Nevermore, My Broken Heart

Chapter 3: The Woe Before the Storm

Perhaps, Wednesday reflected as she surveyed the colorful disaster that was Enid's abandoned territory, following her grandmother's advice would prove more challenging than anticipated.

The logical approach was systematic exposure—using Enid's personal belongings to trigger a psychic vision. After all, objects carried emotional imprints. Enid's possessions should theoretically provide the strongest possible connection to her roommate's psychic signature.

The theory was sound. The execution, however, required touching things that violated every aesthetic principle Wednesday held sacred.

Wednesday approached Enid's vanity with the caution of someone disarming a particularly volatile explosive device. The surface gleamed with an array of cosmetics that looked like they'd been designed by someone who'd mistaken a paint store for a beauty counter.

Selecting a tube of lip gloss—hot pink with glitter suspended in the formula like tiny shards of crystallized vomit—she held it between her thumb and forefinger as if it might contaminate her through skin contact. Eyes closed, she attempted to summon a vision.

Nothing.

Not even the faintest psychic tremor disturbed the silence behind her eyelids.

Next came a fuzzy, rainbow-striped sock, aggressively cheerful in its design. Wednesday held it at arm's length, her face twisted in an expression typically reserved for watching her parents and their endless displays of affection.

Again, nothing.

Frustration mounting, her attempts grew more direct. A unicorn-shaped hair clip with an iridescent purple horn that shifted colors in the light like an oil spill given form. She suppressed a visible shudder as the plastic touched her skin.

Still nothing.

With increasing desperation, her methods escalated. The touch of a plushie—some sort of hybrid between a kitten and a cupcake that defied both nature and good taste. Contact with a neon-green scrunchie that hurt to look at directly. Even subjecting herself to a schoolbook covered in holographic stickers spelling out "POSITIVITY" in letters that seemed to pulse with their own malevolent energy.

Each attempt yielded the same result: absolute psychic silence.

Now Wednesday found herself cross-legged on the floor between their beds, holding one of Enid's favorite sweaters—a monstrosity of soft pink cashmere adorned with a pattern of tiny rainbow hearts. The garment radiated warmth and comfort in a way that made Wednesday's teeth ache.

Closing her eyes, she clutched the sweater in her hands despite every instinct screaming in protest. The fabric was abominably soft, carrying the faint scent of Enid's vanilla perfume mixed with something uniquely her—sunshine and optimism distilled into aromatic form.

Show me, she commanded her recalcitrant powers. Show me what I need to see.

For a moment, something flickered behind her eyelids—a brief flash of color, a whisper of sound. Enid's laughter, maybe, or the rustle of autumn leaves. But before the vision could properly form, it dissolved like smoke, leaving Wednesday grasping at psychic fragments that slipped through her mental fingers like water.

"Damn," she muttered, dropping the sweater as if it had suddenly burst into flames.

The defeat tasted like copper pennies and wounded pride. Her grandmother's advice echoed in her mind: Stop fighting what you need to see. But how could she stop fighting something that refused to appear in the first place?

Thing scuttled across the floor toward her, his movements conveying a mixture of sympathy and exasperation that only a disembodied hand could achieve. He positioned himself where she could see his signs clearly.

Still nothing? Thing signed, his question carrying the sort of patient resignation that came from years of managing Wednesday's more volatile moods.

"Obviously not," Wednesday snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. "If there had been something, I wouldn't be sitting on this floor surrounded by the aesthetic equivalent of a migraine."

Thing's response was a subtle shift in posture that somehow managed to convey both understanding and mild amusement. He'd weathered Wednesday's frustration storms before; they were as predictable as they were intense.

Her gaze swept the room with renewed determination, cataloging each remaining artifact of Enid's presence. The vanity had yielded nothing. The clothing had proven equally useless. The school supplies had been a complete waste of time. What remained?

