Nevermore, My Broken Heart

Chapter 2: Woe Unto Others

The hearse's engine hummed with the deep satisfaction of a well-maintained funeral vehicle as it carried the Addams family through Vermont's winding roads. Wednesday sat stiffly in the plush velvet interior, her discharge papers crumpled in one hand like evidence of a crime she'd been forced to commit. The very act of being released rather than escaping felt like a personal failure.

"Querida, you must promise me you'll rest when we reach Nevermore," Gomez said, his mustache twitching with parental concern. "No investigating. No midnight expeditions. Just healing."

"I make no such promises," she replied, watching the forest blur past the tinted windows. Each tree could hide Tyler. Each shadow could conceal death.

Morticia's knowing smile caught the dim interior lighting. "I thought you might say that. Which is why I've taken certain precautions."

The implications of that statement settled like ice in Wednesday's stomach, but before she could probe further, Pugsley leaned forward with the eager expression of someone about to share particularly juicy gossip.

"You should have seen her trying to escape," he said, grinning at Thing, who had perched on the partition between driver and passenger compartments. "Tell him about the laundry cart."

Her jaw tightened. "That incident is classified."

"Nothing in our family is classified," Gomez laughed, settling back into the velvet upholstery. "Except for that business with the alpacas, but we agreed never to speak of that again."

The first escape attempt had come exactly six hours after Wednesday regained consciousness. Hospital policy required patients to remain for observation after head trauma, but policy had never stopped an Addams before. She'd waited until the night shift settled into their routine, then slipped from her bed with the expertise of someone who'd regularly practiced such maneuvers.

The laundry cart had seemed like an obvious solution—spacious enough to accommodate her frame, wheeled for mobility, and ubiquitous enough to avoid suspicion. She'd folded herself among the soiled linens with the grim determination of someone escaping a particularly tedious dinner party.

What she hadn't accounted for was the orderly's enthusiasm for his work. Rather than the sedate journey to the loading dock she'd anticipated, the man had apparently decided this particular cart needed to visit every floor of the hospital. Twice.

By the time they'd reached the elevator for the fourth time, Wednesday had begun to suspect her plan had fundamental flaws. When the cart suddenly lurched to a stop and a familiar voice said, "Really, Wednesday? Dirty sheets?" she'd known her escape had failed completely.

Morticia had stood there in the hospital corridor, immaculate as always, wearing an expression of amused disappointment.

"How did you—" Wednesday had begun.

"I've known you for sixteen years, darling. Did you really think I wouldn't anticipate this?"

Thing tapped against the partition with what sounded distinctly like laughter. She shot him a withering look.

"The second attempt showed more creativity," Pugsley continued, clearly enjoying himself. "Though less success."

The hospital cafeteria buzzed with the mundane energy of the living going about their day. Wednesday sat at a corner table, untouched gelatin quivering on her tray. She'd convinced the nursing staff she was well enough for a supervised meal outside her room—progress, they'd called it.

The volunteer escort, a college student more interested in her phone than her charge, sat three tables away, scrolling mindlessly through social media. Wednesday had timed her bathroom breaks: every forty-seven minutes, like clockwork.

When the girl stood, phone still in hand, and headed for the restroom, Wednesday moved. She slipped through the service door behind the cafeteria counter, ignoring the startled look from a kitchen worker. The employee entrance was just ahead, according to the evacuation map she'd memorized.

Three more steps and she'd be—

"Wednesday Addams."

Her mother's voice stopped her cold. Turning slowly, she found Morticia standing in the narrow hallway, elegant and poised despite the fluorescent lighting that would have made anyone else look sickly.

"Mother," she acknowledged. "I was just exploring the hospital's infrastructure. For my novel."

"Of course you were." With gentle but unyielding fingers, Morticia took her arm. "And I'm sure the exit sign above that door was purely coincidental to your research."

As they walked back toward her room, Wednesday caught a glimpse of the volunteer escort being lectured by hospital security. Amateur. She'd be assigned someone far more vigilant now.

"You realize I'll try again," Wednesday said matter-of-factly.

"I would expect nothing less."

"The third attempt was my personal favorite," Morticia added, her voice carrying the warm affection reserved for particularly clever pranks. "Though I believe it traumatized several nurses."

By the end of the first day, subtlety had been abandoned entirely. If misdirection and stealth wouldn't work, perhaps psychological warfare would succeed where finesse had failed.

She'd spent the remainder of her afternoon studying the hospital's staff psychological profiles, identifying the most superstitious individuals on each shift. Night orderly Marcus proved particularly susceptible—he crossed himself when passing the morgue and refused to work Halloween shifts.

At 3 AM, her performance began. Subtle at first: moving objects when Marcus wasn't looking directly, creating cold spots near her bed, whispering Latin phrases she'd memorized from Morticia's grimoires. By dawn, she'd escalated to full supernatural theater—levitating (with carefully hidden wires she'd fashioned from medical tubing), speaking in backwards sentences, and producing what appeared to be ectoplasm but was actually a mixture of hospital jello and surgical lubricant.

The poor man had lasted until she'd begun chanting a fake exorcism ritual while her eyes rolled back in her head. His screams had brought half the night staff running.

During the commotion, Morticia arrived to find her daughter suspended upside-down from the ceiling light fixture, her hair hanging like a black curtain as she recited what she claimed were ancient curses but were actually grocery lists translated into Latin.

"Wednesday Addams," Morticia had said, her voice carrying a note of genuine pride. "You get that from my side of the family."

Lurch caught her eye in the rearview mirror and made a sound that might have been approval or amusement. It was impossible to tell with Lurch.

"The news coverage has been quite thorough," Gomez noted, changing the subject with the tact of someone who'd learned to read his daughter's moods. "Though they're missing several crucial details."

From her hospital bed, she had watched the reports with growing frustration at the media's incompetence.

The anchorwoman had possessed the bland professionalism of someone who'd never encountered genuine horror. Her voice remained steady as she delivered details that should have shattered the comfortable assumptions of every viewer.

"The Willow Hill Psychiatric Hospital tragedy continues to unfold as investigators work to understand the events that led to the deaths of seven security guards and two staff members. Among the deceased are Dr. Rachael Fairburn, the facility's chief physician, and Augustus Stonehurst, a previous chief physician of Willow Hill, and a patient who had been receiving treatment for the past thirty years."

