How remarkably... practical of you."

She lifted the third gown—a romantic creation of flowing chiffon that cascaded from off-shoulder sleeves like captured storm clouds. Embroidered roses traced delicate patterns across the bodice, their thorned stems rendered in silver thread that caught candlelight with unsettling beauty. The dress managed to suggest both elegance and mortality, though something about its traditionally feminine silhouette made her pause.

"The suffering here is aesthetically pleasing, at least," she observed, holding it against her frame while studying her reflection.

"The romantic mourning style has always possessed a certain appeal," Morticia replied, though her dark eyes had taken on that particular intensity Wednesday recognized as maternal investigation beginning in earnest. "Though I find myself curious about your sudden investment in Enid's supernatural recovery."

Her hands stilled against the chiffon as she processed the subtle shift in her mother's tone. The dress suddenly felt heavier, its romantic flourishes a stark contrast to the clinical language she'd been using to describe Enid's situation.

"Her abilities were suppressed during Tyler's attack at the festival," she said, setting the dress aside and reaching for the fourth option. "And the effects have persisted longer than anticipated."

The fourth gown emerged severe and uncompromising—structured wool in midnight black, adorned with jet beading that absorbed light rather than reflecting it. The design spoke of Victorian mourning rituals, formal grief made manifest in fabric and thread. Even for Wednesday's aesthetic preferences, it carried an air of finality that felt excessive.

"How has she been managing this... suppression?" Morticia's question carried the careful neutrality of someone probing for deeper truths.

Examining how the mourning dress would restrict movement while projecting an image of untouchable sorrow, Wednesday replied, "Poorly. The loss of her lycanthropic identity has created psychological complications beyond the physical limitations."

"And your relationship during this difficult period?"

The question hung in the air, heavy with implications Wednesday wasn't entirely keen to examine. She studied her reflection in the severe dress, its funeral elegance transforming her into something even more forbidding than usual.

"We've come to an understanding," she said finally, her voice carrying uncharacteristic hesitation. "Circumstances necessitated honesty about concerns we'd both avoided."

Morticia's eyebrows rose fractionally. "What manner of concerns?"

Wednesday's throat tightened as she registered the careful trap her mother had constructed.

The mourning dress seemed appropriate suddenly—she felt as though she were attending the funeral of her own emotional distance.

"Enid harbored feelings she believed were unreciprocated," Wednesday admitted, the words emerging more stiffly than intended. "Her recent distress stemmed partially from fear that her compromised abilities would render her... inadequate to maintain our association."

"And were they? Unreciprocated?"

The question cut through her careful deflections to the heart of what she'd been avoiding. She stared at her reflection, seeing someone who looked simultaneously more vulnerable and more determined than she remembered being.

"No," she said quietly. "They were not."

The admission settled into the candlelit space between them, carrying weight that transformed the entire conversation. Morticia's smile carried satisfaction and something deeper—maternal recognition of truths her daughter was finally ready to acknowledge.

She examined the fifth dress with growing resignation, its black taffeta rustling like autumn leaves as layers of fabric unfurled in her hands. The ballgown silhouette ballooned outward from a fitted bodice, creating a silhouette that could house a small family of bats within its voluminous skirts. Gothic princess styling transformed what might have been elegant into something approaching theatrical costume.

"This resembles medieval royalty cosplay," she observed, holding it against her frame. The dress's dramatic proportions made her reflection resemble a chess piece more than a person.

"Perhaps not ideal for cello performance," Morticia agreed, though her attention seemed focused more on Wednesday's previous admission than sartorial concerns. "You mentioned that Enid's feelings were... reciprocated."

Her grip tightened on the taffeta as she recognized the careful way her mother had circled back to emotional territory. "I told her that her concerns about adequacy were unfounded."

"How remarkably diplomatic of you." The observation carried gentle mockery. "Though I suspect the reality involves considerably more complexity than you're willing to divulge."

The cottage door opened with its familiar protest, admitting Gomez in a flourish of burgundy velvet and theatrical gestures. His dark eyes immediately fixed on the ballgown Wednesday held, then shifted to Morticia with raised eyebrows that spoke of husbandly curiosity.

"Cara mía, are we dressing Wednesday for conquest or coronation?"

"Neither," Wednesday replied flatly, setting the offensive gown aside. "I'm selecting attire for involuntary public display."

Gomez moved to Morticia's side with characteristic enthusiasm, pressing a kiss to her hand before settling into the chair beside her. "Ah, the gala! And this sudden willingness to perform publicly—dare I hope it involves matters of the heart?"

"It involves supernatural restoration and academic obligation," Wednesday corrected, though she caught the knowing look that passed between her parents. "Nothing more."

"Academic obligation," Morticia repeated thoughtfully. "Yet you spoke of understanding, of reciprocated feelings, of ensuring Enid's recovery with remarkable personal devotion."

A flush crept up her neck as their combined attention focused on nuances she'd hoped to avoid discussing. "Enid's well-being affects our investigative partnership. Her compromised abilities create disadvantages."

"Disadvantages," Gomez mused, his grin widening. "How fascinating that practical concerns would inspire such... fierce loyalty."

"I protect valuable partnerships. It's logical resource management."

Morticia's smile carried dangerous amusement. "Is that what we're calling it?"

The weight of their combined perceptiveness made Wednesday's jaw tighten. Her parents possessed decades of experience reading emotional subtext, particularly regarding matters they found personally compelling. Their obvious delight at whatever conclusions they were drawing created discomfort that was quickly spreading through her chest.

"The situation has complexity," she said carefully. "Current circumstances demanded honesty about feelings neither of us had addressed."

"Feelings." Gomez's eyes sparkled with the particular joy he reserved for witnessing romance in its various forms. "How wonderfully mysterious. Do these feelings perhaps explain why you've agreed to public performance for the first time in your musical career?"

Wednesday studied her reflection rather than meeting their gazes directly. "Professor Capri required a cellist. I required her expertise. It was a simple transaction."

"And Enid's reaction to this sacrifice on her behalf?"

The question caught Wednesday off guard, sending warmth through her chest as she remembered the desperate gratitude in Enid's voice, the way her eyes had brightened with tears when she'd understood what Wednesday had committed to for her sake.