Wednesday's eyes fixed on the bed—specifically, the conspicuous absence atop Enid's carefully arranged pillows. Something that should have been there but wasn't.

"There's something missing," she murmured, her analytical mind piecing together the pattern of Enid's packing choices. "She took her most essential items—clothes for several days, toiletries, her favorite pajamas." A pause, her expression darkening. "And her ridiculous unicorn."

Thing positioned himself where Wednesday couldn't avoid seeing his suggestion. Why not try direct touch? Skin contact might work better than objects.

A glare that could have incinerated a lesser being met his suggestion. "Because I told her to leave me alone. Appearing at her new location to demand physical contact would somewhat undermine that directive."

You could tell her the truth, Thing persisted, his signs carrying the sort of stubborn logic that made him invaluable and infuriating in equal measure.

"No." The word emerged with finality that brooked no argument. "Enid's current distance from me is the only thing keeping her alive. The further she stays from my orbit, the less likely she is to become collateral damage in whatever Tyler and Judi have planned."

Rising to her feet with movements careful to accommodate her injured ribs, Wednesday continued, "Besides, I don't need direct contact. I need something with deeper emotional significance than a fashion accessory."

Her mind circled back to the missing item—the one thing Enid would never willingly leave behind. The pathetic stuffed unicorn she'd named with characteristic whimsy, the one that occupied prime real estate on her pillow every single night. The creature was a pastel nightmare of pink and purple plush with a glittery horn that caught light like a disco ball, but Enid treated it with the reverence most people reserved for religious artifacts.

"She has a stuffed animal," Wednesday said, her voice carrying reluctant respect for the tactical implications. "Some sort of hybrid unicorn-nightmare that she's had since childhood. She sleeps with it every night, talks to it when she thinks no one is listening, and treats it like a confidant."

Thing's attention sharpened. You think it would work?

"If anything would carry her psychic imprint, it would be that creature." Wednesday's expression grew calculating. "Years of constant contact, emotional investment, shared secrets—it's probably saturated with her essence."

So you're planning to sneak into Divina's room? Thing asked, his signs conveying the sort of tactical concern that came from extensive experience with Wednesday's more questionable plans.

"I won't have to," Wednesday replied, a smile ghosting across her lips—the sort of expression that usually preceded someone else's misfortune. "Agnes owes me several favors, and she's been looking for ways to prove her usefulness."

The cottage's main parlor had been transformed by Morticia's touch into something resembling a gothic fever dream. Shafts of autumn sunlight filtered through heavy curtains, casting geometric patterns across walls draped in midnight-black silk. The scent of night-blooming roses hung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint smokiness from the fireplace where logs crackled with an almost musical rhythm—a deliberate atmospheric choice despite the warmth of the midday sun.

Gomez paced before the hearth like a caged panther, his hands gesturing with theatrical flourish as he regaled Morticia with tales of his latest business venture.

"Cara mia," he declared, spinning to face her with arms spread wide, "you should have seen Principal Dort's expression when I told him about the rare orchid collection donation. Absolutely priceless!"

Morticia reclined on the blood-red velvet chaise longue, one elegant hand trailing along its carved wooden arm while the other held a crystal goblet of wine that caught the filtered sunlight like liquid rubies. Her midnight hair cascaded across the cushions like ink, and her lips curved in that subtle smile reserved exclusively for her husband's more animated moments.

"I imagine the dear principal was... blooming with excitement," she murmured, her voice carrying the same smoky quality as the room's atmosphere.

"Blooming!" Gomez repeated with delighted laughter, clapping his hands together. "Tish, your wordplay is pure poetry. Absolutely devastating." He pressed a hand to his chest in mock anguish. "How you wound me with your wit."

"I do try to keep you on your toes, darling."

Gomez moved closer to the chaise, his dark eyes fixed on her with the intensity of a man permanently besotted. "Speaking of devastation," he said, his voice dropping to that particular register that made Morticia's pulse quicken, "that gown is criminal. Positively felonious."