The accompanying footage showed ambulances, police cars, and crime scene tape fluttering in the wind like carnival decorations. No mention of the LOIS program. No acknowledgment of the horrors that had been perpetrated in those basement cells. Just sanitized tragedy, packaged for mass consumption.

"Particularly concerning is the disappearance of several individuals, including executive assistant Judi Spannegel, who authorities believe may have been taken hostage during the chaos. Also missing is Tyler Galpin, a patient with a history of violent behavior. Sheriff Santiago urges anyone who encounters Mr. Galpin to maintain distance and contact law enforcement immediately."

Tyler's photograph had filled the screen—his human face, not the monster beneath. Clean-cut, almost innocent-looking. The kind of boy parents would trust to date their daughters.

She had gripped the bed rail with enough force to leave marks in the metal.

The reporter had continued with vague sympathy: "This tragedy highlights the ongoing challenges faced by facilities treating individuals with severe psychological disorders. Our thoughts are with the families of the victims during this difficult time."

No mention of the captive outcasts freed from their cells. No acknowledgment that Judi Spannegel had been the true architect of the horrors, not a victim. Just comfortable lies wrapped in the familiar rhetoric of mental health awareness.

She had turned off the television with more force than strictly necessary.

The hearse's radio crackled to life with a haunting melody that seemed pulled from another century. Lurch's massive hand moved to adjust the volume as violin strings wove through minor keys in a waltz that spoke of candlelit ballrooms and whispered promises.

The opening notes transformed Gomez's entire demeanor. His eyes brightened with the fervor of a man reliving his most treasured memories, and he turned to Morticia with the breathless excitement of a schoolboy recalling his first dance.

"¡Querida!" Gomez exclaimed, turning to her with sparkling eyes. "Remember when we used to sing that during our honeymoon road trip through Transylvania?"

"How could I forget?" Morticia's voice carried the warm nostalgia reserved for particularly romantic memories. "Though I believe we were fleeing that angry mob of villagers at the time."

"Ah, those were the days," Gomez sighed wistfully. "Nothing says romance like torches and pitchforks."

For a moment, Wednesday found herself distracted from her brooding by the familiar absurdity of her family's conversations. It was strangely comforting, this reminder that some things remained constant even when the world seemed determined to tear itself apart.

"Speaking of romance," Pugsley piped up with the gleeful malice only younger siblings could muster, "Enid looked really upset when she left the hospital. Did you two have a fight?"

The question hit like ice water, bringing her attention sharply back to more pressing concerns. Between her cracked ribs and remnants of her concussion, she was operating at perhaps seventy percent physical capacity. Not ideal odds for confronting a Hyde or a psychotic Avian.

Enid's face—the exact moment understanding had dawned. The way her features had crumpled before she'd forced them back into a mask of hurt dignity. "We're roommates. Nothing more." The words had found their target exactly as intended.

"We had a strategic disagreement," she said finally, her voice carefully neutral.

Is that what we're calling it? Thing tapped with unmistakable skepticism.

"I do hope you haven't been too harsh with the poor girl," Morticia said, though her tone suggested she already suspected the answer. "Enid has always struck me as someone with a particularly tender heart."

"Hearts are meant to be tender," Gomez declared with sudden passion. "Like a perfectly aged steak! Speaking of which, Lurch, perhaps we should stop for dinner? I know a lovely little morgue-side bistro just off the interstate—"

"Gomez, darling, we're having a family moment," Morticia interrupted gently.

"Ah, my mistake. Family moments supersede even the finest cuisine."

Pugsley studied his sister with mischief. "So if you and Enid aren't fighting, why has she been crying non-stop since—"

"Pugsley," her voice carried enough menace to silence her brother mid-sentence. "Unless you'd like to become an impromptu anatomy lesson, I suggest you redirect your curiosity elsewhere."

"Ooh, ominous threats from an invalid," Pugsley grinned. "What are you going to do, glare at me aggressively?"

Thing scuttled over to Pugsley's seat and delivered what appeared to be a sharp flick to his ear.

"Ow! Thing, that hurt!"

At least someone in this vehicle has sense, Thing's posture suggested smugly.

The familiar rhythm of family banter should have been soothing, but her mind raced through tactical calculations instead. Tyler was free. Judi had vanished into whatever shadows psychotic Avians favored for their lairs. Both had demonstrated personal grudges against her specifically, and at least Tyler had identified Enid as a pressure point worth exploiting.

Her survival odds weren't the only ones that mattered.

"Mother," she said, cutting through Pugsley's complaints about Thing's disciplinary methods, "I need to know exactly what precautions you've arranged at Nevermore."

A smile took over Morticia's face with an edge that would have made seasoned interrogators nervous. "Oh, darling. I think you'll find them quite thorough. Dort has been surprisingly accommodating to my suggestions regarding campus security."

"What kind of suggestions?"

"The permanent kind," Gomez added helpfully. "Your mother can be very persuasive when she's protecting her cubs."

The hearse began to slow as they approached Nevermore's iron gates. Through the window, the familiar Gothic silhouette rose against the darkening sky, windows glowing like amber eyes. Somewhere within those walls, Enid was probably settling into their room, trying to pretend that nothing had changed.

But everything had changed. Tyler was hunting, Judi was plotting, and Wednesday was about to return to a place where she'd have to live with the aftermath of her calculated cruelty while simultaneously protecting the person she'd wounded from threats she couldn't yet quantify.

Her injured ribs throbbed, a steady reminder of her physical limitations. No matter. She'd always preferred intellectual warfare anyway.

As Lurch guided the hearse through the gates of Nevermore Academy, she settled back into the velvet upholstery and began planning her next moves. The fact that she was now operating alone was simply another variable to account for.

She'd made Enid hate her to keep her safe. Now she just had to make sure that safety lasted long enough for the hatred to matter.

The courtyard spread before them in unnatural stillness, devoid of the usual clusters of students who typically gathered here between classes. Wednesday's eyes swept the empty space as Lurch brought the hearse to a precise stop near the main entrance. Even the gargoyles seemed more watchful than usual, their stone eyes fixed on shadows that shouldn't exist in daylight.