"She was... appreciative," Wednesday admitted, the word inadequate for describing Enid's overwhelming relief.

Morticia leaned forward slightly, her voice carrying the gentle certainty of someone who had reached inescapable conclusions. "Perhaps you should ask her to accompany you properly. As your escort for the evening."

"Absolutely not." The response emerged with characteristic sharpness, slicing through whatever romantic sentiment her mother was attempting to construct. "I will endure one evening of public scrutiny for practical purposes. I will not compound that suffering by transforming it into social theater."

The silence stretched between them, weighted with expectations Wednesday couldn't meet and vulnerabilities she'd never learned to navigate. Her parents' combined attention felt like standing under a microscope, every micro-expression interpreted through the lens of their own legendary romance.

"I don't know how," she said finally, the admission scraping her throat raw. "I don't know how to properly court someone or make romantic gestures that aren't miscalculations."

The words emerged with characteristic bluntness, but beneath the flat delivery lay something fragile—a confession of inadequacy from someone who prided herself on competence in all endeavors.

Morticia's expression softened immediately, maternal recognition replacing analytical amusement. "Oh, darling, none of us are born knowing how to be romantic. It's all fumbling in the dark until something works."

"Your mother is being modest," Gomez said with a grin. "We were absolutely catastrophic at romance in the beginning. Magnificent disasters, every attempt."

Wednesday's dark eyes fixed on her father. "Define disasters."

"Oh, where do I begin?" Gomez settled back with relish. "The poisoned chocolates that put your mother's roommate in the infirmary for a week. The midnight duel where I thought I'd impress her with my swordplay—she had me flat on my back in thirty seconds."

"He lost spectacularly," Morticia added with affection. "Though his willingness to face certain defeat proved more romantic than victory would have been."

"The secret isn't being perfect," Gomez continued, eyes twinkling. "It's paying attention to what actually matters to them."

Wednesday processed this information with clinical focus, her mind already analyzing applications. "Enid prefers directness to theatrics. She values genuine gestures over elaborate displays."

"Precisely." Morticia's approval carried warmth. "Your decision to join the orchestra—that demonstrates devotion in ways she can actually appreciate."

"How so?"

"Because you detest performing," Gomez said simply. "You've actively avoided public display your entire life. Yet you committed to the orchestra specifically to help restore her abilities."

Her fingertips traced patterns against her dark skirt as she considered this perspective. "It was a logical exchange. Her abilities are valuable to our... partnership."

"And yet," Morticia observed gently, "you could have sought Professor Capri's assistance through alternative negotiations. Academic favors, family connections, monetary compensation. You chose the option that required personal discomfort."

The observation settled into Wednesday's consciousness like a puzzle piece clicking into place. She had possessed other avenues for securing Capri's cooperation, but she'd instinctively selected the path that demonstrated commitment through action rather than resources.

"How does one extend such an invitation properly?"

"Tell her the truth," Morticia said softly. "That you want her there. Not because you need an escort, but because her being there with you would make the whole evening... tolerable."

"Ask her to be your partner for the evening," Gomez said, leaning forward eagerly. "Tell her you're terrified and could use a friendly face in the crowd."

"And if she declines?"

"She won't," Morticia said with certainty. "Though her acceptance won't stem from obligation or social expectation. It will come from understanding that you want to include her in something meaningful to you."

Wednesday processed this information like evidence in a case file. Romance, apparently, followed patterns that could be analyzed and understood—if one possessed the proper data.

"Wait here," Morticia said suddenly, rising from her chair with purpose. "I have something that might suit you perfectly."

She disappeared into the depths of her closet, leaving Wednesday alone with Gomez's knowing smile and the weight of decisions she was finally ready to make.

"Your mother wore it during our final term at Nevermore," Gomez explained as fabric rustled from the hidden depths. "The night I first realized I would marry her, though I didn't possess sufficient courage to admit it at the time."

Morticia emerged carrying a gown—elegant but severe, sophisticated without sacrificing her essential darkness. The dress whispered promises of transformation while remaining unmistakably appropriate for someone who preferred shadows to spotlights.

"Try it," Morticia said simply, her voice carrying maternal satisfaction.

As Wednesday lifted the dress and moved toward the mirror, she felt something shift in her chest—not the sharp analysis that usually drove her decisions, but something warmer and more determined. She was beginning to understand how to approach Enid, how to frame an invitation that honored both their natures while acknowledging what had changed between them.

The perfect dress was simply the beginning.

Bianca's usual stride felt less assured as she approached Principal Dort's office door. The weight of recent events—Tyler's attack, her mother's arrest, the police station incident, the constant manipulation—had worn down her typical armor of confidence. She knocked twice and entered at his invitation, finding him seated behind his mahogany desk with that smile that never quite reached his ice-blue eyes.

"Miss Barclay." Dort gestured toward the chair across from his desk. "What brings you by this afternoon?"

She settled into the seat, her posture straighter than usual—a defensive habit from years of navigating Morning Song's power dynamics. "I wanted to update you on my mother's situation. Gideon has been arrested by federal authorities."

"Ah." Dort leaned back slightly, his fingers steepling. "And Mrs. Barclay's involvement in Morning Song's... irregularities?"

"Cleared completely." The words came out firmer than she felt. "The FBI confirmed she was a victim, not a participant in the financial fraud. Her name has been removed from all investigative documents."

"How convenient." His tone carried the sort of polite skepticism that made her jaw tighten. "I trust she's relieved to have that cloud lifted."

Bianca nodded, then took a breath before continuing. "Actually, I was hoping she could attend the gala as my guest. Since her name has been cleared, and given everything she's been through—"

"Miss Barclay." Dort's voice carried gentle correction, as if she were a child who'd missed an obvious lesson. "I understand your desire to include family in our celebration. However, we must consider the optics."

Her stomach dropped. "But she's been cleared of any wrongdoing—"

"Cleared, yes. But perception matters more than facts in fundraising circles." He leaned forward slightly, his expression radiating patient authority. "Our donors are conservative people. They value stability, tradition. Having someone so recently connected to a federal investigation—regardless of the outcome—sends the wrong message about Nevermore's judgment."