Morticia glanced down at the black silk that clung to her form like shadow. "This old thing? I merely threw it on."

"Threw it on?" Gomez gasped, placing both hands over his heart. "Tish, you don't simply 'throw on' perfection. You orchestrate it, you conduct it like a symphony of—"

"Mon cher," Morticia interrupted, her French pronunciation deliberate and sultry, "you're being rather dramatic this afternoon."

The effect was instantaneous. Gomez's knees actually buckled, and he grabbed the mantelpiece for support.

"French," he whispered, his voice strangled with emotion. "Tish, when you speak French, I lose all sense of direction. My compass spins wildly, my maps become useless. I am completely, utterly—"

"Lost?" she suggested, rising from the chaise with fluid grace.

"Captivated," he corrected, moving toward her like a moth drawn to a particularly alluring flame. "Enslaved. Absolutely at your mercy."

With deliberate, hypnotic movements, Morticia set down her wine goblet. "And what would you have me do with such power?"

He reached for her hands, lifting them to his lips with reverent care. "Whatever pleases you, my darling. I am yours to command."

"Comme c'est romantique," she breathed, watching his pupils dilate at the French words.

Gomez swayed on his feet. "Tish, you're killing me. Absolutely murdering me with your linguistic prowess."

"Poor Gomez," she murmured, stepping closer until the silk of her gown whispered against his vest. "Perhaps I should call for a physician."

"The only cure," he said, his voice rough with emotion, "is your kiss."

Morticia's smile deepened, revealing just the hint of teeth. "How convenient. I happen to have one available."

She leaned closer, her lips nearly brushing his, when three sharp knocks echoed through the cottage like gunshots. Both of them froze, the spell of the moment hanging in the balance between completion and interruption.

"Ignore it," Gomez whispered urgently, his hands moving to frame her face. "Whatever it is, whoever it is, they can wait."

Another series of knocks followed, more insistent this time.

Morticia sighed, a sound like wind through cemetery trees. "I should answer it."

"No," Gomez protested, his voice taking on a note of genuine anguish. "Tish, please. We were just getting to the good part."

She placed a finger against his lips, her touch feather-light but commanding. "Patience, mon amour. I'll only be a minute."

"A minute?" Gomez clutched at her hands as she stepped back. "Tish, in a minute, empires could fall. Stars could collapse. The very fabric of reality could unravel."

"And yet," she said, moving toward the foyer with that gliding walk that defied physics, "I suspect the cottage will survive my brief absence."

Gomez sagged against the mantelpiece with the defeated posture of a man watching his dreams sail away on an evening tide.

"This is torture," he called after her. "Exquisite, unbearable torture."

Morticia's laughter drifted back from the hallway, a sound like silver bells wrapped in velvet. "Don't go anywhere, darling. I have plans for you."

The promise in her voice weakened Gomez's stance, forcing him to grip the mantelpiece with both hands to keep from sliding to the floor.

At the front door, Morticia paused, her hand resting on the wrought-iron handle as she composed herself. The interruption had shattered the intimate atmosphere she'd so carefully cultivated, but twenty years of marriage to Gomez had taught her that romance could always be rekindled—business, however, rarely waited for convenient timing.

Upon opening the door, she found Barry Dort standing on her threshold, his theatrical smile blazing with the intensity of a man who'd rehearsed this encounter multiple times in his mirror.

"Mrs. Addams!" he exclaimed, spreading his arms as if greeting a long-lost relative. "What a magnificent day. Simply breathtaking."

"Principal Dort," Morticia replied, maintaining the velvety timbre she'd been using moments earlier, though now tempered with polite inquiry. "How unexpected."

Gomez appeared beside her, his vest slightly askew and his hair bearing evidence of his dramatic gesturing. "Dort, old man! Perfect timing. Morticia and I were just discussing the orchid donation. Absolutely riveting conversation."