"Curious," she murmured, noting the absence of even the most rebellious students who normally used the courtyard's hidden alcoves for various contraband activities.

Wednesday emerged carefully, her injuries making the simple act of exiting a vehicle more complex than it should have been. Her ribs protested the movement, sending sharp reminders of Tyler's violence through her torso.

"Wednesday!"

Principal Dort's voice carried across the courtyard with the artificial enthusiasm of a man who'd been anxiously awaiting their arrival. He approached with measured steps, his hands clasped behind his back in what was probably meant to be a reassuring posture but instead reminded Wednesday of an undertaker approaching a fresh corpse.

"Principal Dort," she acknowledged with characteristic flatness.

"I hope you're feeling better," he said, though she couldn't help but doubt the sincerity in his voice. "Quite an ordeal you've been through."

"I have three cracked ribs and a concussion that occasionally makes the world tilt sideways," Wednesday replied coldly. "There's also a homicidal Hyde roaming the countryside with a personal vendetta against me. So no, I wouldn't classify my current state as 'better.'"

Dort's smile faltered slightly, but he recovered with surprising ease. "Well, yes. Which brings me to the measures we've implemented to ensure everyone's safety."

Morticia stepped from the hearse with grace, her black dress flowing like liquid shadow. "Principal Dort has been wonderfully accommodating to our concerns," she remarked, the subtle warning beneath her words making it clear that accommodation had been the wise choice.

"Indeed," Dort nodded, straightening his tie. "We've instituted several temporary restrictions until the authorities recapture the fugitives."

Wednesday's attention sharpened. "What restrictions?"

"No off-campus privileges," Dort began, counting on his fingers. "This includes the greenhouses, the lake, the cemetery, and all woodland trails. Evening curfew is now strictly enforced—all students must remain inside their dormitories after nine PM. We're also implementing a buddy system whenever possible for movement between dormitories and classrooms."

The restrictions settled over Wednesday like chains. On one hand, the logical part of her mind recognized that these measures would indeed make it harder for Tyler to reach Enid. The buddy system in particular would ensure she was rarely alone, and the early curfew would keep her away from the darkness Tyler favored for his hunts.

On the other hand, the restrictions would cripple Wednesday's own ability to investigate. No access to the cemetery meant no clandestine meetings or midnight research among the tombstones. No lake access eliminated access to the potential hunting grounds Tyler might prowl. The woodland trails had always been her preferred routes for surveillance and reconnaissance.

"One additional restriction," Morticia added with a smile that could have frozen hellfire. "Specifically for you, darling."

Wednesday's eyes narrowed. "Mother."

"Thing will be accompanying you everywhere. Consider him your personal security detail."

Perched on Gomez's shoulder, Thing gave Morticia an enthusiastic thumbs up before scuttling over to Wednesday's arm. His posture radiated smugness in a way that only a disembodied hand could achieve.

Wednesday fixed him with a glare that had made grown men reconsider their life choices. "Traitor."

Thing's response was a series of rapid taps that unmistakably spelled out For your own good.

"Excellent," Dort beamed, apparently choosing to interpret Wednesday's obvious displeasure as acceptance. "I'm sure you'll find these measures quite reasonable under the circumstances."

"Reasonable," Wednesday repeated, her tone venomous enough to kill a small mammal. "Yes, I'm certain Tyler will be deeply disappointed to discover that bureaucracy has foiled his plans for revenge."

Dort's smile became slightly strained. "Well, ah, yes. I should mention that we've also increased security patrols and installed additional lighting around the perimeter—"

"How thoughtful," Wednesday interrupted. "Tyler will appreciate the improved visibility while he stalks his prey."

An uncomfortable silence settled over the group. Gomez cleared his throat with the diplomacy of a man who'd mastered navigating his daughter's more acidic moods.

"Perhaps we should let Wednesday settle in," he suggested. "The journey has been quite taxing."

"Of course," Dort nodded eagerly, visibly relieved to end the conversation. "Miss Addams, I trust you'll find your accommodations satisfactory. If you need anything—"

"I'll manage," Wednesday cut him off, already turning toward Ophelia Hall.

The walk through Nevermore's corridors felt different now, weighted with new knowledge and fresh scars. Students she passed whispered among themselves, their gazes following her progress with the morbid fascination typically reserved for car accidents and natural disasters. Word of Willow Hill had evidently spread, though she doubted any of them understood the true scope of what had been uncovered.

Thing skittered alongside her, maintaining the distance of a companion who recognized when not to crowd an injured predator. His presence was both irritating and oddly comforting—a reminder that she wasn't entirely alone, even if she'd chosen to be.

They reached the familiar door of her shared room with Enid. Her hand hovered over the doorknob, fingers hesitating for reasons she refused to examine too closely. Behind this door lay the aftermath of her calculated cruelty, the wreckage of a friendship she'd demolished to save a life.

Thing positioned himself where she could see him and began signing. Are you ready?

"I'm always ready," she lied, turning the handle.

The room opened before her like a crime scene. Everything was precisely as she'd left it—her side remained a monument to organized minimalism, every item in its designated place. But Enid's half of the room told a different story entirely.

The absence hit her first. Enid's favorite plushie—a ridiculous unicorn she'd named Mr. Sparkles—was gone from its usual place of honor on her pillow. The vanity that typically overflowed with an impressive array of cosmetics now showed gaps like missing teeth. Her pajamas were absent from the foot of her bed, along with several of her most favored outfits.

Most telling of all, Enid's bed was made; corners tucked and pillows arranged neatly. Enid, who typically left her bed looking like a rainbow had exploded in a textile factory, had obviously wanted Wednesday to understand that she hadn't been sleeping here.

The message was unmistakable: I don't live here anymore.

Wednesday stood in the center of Enid's abandoned territory, cataloging each absence. The empty spaces spoke louder than any angry confrontation could have. Enid hadn't just left—she'd deliberately removed every trace of her presence, ensuring Wednesday would understand the depth of her rejection.

Are you okay? Thing asked, his signs conveying genuine concern.

"Of course I'm okay," Wednesday replied, moving to her desk. "This is the choice I made."

Thing scuttled closer, positioning himself where she couldn't avoid seeing his response. I meant are you okay with Enid being gone?