The familiar manipulation wrapped around her like a net. He wasn't saying no directly; he was making her complicit in the decision by appealing to her supposed understanding of the situation.

"You understand, right?" Dort's smile widened slightly. "We can't risk our biggest fundraising event becoming a distraction from the academy's needs."

Feeling herself shrinking back into patterns she'd learned at Morning Song, Bianca reverted to the careful agreement, the swallowed protests, the acceptance of decisions made for her rather than with her. Her mother's cleared name suddenly felt meaningless against the weight of institutional convenience.

"Of course," she heard herself saying, the words emerging automatically. "I understand."

Dort's expression brightened with satisfaction. "Excellent. I knew you'd see reason. Your mother will have other opportunities to visit campus under better circumstances."

Rising from the chair with mechanical movements, she headed toward the office door. Her hand touched the handle, and for a moment she paused, something sharp and uncomfortable pressing against her chest.

Bianca turned around.

"Actually, no." Her voice hardened. "I don't understand."

Dort's eyebrows lifted slightly, his expression shifting from satisfaction to mild surprise.

"My mother," Bianca continued, stepping back toward his desk, "has been cleared by federal investigators. Not just 'technically cleared'—completely exonerated. She was a victim of financial fraud, not a perpetrator."

"Miss Barclay, as I said—"

"I'm not finished." The words cut across his interruption. "You want to talk about optics? Let's discuss the optics of how you've treated me since becoming principal."

Dort's smile faltered slightly, but he maintained his composed posture.

"You've leveraged my scholarship status to coerce my cooperation," Bianca said, her voice gaining strength with each word. "You forced me to use my siren abilities on Mrs. Addams—a clear violation of consent—to manipulate her into contacting her estranged family for donations."

The rhythmic drumming of his fingers against the desk suddenly stopped.

"You've treated my powers like an asset rather than a personal boundary. You've made it clear that my place at this academy depends on my willingness to weaponize my voice for your fundraising goals." She planted her hands on his desk, leaning forward. "And now you want to exclude my mother—the one person who's actually innocent in all of this—because it might make your conservative donors uncomfortable?"

"Miss Barclay, you're being dramatic—"

"I'm being accurate." Her voice remained carefully controlled. "You want to know what sends the wrong message about Nevermore's judgment? A principal who extorts students. Who treats consent as optional when it serves his interests."

Dort's ice-blue eyes hardened. "You're walking on very thin ice."

"Am I?" Bianca straightened, her full height giving her a slight advantage over his seated position. "Every conversation, every threat, every time you've used my scholarship as leverage. I'll use it all. Morticia Addams isn't the only one with influence in outcast circles."

She watched him process the implications, his confident mask slipping for the first time since she'd entered his office.

"Here's what's going to happen," Bianca said, her tone shifting from anger to cold calculation. "My mother will attend the gala as my guest. You'll introduce her with the respect due to someone who survived cult manipulation and federal investigation with her integrity intact."

The silence stretched between them, charged with the tension of shifted power dynamics.

"Or," she continued, her voice dropping low, "I start making calls about your recruitment methods. Trust me—I know exactly which donors value ethics over optics."

Dort leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under the shift of weight. His eyes studied Bianca with a different quality of attention now—the sort reserved for opponents who'd revealed hidden weapons.

"Well, well." He placed his hands flat against the desk surface. "There's that spark I've heard about."

Bianca remained standing, her posture steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins. She'd expected anger, threats, perhaps another reminder of her scholarship status. This measured response felt more dangerous than outright hostility.

"You know," Dort continued, his voice carrying a note of genuine consideration, "when I recruited you for fundraising, I thought I was getting a compliant siren with useful abilities. Turns out I underestimated what I was working with."

His fingers drummed once against the mahogany before going still. "Charisma without purpose is just noise. But you're not making noise, are you, Miss Barclay? You're making a calculated argument backed by actionable consequences."

Bianca felt the familiar urge to fill the silence, to explain or justify her position. Instead, she waited. Let him process the new dynamic she'd established.

"Merit over manipulation," Dort mused, almost to himself. "I respect that. Even when it inconveniences me."

He reached for a leather-bound calendar, flipping through the pages. "Your mother will have a seat at the head table. As my guest, not yours. That way the introduction comes from the principal's office rather than a student's personal invitation."

The concession carried the weight of strategy rather than defeat. He was reframing her victory as his own choice, maintaining face while acknowledging her leverage.

"Thank you," Bianca said, her voice carrying satisfaction without smugness.

"Don't thank me yet." Dort's smile returned, but it held a different quality now—less predatory, more appreciative. "You just demonstrated that you can negotiate from strength without using your gift. That's rarer than you might think."

He closed the calendar and looked up at her directly. "Influence is a currency. You just proved you know how to spend it wisely."

Bianca moved toward the door, her steps carrying a confidence that felt different from her usual armor. This wasn't the brittle poise of someone performing strength—it was the steady assurance of someone who'd discovered they possessed it authentically.

"Miss Barclay."

She paused at the threshold, turning back to find Dort watching her with something approaching approval.

"Next time you want something from me, lead with that approach. I prefer negotiating with equals over managing assets."

The words hit her unexpectedly. Not because of what he'd said, but because of what she'd proven to herself in earning them. She didn't need her siren voice to command a room—she already had one without her powers.

"I'll remember that," she said, then stepped through the door and pulled it closed behind her.

The corridor felt brighter somehow, as if the afternoon light filtering through the stained glass windows had gained intensity. Bianca stood for a moment, processing the shift in her own understanding. She'd walked into that office prepared to be managed, manipulated, dismissed. She was leaving as someone who'd changed the terms entirely.

Her amulet rested quietly against her sternum—not a constraint, but simply an ornament. For the first time in weeks, she felt no urge to remove it.

The blood moon hung low on the horizon like a wound in the darkening sky, its crimson light spilling across Nevermore's lake in ripples that seemed to pulse with their own heartbeat. Enid followed Wednesday and Professor Capri down the narrow path that wound between ancient oaks, her stomach a tangle of hope and terror that made each step feel monumental.

This could actually work, she thought, clutching the strap of her bag tighter. Or it could go horribly wrong.