Dort's smile flickered briefly—whether from confusion or recognition that he'd interrupted something, she couldn't determine. "Yes, well, actually I've come to discuss the gala arrangements with Mrs. Addams."

Morticia inclined her head gracefully. "Of course. Though I must warn you, my attempts to secure Mother's support were... less successful than hoped."

"Ah." Dort shifted his weight, his hands clasping behind his back. "Well, I certainly appreciate your efforts on behalf of the academy."

"However," Morticia continued, "I was able to secure three alternative donations instead. The Blackthorne family has committed to underwriting the catering, the Ravencroft estate will provide the floral arrangements, and—"

"That's wonderful news," Dort interrupted, though his enthusiasm seemed strained. "Truly appreciated. However, there have been some... developments regarding the committee structure."

Morticia's eyebrows rose. "Developments?"

Dort opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again, his gaze darting toward something beyond their view. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.

"Perhaps it would be better if..." He gestured vaguely behind him. "That is to say, there's someone here who can explain the situation more... directly."

From the dappled sunlight of the cobblestone path, a figure emerged with the regal bearing of royalty making a grand entrance. Hester Frump stepped into the pool of light cast by the cottage's iron lanterns, her silver hair immaculate despite the afternoon breeze, her dark gown flowing around her like shadows given form.

Morticia's posture shifted almost imperceptibly—her spine straightening, her chin lifting by perhaps half an inch, her fingers tightening against the doorframe. The transformation was subtle but unmistakable, like a blade being drawn from its sheath with perfect silence.

"Mama," she said, her voice maintaining its cultured tone while somehow dropping several degrees in temperature.

"Morticia, darling," Hester replied, her smile sharp enough to cut glass. "I do hope we're not interrupting anything important."

Stepping aside with obvious relief, Dort allowed Hester to take center stage. "Mrs. Addams, I'm delighted to announce that your mother has graciously agreed to contribute to our gala." His voice gained momentum as he warmed to his announcement. "In fact, her generosity is so overwhelming that we've decided to throw the entire event in her honor."

Hester's smile deepened, her steel-blue eyes fixed on Morticia's face with satisfaction. "And," she added, her voice carrying the authority of someone accustomed to reshaping situations to her advantage, "I've taken the liberty of assuming your position as committee chair. I felt it was the least I could do, given my... extensive experience with such affairs."

The silence that followed could have preserved corpses. Morticia's face remained a masterpiece of controlled composure, betraying nothing more than polite interest. But Gomez, standing close enough to feel the subtle tension radiating from his wife, recognized the signs of an approaching storm.

"Dort," he said suddenly, his voice carrying forced joviality, "perhaps you and I should step outside for a moment? I'd love to show you the garden arrangements Morticia's been working on."

Dort's gaze moved between the two women, both standing perfectly still yet somehow conveying the impression of circling predators. His survival instincts finally engaged.

"Yes," he said quickly, backing away from the doorway. "Yes, that sounds... educational. Very educational indeed."

Gomez shot Morticia a look that managed to convey both apology and tactical retreat, then guided Dort away from the cottage with the determination of a man saving a fool from his own stupidity.

As their footsteps faded into the darkness, mother and daughter remained alone on the threshold. The candlelight from within cast shifting shadows across both their faces, creating an atmosphere that seemed to pulse with unspoken challenge.

Morticia stepped back and gestured toward the interior.

"Please," she said, her voice like velvet wrapped around steel. "Do come in, Mother. I believe we have quite a bit to discuss."

Hester moved through the cottage's parlor with the pace of a queen surveying newly conquered territory. Her fingertips trailed along the carved mantelpiece, appraising the gothic touches Morticia had added. The midnight silk draping, the carefully arranged orchids, the crystal decanters—all catalogued and filed away for future reference.

Behind her, Morticia closed the door, the soft click echoing through the suddenly oppressive silence. When she turned, her dark eyes tracked her mother's progress through the room like a predator watching an intruder in its den.