Wednesday lowered herself into her chair. Her manuscript waited on the desk like an accusation—pages of words that had felt important before Tyler threw her through a window and shattered more than just glass.

"As long as Enid maintains her distance, she'll be safer than she would be with me," Wednesday said, testing the movement of her right hand across the keyboard. "Her current location is irrelevant as long as it's away from whatever targets Tyler and Judi have planned."

The logic was sound. The emotional cost was a variable she refused to calculate.

Thing began signing again, his movements slower, more deliberate. Do you even want to know where she is?

Wednesday's fingers stilled on the keys. The question hung in the air like smoke, carrying implications she wasn't prepared to face. Knowing Enid's location would mean knowing she was safe, which would provide tactical advantages for her protection. But it would also mean having specific information about Enid's life without her—knowledge that would undoubtedly prove more painful than ignorance.

"It's probably better if I don't know," she said finally.

She considered the tactical disadvantages of her ignorance, weighing them against the emotional costs of knowledge. After a moment, she glanced up at Thing.

"You could keep an eye on her for me," she suggested, the words revealing more hope than she'd intended.

Thing's response came immediately and emphatically. I promised Morticia and Gomez I'd stay glued to you. Family orders.

"Traitor," Wednesday repeated, though the word lacked real venom this time.

The silence that followed felt heavier than stone. Wednesday stared at her typewriter, noting how the afternoon light filtering through their window no longer illuminated both halves of the room equally. Enid's side had lost its vibrant warmth, becoming just another collection of furniture and empty space.

"I can keep an eye on the pup.'"

The air in the room shifted subtly, carrying the faint scent of jasmine and mischief. Wednesday turned toward Enid's desk chair, where the air seemed to thicken and bend before Agnes DeMille materialized like smoke taking human form. The ghost stood with grace, brushing invisible dust from her black sweater.

"How long have you been there?" Wednesday asked, her tone flat with menace.

"Since you walked into Ophelia Hall," Agnes replied, stepping down from the chair. "You looked like you needed a moment to process the whole abandoned roommate situation."

Thing positioned himself defensively between Wednesday and Agnes, his fingers spread in warning. Agnes glanced at him with the sort of amused respect typically reserved for small, angry dogs.

"The vision you had of Enid's death," Agnes continued, moving closer. "Did it involve Tyler?"

Wednesday's jaw tightened, her hands curling into fists at her side. "I'm not sure. The details were—" She cut herself off, refusing to give Agnes more ammunition than she'd already provided.

"You knew Enid was supposed to die," Wednesday said instead, her voice dropping to a temperature that could freeze blood. "And you still left her alone outside Willow Hill after Tyler escaped."

Agnes's confident demeanor flickered. "What was I supposed to do against a Hyde? I'm invisible, not invincible. He would have torn through me like tissue paper."

When Wednesday didn't immediately respond, Agnes pressed forward with desperate logic. "Besides, I didn't leave. I followed you both to the hospital."

Her voice softened, losing some of its defensive edge. "I saw the way you told her to leave. That was harsh, even for you."

Wednesday rose from her chair. She approached Agnes with the measured footfalls of a hunter who'd identified prey, each step promising violence.

"You've skipped past strike three and gone straight to strike four."

Agnes's confidence visibly cracked. "What's strike four?"

"No one has ever made it through it in its entirety." Wednesday's ghost of a smile was a razor wrapped in silk. "The previous record-holder required seventeen stitches and developed a permanent twitch in his left eye."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Agnes backed away, her hands raised in surrender. "Please, just give me one more chance. I know I overstepped, but I was trying to help—"

"If you spy on me again without my explicit knowledge and consent," Wednesday interrupted, her voice never rising above conversational level, "I promise to maim you so badly that you'll never want to reappear. Do you understand?"

Agnes nodded frantically. The threat settled between them like a living thing, all teeth and shadows.

"Good." Wednesday's expression shifted, becoming marginally less homicidal. "Now. Have you seen Enid?"

The question emerged with carefully controlled neutrality, but Agnes's sharp eyes caught the undertone anyway. Her fear began to recede, replaced by something that almost resembled glee.

"After she came back from the hospital, she spent the entire night crying," Agnes said, pity coloring her voice. "I could hear her from the hallway—these awful, broken sounds that went on for hours. She packed her bags the next morning and has been staying with Divina since."

The description created an irritating pain in Wednesday's chest. For a moment, the careful walls she'd constructed around her emotions threatened to crumble. The image of Enid sobbing alone in their shared room, surrounded by the remnants of their friendship, created a hollow sensation beneath her ribs that she immediately buried under layers of necessary logic.

Enid was alive. Enid was safe. The pain was temporary; death would have been permanent.

"Keep an eye on her," Wednesday commanded, moving back toward her desk. "If you see any sign of Tyler, or if that one-eyed crow appears anywhere near her, you will tell me immediately."

"Of course," Agnes agreed quickly, relief evident in her voice. "Anything else?"

Wednesday paused, her hand resting on the back of her chair. The question that followed emerged with the sort of careful calculation that suggested it had been forming in her mind since her arrival.

"Do you know of any secret passages that lead out of the school? Ones the faculty don't know about?"

Agnes's expression transformed, fear replaced by the particular brand of mischief that made her dangerous in entirely different ways. Her smile sharpened with possibility.

"Oh, Wednesday," she said, her voice promising possibilities both thrilling and catastrophic. "You've just asked the right person the right question."

Agnes led them through the familiar corridors of Ophelia Hall with the confident stride of someone who knew secrets the architects had forgotten. She moved past the main library entrance, her fingers trailing along the paneled wall.

"Most people think invisibility is just about not being seen," Agnes said, pressing against what appeared to be solid oak. "But it's really about knowing where to look when no one else is watching."

A section of the wall swung inward on hidden hinges, revealing a narrow passage that descended into the building's bones. Cool air drifted upward, carrying the scent of old stone and older secrets. Thing scuttled closer to Wednesday's shoulder, his posture radiating vigilance born from distrust of convenient discoveries.

Without hesitation, Agnes disappeared into the shadows. Wednesday followed, her hand trailing along the rough stone wall for guidance. The passage was narrow enough that her shoulders nearly brushed both sides, and low enough that she had to duck slightly to avoid scraping her head on the ceiling.