Under the moon's influence, the familiar lake had transformed into something otherworldly. Water that usually reflected silver now shimmered with deep reds and burgundies, as if the surface held liquid garnets rather than ordinary H2O. Even the air felt different—thicker somehow, charged with energy that made the fine hairs on her arms stand up despite the evening's warmth.

"Here," Capri announced, stopping at a small clearing where weathered stones formed a natural circle near the water's edge. "This will provide optimal lunar exposure while maintaining proximity to the water's amplifying properties."

Enid watched her professor begin unpacking an array of materials from a leather satchel—crystals that caught the ruby glow like captured fire, bundles of herbs that filled the air with sharp, earthy scents, and small glass vials containing liquids that seemed to shimmer with their own internal light.

"You've done this before," Wednesday observed, her gaze tracking Capri's movements.

"Not exactly this," Capri replied, arranging moon-charged quartz in precise patterns around the stone circle. "Every werewolf's connection to their wolf spirit is unique. But I've helped others reconnect with aspects of themselves they thought were lost."

The admission sent another flutter of nervousness through Enid's chest. She'd been trying to manage her expectations—Professor Capri had been clear about the experimental nature of what they were attempting—but part of her had hoped for more certainty, more guarantees.

Wednesday positioned herself close enough to observe but far enough to avoid interfering with the ritual preparations. Her presence provided stability amid the uncertainty, a touchstone when everything else felt unknown.

"The water will help focus the lunar energy," Capri explained as she lit bundles of sage and sweetgrass, their smoke drifting across the clearing in ghostly tendrils. "Werewolves have always drawn power from natural elements—earth, water, and especially moonlight. Tonight, we'll use all three."

Enid stared at the blood moon's reflection fracturing across the lake's surface, mesmerized by the way the crimson light seemed to dance and shift with each small ripple. The sight should have been beautiful, but instead it felt ominous—like looking into the eye of something ancient and dangerous.

"How long until we begin?" she asked.

"Soon," Capri replied, sprinkling what looked like silver sand in intricate patterns around the stones. "The moon needs to reach its zenith. Its full energy is essential for what we're attempting."

Wednesday stepped closer to Enid, her proximity offering comfort that didn't require words. "Whatever happens tonight, we'll handle it together."

The simple promise beckoned tears in Enid's eyes. After everything they'd been through, having Wednesday here, risking potential danger just to help restore her abilities, meant more than she could express.

"Are you ready for this?" Wednesday asked quietly.

Enid looked out at the transformed lake, then at the ritual circle taking shape under Professor Capri's careful hands, then finally at Wednesday's unwavering gaze that held no judgment, only steady support.

"I have to be."

Capri knelt at the edge of the natural stone circle as she began drawing a larger boundary in the soft sand with a piece of rowan wood. The line she traced caught the scarlet moonlight, creating a path that seemed to glow with its own inner fire.

"Moonstone first," she said, placing smooth, opalescent stones at the cardinal points of the circle. "For lunar connection and intuitive wisdom. Your wolf spirit responds to moon energy—we need these to amplify that natural bond."

Each stone reflected the celestial light differently, some shimmering with silver undertones while others seemed to radiate with deep red energy. Enid watched from where she stood just outside the forming circle, fascinated despite her nerves by how otherworldly the simple stones appeared under the moon's influence.

"Silver birch bark for protection," Capri continued, positioning strips of pale bark between the moonstones. "Birch trees are sacred to werewolves—they represent new beginnings and purification. Tonight, you're beginning again."

The bark gleamed like metal in the strange light, each piece carefully angled to catch the moon's rays. Capri moved around the circle, her copper hair appearing almost luminous as she worked.

"Spring water to hold the moon's reflection," she explained, setting small glass bowls at precise intervals. The water immediately captured the blood moon's image, creating multiple crimson mirrors that transformed the circle into a constellation of ruby light. "Water amplifies lunar energy and helps conduct spiritual transformation."

Enid's breath caught as she watched the reflections dance and shift with each tiny movement of the surface. The sight was hypnotic, beautiful and unnerving in equal measure.

"Lavender for calming spiritual energy," Capri said, sprinkling dried purple flowers around the inner edge of the circle. Their sweet, earthy scent mixed with the lake's damp air and the lingering smoke from earlier herbs. "Transformations can be violent—we need elements that encourage peaceful connection rather than forced awakening."

Wednesday leaned forward slightly, her expression focused on each addition to the growing ritual space. "The placement appears systematic rather than arbitrary."

"Every element has purpose and position," Capri confirmed, now arranging small bundles of dried sage. "Sage for purification—cleansing whatever interference the device created in your natural abilities." She lit each bundle carefully, their smoke rising in thin, ghostly spirals that seemed to bend toward the blood moon's light.

"White salt for protective boundaries," she continued, pouring a thin line of crystals around the entire perimeter. The salt sparkled like fallen stars against the dark sand, creating a barrier that felt both delicate and absolute. "This keeps harmful influences out while we work to restore what belongs inside."

Enid felt her throat tighten as the circle took on an increasingly ancient appearance. This wasn't some casual attempt at supernatural healing—this was serious magic, the kind rooted in traditions that predated Nevermore by centuries.

"Rowan wood for warding against harmful magic," Capri explained, placing twisted branches at specific points around the salt line. "And juniper for spiritual cleansing." She scattered dark blue berries between the rowan pieces, their rich color almost black under the crimson glow.

The circle was becoming something out of a fairy tale—or a nightmare, depending on perspective. Every material seemed chosen to interact with the blood moon's energy, creating a space that felt separate from the ordinary world.

"Now," Capri said, gesturing toward the center of the elaborate design. "Enid, please sit in the heart of the circle. Cross-legged, facing the moon directly."

Her legs felt unsteady as she stepped carefully over the salt line, avoiding the precisely placed materials. The moment her feet touched the sand inside the barrier, the energy changed—thicker, more concentrated, like stepping into water that clung to her skin.

Settling onto the cool sand, Enid drew her legs beneath her as instructed. The blood moon hung directly before her now, washing everything in shades of red and shadow. Around her, the ritual components seemed to vibrate with their own rhythm, responding to the lunar energy that grew stronger with each passing moment.