"This is how you move through the school so quickly," Wednesday observed, her voice echoing strangely in the confined space.

"One of the ways," Agnes confirmed from ahead. "Amazing how much faster you can travel when you don't have to deal with hallways full of people who want to stop and chat."

The passage twisted downward in a series of switchbacks that seemed designed more for secrecy than efficiency. Moisture beaded on the stone walls, and Wednesday caught glimpses of metal brackets where torches had once been mounted. Whatever hands had carved this route had done so with permanence in mind.

"Are there other passages like this?" Wednesday asked, careful to keep her voice neutral despite the tactical implications of such knowledge.

Laughter echoed ahead of them. "Oh, Wednesday. This place is honeycomb. There's almost always multiple ways to get everywhere in the school. You just have to know which stones to press."

Thing tapped against Wednesday's collarbone in rhythm. She shared his skepticism—Agnes had already proven her taste for manipulation and leading them into underground passages where screams wouldn't carry seemed like precisely the sort of theatrical trap the girl would hope to impress her with.

But the tactical advantages outweighed the risks. If these passages truly existed throughout Nevermore, they represented a network that could allow her to move undetected despite Dort's restrictions. More importantly, they might provide routes Tyler couldn't anticipate if he managed to infiltrate the school grounds.

The passage leveled out, opening into a circular chamber that felt significantly older than the school above. Gothic arches supported a vaulted ceiling, and niches carved into the walls held the crumbling remains of stone effigies. The air here carried the particular stillness that belonged to places where the dead outnumbered the living.

"The old crypts," Wednesday murmured, recognizing the architecture.

"Nevermore was built on a cemetery," Agnes explained, moving toward what appeared to be a solid wall at the far end of the chamber. "They moved most of the bodies, but kept the infrastructure. Waste not, want not."

With her palm pressed against a seemingly random stone in the wall, Agnes waited. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with the grinding sound of mechanisms that hadn't been used in decades, a section of the wall pivoted inward.

Beyond lay the interior of an ancient crypt, its stone sarcophagus preserved under centuries worth of dust. Pale afternoon light filtered through the iron grating that served as the crypt's entrance, casting long shadows across the dusty floor.

The iron grating squealed on protesting hinges as Agnes pushed it open. They emerged onto the road that led to Nevermore's main gates, the academy's Gothic silhouette rising behind them like a monument to controlled chaos.

Wednesday stepped onto the gravel path. Her injuries made balancing more difficult than she cared to admit, but the route was functional. More importantly, it was invisible to casual observation.

"Is it really smart for you to be wandering around alone with Tyler out there?" Agnes asked, her voice carrying genuine concern beneath its usual theatrical delivery. "I mean, you're not exactly operating at full strength."

"No," Wednesday admitted, scanning the tree line for movement. "It's not smart."

She turned to Agnes, her expression that of someone who had already weighed the risks and deemed them acceptable. "But I won't be wandering. You're going to call me a ride."

Agnes blinked. "A ride to where?"

Wednesday looked down at Thing, who had positioned himself on her shoulder, alert and ready for another adventure he probably wouldn't enjoy.

"It's time we visit Grandmama for answers."

The stone steps leading to Hester Frump's estate were carved from the same unyielding granite that comprised the family's moral backbone. Wednesday ascended them with usual arrow-straight posture, her hand gripping the iron banister while Thing maintained his watchful perch on her shoulder. Each step echoed against the classical façade that rose before them—all soaring columns and Gothic arches that spoke of wealth accumulated over centuries rather than decades.

The estate itself commanded the landscape with the authority of old money properly invested. Limestone walls rose three stories, their surface weathered to the perfect shade of aristocratic gray. Gargoyles perched at strategic intervals along the roofline, their stone eyes fixed on the horizon with the same calculating expression Hester wore during family gatherings. Even the ivy climbing the east wing appeared to have been trained into submission, forming elegant patterns rather than the chaotic tangles that adorned lesser properties.

Wednesday reached the broad stone terrace that stretched across the rear of the house like a stage awaiting its performance. The view beyond threatened to impress despite her general animosity to scenic beauty. A vast courtyard spread below, its manicured lawns descending in layered levels toward a lake that captured the afternoon sky like polished obsidian. At the water's center, an elaborate fountain sent arcs of water skyward in patterns that somehow managed to be both mathematical and organic. Rolling hills stretched beyond the lake toward the horizon, their green slopes dotted with ancient oaks that had witnessed generations of Frump family drama.

The sharp crack of gunfire drew her attention to the terrace's eastern end. Hester held a long-barreled shotgun with the expertise of a woman who'd been shooting since childhood, the weapon appearing less like a tool of violence than an extension of her refined sensibilities. Her silver hair was arranged in its usual immaculate style, not a strand displaced despite the recoil that would have staggered a lesser marksman.

"Pull!" Hester called out crisply.

From somewhere beyond Wednesday's view, a clay pigeon arced into the sky in a perfect parabola. Hester tracked its flight, the shotgun's barrel following the target's trajectory as smoothly as a conductor's baton. The weapon discharged with a sound like thunder given manners, and the clay disk exploded into orange fragments that rained down onto the manicured grass below.

"Excellent shot, Madame," came a gravelly voice from the shadows near the house. Varicose stepped into view—Hester's ancient manservant, whose appearance suggested he'd been carved from the same limestone as the estate itself. His fingers worked the mechanism of what appeared to be a spring-loaded launcher.

"Again," Hester commanded, breaking open the shotgun to extract the spent shell. The brass casing glinted in the afternoon light as it arced through the air to join its predecessors in a neat pile beside her feet.

Varicose reset the launcher. Another clay pigeon sailed into the blue, following a higher arc this time. Hester's shot came a fraction of a second later, reducing the target to powder that drifted away on the breeze like gray snow.

"I told your mother that a few restrictions weren't going to keep you cooped up," Hester said without turning around, apparently having sensed Wednesday's approach through whatever supernatural awareness ran in the family bloodline. "Morticia always did underestimate your capacity for creative problem-solving."

Moving closer, Wednesday felt Thing adjust his position to maintain better balance on her shoulder. "Grandmama."

Hester finally turned, her sharp eyes taking in the careful way Wednesday held herself. The assessment was swift but thorough—the sort of tactical evaluation that missed nothing and revealed little.