"How does it feel?" Wednesday asked from just outside the circlet.

"Different," Enid admitted, surprised by the accuracy of the word. The air itself felt charged, like the moments before a thunderstorm when electricity built to breaking point. "Like the moon is watching me specifically."

Capri nodded approvingly as she made final adjustments to the herb placements. "That's exactly what should be happening. The moon sees you now. It recognizes you as someone seeking connection with your lunar nature."

Reaching into her leather satchel, Capri withdrew what looked like lengths of pale silk rope, the material catching the vermillion light with an almost ethereal gleam. "There's one more preparation we need to address," she said, her tone carefully neutral. "Restraints."

Enid's stomach dropped. "Restraints?"

"If the ritual triggers a violent transformation, you could lose human consciousness entirely," Capri explained, kneeling beside the circle with the silk cords draped across her palms. "These will help ensure you remain in the ritual space rather than... wandering."

"Wandering," Enid repeated, her voice climbing slightly. "You mean attacking people."

"Precisely."

Wednesday stepped closer to the circle's edge, studying the silk bonds with analytical interest. "Tensile strength appears adequate for restraining human-level resistance."

"Well, that's reassuring," Enid muttered, then caught herself. "Sorry, I'm just—this is all very 'sacrifice the maiden to appease the ancient gods,' isn't it?"

Capri's mouth curved into something that might have been amusement. "I prefer to think of it as 'give the maiden every possible advantage while minimizing collateral damage.'"

"Much better marketing," Enid agreed, though her hands trembled slightly as Capri began driving wooden stakes into the sand on either side of where she sat. "Should I be worried that you came prepared with restraints? Like, did you just have werewolf-binding silk lying around?"

"I keep emergency supplies for various supernatural contingencies," Capri replied wryly. "Occupational necessity."

The stakes looked ancient, carved with symbols that seemed to shift and dance under the crimson light. Capri positioned them carefully, measuring distances with professional precision.

"Arms out, please."

Enid extended her wrists, trying not to think about how surreal this moment was. Three days ago, she'd been hiding around the campus convinced she was ordinary. Now she was sitting in a ritual circle under a blood moon, about to be tied up for her own safety.

"At least the silk is pretty," she offered as Capri began wrapping the cords around her wrists. The material felt surprisingly soft against her skin, cool and smooth despite the evening's warmth. "Very aesthetic. If I'm going to be restrained during a supernatural ritual, might as well look good doing it."

"The silk has been moon-blessed for flexibility and strength," Capri explained, securing the first binding to its stake. "It should hold against normal struggling but won't cut into your skin."

"Normal struggling," Enid echoed. "As opposed to supernatural struggling, which I assume involves a lot more violence and property damage."

Wednesday's expression didn't change, but Enid caught the slight tilt of her head that indicated amusement. "You're maintaining remarkable composure for someone being prepared for ritual transformation."

"Oh, I'm terrified," Enid said cheerfully as Capri moved to secure her other wrist. "But if I don't joke about it, I'm going to start crying, and that doesn't seem appropriate for an ancient magical ceremony."

The second cord pulled snug against the stake, leaving her arms extended but not uncomfortably stretched. The position felt vulnerable but not painful—like being caught mid-gesture rather than actively restrained.

"There," Capri said, checking the bonds with gentle tugs. "Comfortable enough for meditation, secure enough for safety."

Enid tested the restraints experimentally, finding them firm but not restricting. "Not bad. I've had worse experiences with group trust exercises."

As Capri stepped back to survey her work, Enid caught fragments of quiet conversation between the professor and Wednesday.

"—more psychological than practical—"

"—if she fully transforms—"

"—silk won't actually stop—"

Enid's eyes widened as understanding dawned. "Wait, what?"

Capri and Wednesday fell silent, both turning to meet her questioning gaze.

"The restraints," Enid said slowly. "They're not actually going to hold me if I go full werewolf, are they?"

Capri's expression remained carefully neutral. "They're designed to provide a sense of security and containment during the initial phases of transformation."

"That's just a different way of saying they're basically decoration." Enid observed, her voice rising slightly.

"The psychological impact of restraint can be significant," Capri explained. "Many transformations respond to mental state as much as physical capability."

"So you're hoping my subconscious will be polite enough to respect silk rope even if my wolf brain wants to tear someone's throat out."

"Essentially, yes."

Enid stared at her bound wrists, then at Wednesday's impassive face, then at the blood moon that seemed to throb with increasingly ominous light. "This is insane. You both realize this is completely insane, right?"

Moving to the northern edge of the circle, Capri placed both hands on the first moonstone, her eyes closing as she began to speak in a language Enid had never heard before—something ancient and flowing, with consonants that seemed to roll like water over stone.

The words sent shivers down Enid's spine, not because she understood them, but because they felt important—weighted with centuries of tradition and desperate hope. The moonstone beneath Capri's palms seemed to brighten, responding to her touch and voice.

Capri moved clockwise around the circle, pausing at each cardinal point to speak similar invocations. At the eastern moonstone, she called upon the spirits of dawn and new beginnings. At the southern stone, she invoked the power of the hunt and the strength of the pack. Each time she spoke, the corresponding materials seemed to shimmer more intensely under the blood moon's gaze.

"Wolves of the ancient bloodlines," Capri continued, switching to English as she reached the western edge of the circle. "Your daughter seeks reunion with her true nature. What was severed by dark artifice, let lunar grace restore."

The air around the lake grew thicker, charged with energy that made Enid's skin tingle despite the silk restraints. She could smell everything with startling clarity—the damp earth beneath her, the herbs scattered around the circle, even Wednesday's familiar scent of old books and determination just beyond the salt line.

Capri knelt beside the largest moonstone at the circle's southern point, pressing her palms flat against its surface as her voice rose to something between chant and song. The words became more complex, layering English with what sounded like ancient pack calls—howls transformed into language, primal sounds given structure and meaning.

"By earth that holds us, by water that cleanses, by air that carries our songs, by fire that burns in our hearts—" Capri's voice swelled with each element, the ritual components responding like instruments in an orchestra. The bowls of spring water rippled without any wind to disturb them. The sage smoke spiraled higher, forming shapes that almost looked like running wolves before dissolving back into wisps.

The blood moon reached its zenith directly overhead, bathing the entire clearing in light so red it felt otherworldly. Enid closed her eyes and focused every fiber of her being on feeling her wolf respond, on sensing any sign that the connection Tyler's device had severed was being restored.

Come on. Please. I need you back. I need to know you're still there.

Capri's chanting reached a crescendo, her voice echoing across the water with power that made the very air seem to vibrate. The ritual materials illuminated with reflected light, the moonstones flickering like heartbeats, the salt line gleaming like captured starlight.

"Restore what was taken! Awaken what sleeps! Let the daughter of wolves remember her true name!" Capri called out, her arms raised toward the crimson moon. 

The energy peaked, hanging in the air like the moment before lightning strikes. Enid felt the weight of ancient power pressing down on the circle, felt the blood moon's gaze like a physical touch against her skin. Everything hung balanced on a knife's edge, waiting for transformation.

Wednesday leaned forward slightly, her attention fixed on Enid with barely contained anticipation.

Then...

Nothing.

The energy gradually dissipated like air leaking from a balloon. The moonstones dimmed back to their natural glow. The sage smoke returned to normal spirals that bent with the evening breeze rather than forming mystical shapes. The spring water stilled, holding only ordinary reflections.

Enid opened her eyes to find Capri standing motionless at the circle's edge, her hands still raised but her expression revealing deep disappointment. The silence stretched between them, broken only by gentle waves lapping against the shore.

No tingling in her fingertips. No enhanced senses flooding back. No warmth in her chest where her wolf should be stirring. Just... ordinary human awareness in a world that suddenly felt flat and colorless compared to the mystical energy that had surrounded them moments before.

"I'm sorry," Capri said quietly, lowering her arms. "I truly believed the blood moon would provide enough power to restore the connection."

Enid tested her fingers, searching for any sign of claws that might extend. Nothing. Taking a deep breath, she hoped for supernatural scent awareness. Still nothing beyond normal human perception.

"So that's it?" she asked, surprised by how steady her voice sounded. "It just... didn't work?"

"The ritual was performed correctly," Capri said, moving to untie Enid's restraints. "Perfect lunar conditions, proper materials, precise invocations. Whatever the device accomplished runs deeper than I understood."

The silk bonds fell away from Enid's wrists, leaving pale marks where they'd rested. Rubbing the spots absently, she processed the failure while Capri began quietly gathering the scattered ritual materials.

I should be devastated. I should be crying or breaking down or feeling like my world just ended again.

Instead, she felt... disappointed, yes. Sad that the one hope for restoring her abilities had failed. But not hollow. Not worthless. Not like everything that mattered about her had been proven irretrievably lost.

The realization caught her off guard more than the ritual's failure.

"Enid?" Wednesday approached the circle's edge, her voice carrying concern. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm..." Enid paused, searching for words that captured the complexity of her emotional state. "I'm upset that it didn't work. Really upset. But I'm not falling apart the way I thought I would."

Rising slowly, she brushed sand from her clothes while studying her own reaction with newfound curiosity. Five days ago, this failure would have confirmed every terrible thing she believed about herself. Now it felt like a setback rather than a final verdict.

"The ritual's failure isn't the end," Wednesday said, stepping carefully over the salt line to join her inside the circle. "It simply means we haven't found the right solution yet."

"I know," Enid said, then stopped. "I actually know that now. Really know it, not just telling myself I should believe it."

Capri paused in her packing, studying Enid. "That's significant progress. Most werewolves struggle to maintain identity separate from their lupine nature."

"Yeah, well, turns out having amazing friends helps with perspective," Enid said, her eyes finding Wednesday's. "Especially friends who think you're worth risking ancient rituals and blood moon ceremonies for."

The blood moon began its descent toward the horizon, its crimson light gradually softening as clouds drifted across its surface. The magical intensity that had surrounded their clearing faded back to ordinary evening atmosphere, leaving behind only the gentle sounds of water and wind.

"We'll find another way," Wednesday said quietly. "This was one attempt, not the final answer."

Enid looked out across the lake where normal silver moonlight was beginning to mix with the blood moon's fading red glow. For the first time since Tyler's attack, the future felt manageable rather than terrifying—not because her abilities were restored, but because she was no longer facing it alone.

"Thank you," she said to both of them. "For trying. For caring enough to try."

"Always," Wednesday replied, the single word carrying weight that made Enid's chest warm.

As they helped Capri finish gathering the ritual materials, Enid found herself genuinely grateful—not for powers that hadn't returned, but for people who valued her regardless of what she could or couldn't do.

The familiar spider-web window cast moonlight across their dorm room as Wednesday closed the door behind them, the ancient wood settling with its characteristic groan. She'd changed into her black cotton pajama set during their brief stop at the communal bathroom, her braids still perfect despite the evening's events. Beside her, Enid moved like someone who'd grown comfortable in shared space, her rainbow-striped pajamas a cheerful contrast to the night's disappointing conclusion.

Thing waited on Wednesday's desk, his posture suggesting he'd been monitoring their return. He drummed once against the dark wood—a greeting that carried undertones of inquiry about the ritual's outcome.

"It failed," Wednesday said without preamble, settling onto the edge of her bed while watching Enid's reaction for any sign of delayed emotional collapse. "Professor Capri's lunar re-attunement proved ineffective against whatever Tyler's device accomplished."

Enid moved to her own colorful bedding, pulling her legs beneath her. "Yeah, but I'm really okay with that. Well, not okay-okay, but I'm handling it better than I expected."

Thing scuttled closer to the room's center, his attention shifting between them as he processed this information. His fingers tapped a brief rhythm of concern.

"Your emotional state remains stable?" Wednesday asked, her dark eyes conducting another assessment of Enid's expression. "No indication of the previous... destructive patterns returning?"

"Wednesday." Enid's tone held gentle amusement. "That's the fourth time you've asked me that since we left the lake."

"Each inquiry serves a specific purpose. Emotional states can shift rapidly following disappointment."