"You look like you've been through a wood chipper," Hester observed. "Though I suppose that's preferable to looking like you've been through a Hyde."

"The distinction is purely semantic at this point."

A smile touched the corners of Hester's mouth—not warm, exactly, but carrying approval for Wednesday's refusal to seek sympathy for her injuries. She set the shotgun aside.

"What brings you to my doorstep, Wednesday? I doubt this is a social call."

"I need advice regarding my psychic abilities," Wednesday said, cutting directly to the heart of her visit. "They haven't functioned properly since my initial vision of Enid's death."

The approval in Hester's expression faded into something more cautious. She glanced at Varicose, who had begun collecting the spent shell casings.

"That will be all for now, Varicose," Hester said. "Please ensure we're not disturbed."

The ancient servant bowed before disappearing into the house's shadows. Hester waited until his footsteps faded completely before speaking again.

"Why come to me? Surely your mother—"

"Mother refuses to help," Wednesday interrupted. "She believes my pursuit of visions will lead to Aunt Ophelia's fate. You're the only other psychic I know."

Hester moved to the terrace's stone balustrade, her fingers trailing along its surface. Her gaze fixed on the lake below, where the fountain continued its endless dance between water and sky.

"Perhaps your mother has a point," she said finally. "I don't want you to turn out like Ophelia either."

"Mother told me about Aunt Ophelia's visions," Wednesday replied, moving to stand beside her grandmother. "How her obsession with preventing every possible tragedy ultimately caused her breakdown. I'm not planning to obsess over changing everything."

She turned to face Hester directly, her dark eyes carrying the sort of controlled intensity that had intimidated authority figures since childhood.

"But I won't stand by and let Enid be killed."

Hester's eyebrows rose fractionally—the sort of minimal expression that conveyed volumes in the Frump family vocabulary.

"Without my powers, I'm acting blind," Wednesday continued, her voice gaining urgency despite her efforts to maintain detachment. "Things are more dangerous that way. I've already made things worse by allowing Tyler escape during the chaos at Willow Hill."

Wednesday's jaw tightened as she pushed forward through territory that felt uncomfortably close to pleading.

"If I'm going to keep Enid alive, I need more information. Who kills Enid? When? Why?" Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "I need to see what's coming before it arrives."

The silence that followed stretched between them like a taut wire. Hester continued to stare at the fountain, her expression unreadable as she processed Wednesday's request. Thing shifted position on Wednesday's shoulder, his subtle movement conveying the sort of nervous energy that suggested even he understood the gravity of what was being asked.

Below them, the fountain continued its eternal performance, water rising and falling in patterns that had remained unchanged since the estate's construction. The sound provided a steady backdrop to their standoff—grandmother and granddaughter, both carrying the weight of family history and the terrible burden of sight that came with their bloodline.

"There's a reason many believe this particular gift to be a curse," Hester said finally. She turned from the balustrade to face Wednesday directly, her steel-blue eyes reflecting something that might have been old pain. "Tell me, what was the last thing you remember from that initial vision?"

Wednesday's fingers tightened against the stone railing. The memory surfaced—Enid's face, twisted with anguish and accusation, her voice breaking as she spoke words that had carved themselves into Wednesday's mind like acid etching glass.

"I saw Enid blaming me for her death," she admitted despite the way it scraped against her throat.

"And did you pull away from the vision at that moment?"

Wednesday's silence stretched between them like an indictment. Hester nodded slowly, her expression carrying neither surprise nor judgment—only the weary recognition of someone who'd witnessed this pattern before.

"Of course you did." Hester moved closer, her voice softening into something that approached gentleness. "You felt the pain of her accusation and instinctively recoiled. It's what most people would do when confronted with such knowledge."

Wednesday had pulled away—violently, desperately, as if distance could somehow negate what she'd witnessed.

"Our visions don't function as crystal balls, Wednesday," Hester continued. "They act more as prophecy than as glimpses of immutable future. The images we see are layered with meaning, symbolism, and context that must be properly interpreted."

She gestured toward the fountain below, where water continued its eternal dance between earth and sky.

"You've been trying to argue desperately against a prophecy without properly listening to it first. Fighting symptoms rather than understanding the disease."

Wednesday felt her jaw clench. "You're suggesting I misinterpreted—"

"I'm suggesting you interrupted the vision before it could show you what you needed to see." Hester's voice carried the authority of hard-won experience. "Psychic blocks often stem from emotional resistance. When we refuse to witness what our gift is trying to reveal, the ability itself retreats."

The logic was sound, though it demanded acknowledging a vulnerability Wednesday had spent years perfecting armor against. She'd built her entire identity around unflinching observation, yet when confronted with Enid's potential death, she'd flinched like a child afraid of the dark.

"The way to restore your powers," Hester continued, "is to stop fighting the vision and allow it to run its complete course. Let it show you what it needs to show you, rather than what you want to see."

Wednesday stared at the fountain's endless patterns, her mind cataloging the tactical advantages and emotional costs of Hester's advice. Experiencing the full vision would mean watching Enid die again—completely, with no possibility of retreat or denial. It would mean hearing every word of accusation, witnessing every detail of her friend's destruction.

But it might also reveal crucial information: the identity of Enid's killer, the circumstances surrounding her death, the specific sequence of events that led to it. Knowledge that could be weaponized against fate itself.

"The emotional cost—" Wednesday began.

"Is the price of the gift," Hester finished. "We don't get to choose which futures we witness, Wednesday. We only get to choose what we do with the knowledge once we possess it."

Thing shifted position on Wednesday's shoulder, his movement conveying a sort of resigned support. Even he understood the terrible logic of what was being proposed.

Before Wednesday could respond, the sharp sound of approaching footsteps echoed from within the house. Varicose emerged from the shadows with the measured pace of someone delivering unwelcome news.

"Madame," he said, bowing slightly toward Hester. "Principal Barry Dort is here to see you."

The maternal concern on Hester's face gave way to something more calculating. She glanced at Wednesday with the sort of protective instinct that ran deeper than conscious thought.

"Stay out of sight," she commanded. "Whatever Dort wants, it's better if he doesn't know you're here."