"I know, and I appreciate that you're worried about me." Enid's smile was genuine, though something in her words suggested approaching correction. "But the constant check-ins are actually making me more anxious than the ritual failing did."

Wednesday couldn't keep the flicker of surprise from her face. She'd been operating under the assumption that frequent emotional monitoring constituted appropriate supportive behavior—evidence-based care that would prevent any return to the isolation that had nearly consumed Enid earlier.

Thing straightened on the desk, his form suggesting barely suppressed commentary. Wednesday caught the subtle tilt of his frame that indicated amusement at her expense.

"I'm processing the ritual's failure better than I thought I would," Enid continued patiently. "I'm sad that my wolf abilities didn't come back, obviously. But I'm not spiraling or convincing myself that I'm worthless or any of the other terrible things I was thinking a few days ago."

Studying Enid's expression, Wednesday catalogued micro-expressions that supported these claims. The hollow desperation that had characterized her roommate's features throughout her three-day isolation had been replaced by something steadier, more grounded. Disappointment, yes, but not the devastating self-doubt that had nearly broken her.

"The improvement is... noticeable," Wednesday admitted carefully.

"Right? And a big part of that is because I know you believe in me even without supernatural abilities." Warmth colored Enid's words as she continued. "But when you keep asking if I'm falling apart, it makes me start wondering if maybe I should be falling apart, or if you're seeing something I'm missing."

Thing drummed against the desk with what sounded suspiciously like barely contained laughter. Wednesday's sharp glance only seemed to encourage his obvious amusement.

"I was attempting to provide appropriate emotional support," she said, her tone carrying defensive undercurrents.

"And you are! You absolutely are." Enid's reassurance came quickly. "Just... maybe trust that I'll tell you if I start struggling? I promise I'm done with the hiding and pretending everything's fine when it's not."

Wednesday processed this feedback, recognizing the logic despite her instinctive urge to continue monitoring. Her protective instincts had shifted into overdrive since Enid's confession, creating hypervigilance that apparently produced counterproductive results.

"Very well," she said finally. "I'll adjust my approach accordingly."

Thing tapped what sounded distinctly like approval.

Wednesday noted how Enid's shoulders had relaxed, the absence of performative brightness that had marked her attempts at normalcy. This version of her roommate felt authentic in ways that made the contrast with recent behavior even starker.

"Tomorrow evening's gala," Wednesday said, steering toward safer conversational territory. "You mentioned earlier that you're participating with the dance troupe."

Animation replaced the careful calm Enid had maintained since their return from the lake. "Oh my god, yes! We've been rehearsing for weeks. Mr. Fitts choreographed this incredible piece that incorporates traditional ballroom with modern contemporary dance."

The enthusiasm in her voice carried genuine joy that Wednesday hadn't heard since before Tyler's escape following her disastrous mission at Willow Hill. Not the brittle cheerfulness Enid had been projecting, but real excitement that lit her features from within.

"The costumes are absolutely gorgeous," Enid continued, her hands moving expressively as she spoke. "flowing fabric that moves like liquid during the lifts, and the whole piece is set to this haunting orchestral arrangement that gives me actual chills every time we run it."

As she listened, Wednesday found herself cataloguing the return of gestures and vocal inflections she'd feared might be permanently dimmed. This was her roommate as she'd been before trauma had stolen her light—vibrant and enthusiastic about beauty in all its forms.

"But honestly?" Enid's voice softened to something more intimate. "I'm way more excited about hearing you perform with the orchestra."

"My participation is purely utilitarian," Wednesday replied automatically, though something in Enid's tone made the deflection feel inadequate.

"Wednesday." Enid's smile radiated warmth that seemed to fill the space between their beds. "You're going to be incredible up there. I know you think it's just a transaction or whatever, but I've heard you practice. Your playing is... it's breathtaking."

Heat crept up Wednesday's neck at the unexpected praise. She'd become accustomed to assessments of her musical technique, not descriptions that carried actual emotional weight.

"Professor Capri mentioned the piece selection includes several challenging passages," she said, attempting to redirect toward technical details.

"I don't care if you play 'Mary Had a Little Lamb,'" Enid replied with characteristic directness. "I'm just so proud of you for doing this. I know how much you hate being on display, and you committed to it anyway."

The words hit Wednesday with unexpected force. Pride—not in her musical ability, which had earned acknowledgment throughout her academic career, but in her willingness to endure discomfort for meaningful purpose. When had anyone expressed pride in her choices rather than her achievements?

"I… missed this," she observed, noticing the sparkle in Enid's eyes as she spoke about the gala preparations.

"Missed what?"

"Joy. Authentic enthusiasm about things that matter to you." Wednesday's voice carried careful precision as she articulated observations that felt significant. "This is the first time since Tyler's attack that you've expressed genuine excitement rather than manufactured optimism."

Enid's expression grew thoughtful as she processed this assessment. "You're right. I've been so focused on not falling apart that I forgot what it felt like to actually look forward to something."

From his position on the desk, Thing shifted to better observe both girls, his attention moving between them with obvious interest in the conversation's direction.

"The dance performance represents something you value independent of supernatural abilities," Wednesday continued, her analytical mind working through implications. "Your participation doesn't require werewolf strength or enhanced senses."

"Exactly!" Relief filled Enid's exclamation. "It's something that's completely mine, something I can still do and be good at regardless of whether my wolf ever comes back."

Wednesday felt something shift in her chest as she witnessed Enid's authentic happiness—not the careful performance of recovery, but genuine anticipation for experiences that brought her actual pleasure. The contrast with the hollow desperation that had consumed her roommate for days felt profound.

This was what she'd been fighting to preserve. Not just Enid's supernatural abilities, but her essential capacity for joy, her ability to find beauty and meaning in the world around her. Seeing it return, even partially, confirmed every risk she'd taken to help restore it.

"I'll be watching from the orchestra," Wednesday said quietly. "During your performance."

"Promise?" Enid's question emerged soft but hopeful.

"Promise," Wednesday replied, the word carrying weight that felt both familiar and entirely new.

The pale moonlight caught the subtle highlights in Enid's hair as Wednesday observed the comfortable ease with which her roommate had settled into their shared space.

The weight of her parents' advice pressed against her consciousness—just tell her the truth. That you want her there.