Wednesday nodded, already analyzing potential observation points and escape routes. The conversation with Hester would have to wait, but the seed of her grandmother's wisdom had been planted. The vision would have to be faced—completely, unflinchingly, regardless of the emotional carnage it revealed.

Melting into the shadows beside a stone pillar, Wednesday became nearly invisible against the limestone's weathered surface, her black clothing providing perfect camouflage. Thing repositioned himself to maintain better concealment, his fingers pressed flat against her shoulder. From this vantage point, she could observe the terrace while remaining hidden from anyone approaching from the house.

Principal Dort emerged onto the terrace, his usual theatrical smile dialed up to maximum wattage, all teeth and false warmth as he approached Hester with outstretched arms.

"Ms. Frump!" he exclaimed, as if encountering a beloved aunt at a family reunion. "What a magnificent estate. Truly breathtaking."

Hester turned from the railing, her face displaying all the warmth of a marble tombstone in January.

"Principal Dort," she acknowledged, her voice flat as a scalpel blade. "To what do I owe this displeasure?"

Dort's smile faltered for precisely half a second before reasserting itself with renewed vigor. He clasped his hands behind his back.

"I've come to personally invite you to contribute to our upcoming Nevermore Gala," he said, his voice carrying the cadence of someone who'd been practicing this pitch. "Your family's legacy at the academy is truly—"

"My daughter already tried and failed," Hester interrupted, examining her perfectly manicured nails. "What makes you think you'll succeed where Morticia couldn't?"

Dort stepped closer, his enthusiasm undimmed by the obvious dismissal. "Because I believe you understand what Nevermore truly needs to return to its former glory," he said, his voice dropping to a more intimate register. "Your experience, your wisdom, your... discernment."

From her hiding place, Wednesday noted how Dort's posture shifted subtly, his shoulders squaring as he prepared to deploy what was clearly his primary weapon of persuasion.

"In fact," he continued, his smile taking on a calculating edge, "I'd like to propose that we honor you specifically at this year's gala. A recognition of the Frump family's contributions to outcast education, with you as the evening's guest of honor."

While Hester's face remained impassive, Wednesday caught the almost imperceptible straightening of her grandmother's stance—the subtle shift suggesting the flattery had found its mark.

"How thoughtful," Hester said, her tone carrying just enough interest to encourage Dort's continued assault on her vanity.

"Your presence would lend an authority to the proceedings that frankly, we desperately need," Dort pressed, warming to his theme. "Someone who understands the true purpose of institutions like Nevermore. Someone who appreciates the value of tradition properly maintained."

Wednesday watched her grandmother consider the proposal, her face betraying nothing. The silence stretched between them like a test of wills.

"I have a condition," Hester said finally.

Dort leaned forward eagerly. "Name it."

"I would like to take my daughter's place as chair of the committee."

Dort's smile froze for a moment that stretched just long enough to reveal the rapid calculations taking place behind his eyes. Wednesday could practically see him weighing the benefits of Hester's donation against the political complications of displacing Morticia.

"Done," he said quickly, his smile snapping back into place.

From her concealed position, Wednesday observed the exchange with something approaching admiration. Her grandmother's ability to manipulate situations to her advantage while maintaining an air of aristocratic detachment was truly artful. The request would accomplish multiple objectives: securing Hester's involvement in Nevermore's affairs, removing Morticia from a position of influence, and establishing Hester's dominance in yet another family power struggle.

Grandmama never fails to take delight in putting Mother in her place, Wednesday reflected.

The pattern had repeated itself throughout her childhood—Hester arriving at family gatherings like a elegant storm, rearranging power dynamics before departing with her superiority firmly established.

Nevertheless, this particular manipulation would serve Wednesday's purposes perfectly. With Morticia occupied by the humiliation of her demotion and Hester busy orchestrating her social triumph, Wednesday would have considerably more freedom to pursue her grandmother's advice regarding the blocked vision.

"Your generosity is overwhelming, Mrs. Frump," Dort gushed, apparently choosing to interpret Hester's power play as munificence. "Nevermore will benefit immeasurably from your guidance."

"I'm sure it will," Hester replied with the sort of smile that could have preserved corpses.

Dort backed away with the reverence of someone who'd gotten what he wanted but wasn't entirely sure how. "I'll be in touch regarding the details," he said, bowing slightly before retreating toward the house.

Wednesday remained hidden until Dort's footsteps faded completely into the limestone corridors. Only then did she emerge from the shadows, while Thing adjusted his position as she stepped back into the afternoon light.

Hester turned to face her with an expression of supreme satisfaction, her steel-blue eyes glittering with the particular malice she reserved for successful family warfare.

"Morticia will be absolutely furious when she hears," she said, her voice carrying the contentment of someone who'd just arranged a particularly satisfying revenge.

"Varicose will drive you back to Nevermore," Hester continued, her tone shifting to something more practical. "And Wednesday?"

She turned to meet her grandmother's gaze directly.

"Remember what I told you about the vision. Stop fighting what you need to see."

Wednesday nodded, understanding passing between them like a shared secret. The emotional cost would be significant, but the tactical advantages of complete knowledge outweighed personal comfort.

After all, some truths were worth bleeding for—especially when they might prevent someone else from bleeding instead.

The evening sun bathed Nevermore's quad in fading golden hues, stretching shadows across the grass where students gathered in their familiar clusters. Cross-legged on the stone steps beside Bruno, Enid sat surrounded by the comfortable chatter of the pack. Their voices blended into background noise as her mind drifted, fingers absently picking at the hem of her sweater.

We're not friends. We're roommates. Nothing more.

The words echoed, each repetition like a fresh cut. Two days had passed, but instead of dulling the pain, time seemed to sharpen it. Every morning, she woke expecting the hurt to have faded, only to feel it settle deeper into her chest.

Her memory pulled her backward, past the quad's gentle bustle to that terrible ride from the hospital.

Bruno's car had been quiet except for the soft hum of the engine and her ragged breathing. She'd pressed her forehead against the cool window, watching Jericho's lights blur through her tears. He hadn't asked questions, hadn't tried to fix anything. Just drove while she fell apart in the passenger seat.

When they'd reached Nevermore's gates, she couldn't even look at him.

"Thank you," she'd whispered, already reaching for the door handle.

"Enid—"

But she was already running, her feet carrying her across the quad and up the stairs to Ophelia Hall two at a time. The door to their room had opened to emptiness—Wednesday's side macabre as always, her own bursting with color that suddenly felt too bright, too much.

She'd collapsed onto her bed and sobbed until her throat was raw.

The memory shifted, pulling her to the next morning when grief had transformed into something harder.

Sunlight had streamed through the spider-web window, illuminating the tape line Wednesday had removed weeks ago. Enid had stared at the space where it used to be, remembering when she'd thought its removal meant something. When she'd been foolish enough to believe it was a gesture of trust, of friendship.

Her movements had been sharp. Clothes folded and stuffed into her suitcase. She'd made her bed, quickly grabbing Mr. Sparkles and the throws that had made the space feel like home. Each item packed was a small act of rebellion, a statement: I don't need you.

Before leaving, she'd turned to look at Wednesday's side one last time—the perfectly made bed, the vintage typewriter. She'd wanted Wednesday to come back to an empty room, to understand what it felt like to be abandoned.

Even if it was just a fraction of the pain she'd given Enid, it would be a win.

A different memory surfaced—Wednesday's broken body on rain-slicked pavement, the terrible stillness as paramedics worked over her. A tremor ran through Enid's body.

The compressions. One, two, three. Wednesday's chest rising and falling under someone else's hands because she couldn't breathe on her own. The rain washing blood across the concrete.

"Enid?"

She blinked rapidly, forcing the memories away and the tears that came with them. Bruno was looking at her with concerned eyes, his conversation with the others having stopped mid-sentence.

"Sorry, what did you say?" She managed a shaky smile, hoping he hadn't noticed her distress.

"I asked if you wanted to grab dinner before curfew." Bruno's voice carried gentle patience. "But you've been somewhere else for the past ten minutes. Are you okay?"

The pack had gone quiet around them, their enhanced senses probably picking up her emotions despite her attempts to hide them. Heat crept up her neck as she realized she was the center of attention.

"I'm fine," she said, injecting false brightness into her voice. "Just tired, I guess. It's been a long couple of days."

His expression didn't change, but she caught the subtle exchange of glances between the other wolves. They knew. Of course they knew—her scent probably reeked of sadness and hurt no matter how wide she smiled. With a quick look from Bruno, their conversation continued without the pair.

"Enid." He shifted closer, his shoulder brushing hers. "What happened at the hospital the other night? You never told me."

The question she'd been dreading. Looking away, she focused on a group of sirens practicing harmony near the fountain. Their voices blended in ethereal chords that made the evening air shimmer.

"It was just Wednesday being her usual cold, cruel self," she said, aiming for casual dismissal. "You know how she is."

But even as she said it, she knew it wasn't true. Wednesday had been cold before, had been cutting and dismissive and infuriatingly distant. But what had happened in that hospital room had been different—calculated in a way that felt designed to cause maximum damage.

With gentle pressure, his warm hand covered both of hers, stilling their nervous fidgeting. "Hey. You can talk to me."

The kindness in his voice nearly broke her. For a moment, she wanted to tell him everything—about the investigation, about Agnes, about how Wednesday had looked at her like she was nothing more than an inconvenience. But the words stuck in her throat.

Because underneath all the hurt and anger was a truth she wasn't ready to face: even after everything, if Wednesday walked across the quad right now, Enid would probably forgive her in a heartbeat.

And that terrified her more than any Hyde ever could.

"Really, I'm okay," she repeated, squeezing his hand gently before pulling away to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "I just need some time to process everything."

Studying her face for a long moment, his dark eyes searched for cracks in her mask. She could practically see him weighing whether to push harder or let it go. Finally, he nodded, though his expression remained unconvinced.

"Alright," he said simply, and Enid felt a rush of gratitude for his restraint.

The comfortable silence that followed was broken by excited chatter from a group of vampires passing by, their voices animated as they discussed weekend plans. Bruno straightened, as if something had just occurred to him.

"You know," he said, turning to face her more fully. "The Pilgrim Fair starts tomorrow night in Jericho. The whole pack's planning to go—rides, games, terrible fair food that'll probably give us food poisoning." His mouth quirked into a grin. "Want to come with us?"

Caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation, she blinked in surprise. "The fair? But what about the curfew? And all those new restrictions Principal Dort put in place?"

His grin widened, taking on a distinctly mischievous edge. "What, you think one Hyde can take down our entire pack? We're not helpless puppies, Enid. Besides," he lowered his voice conspiratorially, "Maya knows a secret passage that leads straight into the woods. We can get in and out without anyone noticing."

The prospect of sneaking out sent a thrill of rebellion through her chest, followed immediately by a stab of anxiety. The last time she'd ventured off campus for an investigation, it had ended with Wednesday bleeding on concrete and harsh words that still echoed in her mind.

But this would be different. This would be fun—normal teenage fun with friends who actually wanted her around. No mysteries, no danger, just carnival games and cotton candy and the simple pleasure of being young and reckless.

She hesitated, torn between the appeal of escape and the voice in her head that sounded suspiciously like her mother, warning about safety and responsibility.

Sensing her internal struggle, his expression softened, losing some of its playful edge. "Look, I just think you need something to take your mind off everything that's been happening. When's the last time you did something just because it sounded like fun?"

The question hit harder than she'd expected. When was the last time? Before Wednesday's return to school? Before the investigation? Before her entire world had been turned upside down by death threats and invisible stalkers?

"I..." She trailed off, realizing she couldn't actually remember.

"You don't have to decide right now," he continued, his voice gentle. "Just think about it, okay? We're planning to leave around eight tomorrow night. If you want to come, meet us by the old oak near the cemetery."

She nodded slowly, her mind already spinning with possibilities and fears in equal measure. Part of her desperately wanted to say yes immediately, to throw caution to the wind and embrace the normalcy Bruno was offering. But another part—the part that had learned hard lessons about consequences—urged her to be careful.

"Thank you," she said finally, meaning it. "For the invitation, and for... everything else. I'll think about it."

His smile was warm and patient, carrying none of the judgment she'd expected.

As the evening shadows grew longer and the first stars began to appear in the darkening sky, Enid found herself wondering if maybe—just maybe—she deserved a night of forgetting.