"Regarding tomorrow evening's gala," she began. "I find myself requiring... accompaniment for the social components of the event."

Enid tilted her head slightly, curiosity flickering across her features. "Accompaniment?"

"The orchestra performance represents only a portion of the evening. There will be reception activities, dancing, various social interactions..." Wednesday's fingers traced patterns against her dark bedding as she worked through her prepared approach. "I would benefit from attending with someone whose company I find... tolerable."

On the desk, Thing angled toward them with obvious interest in this development.

"Oh," Enid said, a hint of disappointment in her voice. "You need someone to help you survive the social torture. I mean, I'd be happy to stick close and run interference when people try to make small talk with you."

The response made Wednesday's chest ache with recognition that her approach had failed to convey the actual nature of her invitation. Enid's offer carried the warmth of friendship without any acknowledgment of the deeper implications Wednesday had intended to communicate.

"No," she said, then paused as she recognized the inadequacy of simple negation. "That is, your assistance with social navigation would be valuable, but that's not... the request isn't..."

She found herself uncharacteristically struggling with language, the words that had seemed so clear in her mind dissolving into frustrated fragments. Concern grew on Enid's face as she attempted to decode Wednesday's unusual verbal hesitation.

"Wednesday?" Enid gently prompted. "What are you trying to ask me?"

"I want you to attend with me," Wednesday said, forcing directness through her instinctive desire to retreat. "Not as social support or tactical assistance. As my... escort."

The word felt foreign in her mouth, loaded with implications she'd never learned to navigate comfortably. Enid's eyes widened slightly, hope and uncertainty warring across her expressive features.

"'Escort,' like..." Enid began, then stopped, her hands twisting together in that familiar gesture. "Are you asking me to go with you as friends? Because obviously I want to be there for your performance, but I need to understand what—"

"No." The interruption emerged sharper than Wednesday intended, frustration with her own communicative failures bleeding into her tone. "Not as friends."

Silence stretched between them, weighted with possibilities neither had fully articulated. Thing remained motionless on the desk, as if recognizing that any movement might disrupt the fragile moment unfolding.

"Then as what?"

Wednesday felt her carefully maintained composure fracturing under the weight of the emotional territory. Every instinct screamed warnings about vulnerability, about exposing desires that could be rejected or, worse, pitied. But Enid's expression carried such careful hope that retreating felt like its own form of cruelty.

"As someone I want to be seen with," she said finally, the words emerging with uncharacteristic hesitation. "Someone whose presence would transform the evening from an obligation to be endured into an experience that might be... pleasant."

"Wednesday," Enid breathed, her voice thick with emotion.

"I'm asking you to be my date," Wednesday continued, forcing the words through her defensive programming. "To attend as my romantic partner for the evening, not as my friend providing social assistance."

Her hands clenched against the bedding as she waited for Enid's response, her mind already cataloguing potential rejection scenarios while her chest constricted with unprecedented vulnerability.

"You want me to be your date?" Wonder filled Enid's question, making something flutter in Wednesday's stomach. "Like, actually your date? To the gala where everyone will see us together?"

"Yes." The confirmation emerged steadier than Wednesday felt. "Though if the prospect of public association with me creates discomfort—"

"Are you kidding me?" Excitement bubbled in Enid's voice. "Wednesday, yes! Obviously yes! I just—I can't believe you actually want—" She stopped, her hands pressing against her cheeks as if trying to contain emotions that threatened to spill over. "You really want to take me as your date?"

"I believe I've been attempting to communicate that precise intention," Wednesday replied, though relief was beginning to replace anxiety as Enid's enthusiasm became unmistakable.

"But you hate being the center of attention," Enid marveled. "And if we go together as dates, people are definitely going to stare and whisper and probably ask invasive questions about our relationship."

"Let them," Wednesday said simply. "Their opinions are irrelevant to me."

Enid's hands flew to her mouth as the full weight of Wednesday's invitation settled into her consciousness. Her eyes immediately filled with tears that caught the moonlight, but these weren't the hollow tears of despair that had characterized recent days. These sparkled with pure, overwhelming joy.

"You want to take me as your date," she repeated, her voice muffled behind her palms. "To the biggest social event of the semester. Where everyone will see us together and know that we're... that you chose me."

"I did choose you," Wednesday confirmed, watching Enid's emotional response with fascination rather than discomfort. "Deliberately and without reservation."

The tears spilled over then, tracking down Enid's cheeks as she lowered her hands to reveal a smile so radiant it seemed to illuminate their entire room. "I can't believe this is real. A week ago I was convinced you'd never see me as anything more than your chaotic roommate who talks too much and takes up too much space."

"You've never taken up too much space," Wednesday said firmly. "You've simply occupied the exact amount of space you required."

Enid's laugh emerged watery but genuine, her hands reaching toward Wednesday with barely contained need for connection. "Can I—I really need to hug you right now."

Wednesday stood from her bed and moved to Enid's colorful bedding, settling beside her roommate. "Yes."

Immediately, Enid wrapped her arms around Wednesday, pulling her close with desperate gratitude that made Wednesday's chest tighten with unfamiliar warmth. The embrace felt different from their recent careful contacts—less hesitant, more certain, carrying the weight of acknowledged feelings rather than unspoken possibilities.

"Thank you," Enid whispered against her shoulder, her voice thick with tears. "For wanting me there with you. For being brave enough to ask."

Wednesday held Enid's trembling form, offering stability against emotions that threatened to overwhelm them both. Over Enid's shoulder, she caught sight of Thing on her desk, his entire posture radiating the smuggest satisfaction she'd ever witnessed from the disembodied hand.

His fingers drummed a brief, triumphant pattern that clearly communicated: Finally.

With a withering glance that only intensified his obvious self-satisfaction, Wednesday silently chastised him. Thing settled back with what could only be described as a victorious wiggle, apparently delighted to have witnessed the inevitable conclusion to months of unacknowledged tension.

When Enid's breathing finally steadied, Wednesday found herself reluctant to break their connection. Instead of returning to her own bed, she shifted to accommodate Enid's position, allowing them both to settle against the rainbow pillows with the shared understanding that this was where they belonged.