"What exactly are you up to, Mother?"

Hester paused beside the blood-red chaise, her hand resting on its carved wooden arm—the same spot where Morticia's fingers had traced patterns only moments before. "I'm simply ensuring that our family name will have a lasting legacy on Nevermore's future."

"By humiliating me in front of Dort?"

"By taking charge when leadership was clearly needed." Hester turned, her steel-blue eyes meeting Morticia's. "Your efforts, while admirable, lacked the necessary... authority."

Morticia stepped closer, her silk gown whispering against the Persian rug. "This isn't about authority. This is about undermining me. You've never forgiven me for choosing my own path instead of yours."

"I merely believe in competence over sentiment, darling. Results matter more than feelings."

Morticia's eyes narrowed. "Or is this your attempt at redemption for what happened to Ophelia?"

The accusation hung between them like a blade suspended by a thread. Hester's composed expression flickered—just for an instant—before reasserting itself with renewed force.

"Perhaps," she admitted, her tone betraying nothing. "Though I believe I'm already doing that by ensuring Wednesday doesn't follow a similar path."

"Explain."

A glacial expression returned to Hester's face, cold as winter moonlight. "After you turned Wednesday down, she came to me for help." The words were designed to cut precisely where they would inflict maximum damage. "Your daughter sought guidance from someone who wouldn't abandon her in her time of need."

Morticia's hands clenched at her sides, her carefully maintained composure cracking just enough to reveal the fury beneath. "If you encourage Wednesday to keep pushing her psychic gifts, it's going to drive her mad. Just like Ophelia."

"Ah." Hester moved to the window, her silhouette framed against the filtered afternoon light. "It's remarkable how clarity comes with perspective." She turned back to face Morticia, her expression carrying a weight of old knowledge. "What we dismiss as madness often proves to be remarkably prescient."

Something passed between them—a flicker of understanding that transcended their current battle, rooted in shared memories and carefully guarded secrets. The parlor's shadows seemed to deepen around them, as if the cottage itself recognized the significance of what had just been acknowledged without words.

Morticia's breathing grew shallow, her dark eyes never leaving her mother's face. The silence stretched between them like a test of wills, both women standing perfectly still.

Finally, Hester moved toward the foyer with the same regal grace that had marked her entrance. At the threshold, she paused.

"Enjoy your afternoon, darling," she said, her voice returning to its customary arctic politeness. "I have a gala to plan."

The door closed behind her with a soft finality, leaving Morticia alone in the suddenly cavernous parlor. The rose fragrance lingered, now mingled with something that tasted like the memory of old grief.

The bells of Iago Tower kept their eternal vigil, marking time while Wednesday stood behind the massive clockface like a sentinel at her post. Late afternoon light filtered through the Gothic arches, casting long shadows across the stone floor that shifted with each movement of the enormous hands above. Through the tower's mullioned windows, distant figures of Nevermore students moved between classes—tiny dots of color against the academy's dark stone.

She tracked their movements, cataloging each group, each solitary figure. Was Enid among them? The thought emerged, carrying with it a spike of irritation at her own curiosity. It didn't matter where Enid was or what she was doing, as long as she remained safely distant from the increasingly dangerous orbit surrounding Wednesday.

Thing perched on the stone ledge beside her, his fingers drumming against the weathered granite in a rhythm that suggested barely contained impatience. From the moment Wednesday had outlined this plan, he'd been skeptical, his disapproval radiating through every deliberate gesture and pointed pause.

The sound of footsteps echoed up the narrow spiral staircase—deliberate, unhurried, entirely too casual for Wednesday's current mood. Turning from the window, she watched as Agnes DeMille emerged from the shadows, fully visible and wearing an expression of innocence that immediately irritated her.

"You're late."

Agnes paused at the top of the stairs, one hand resting on the stone archway. "Sorry," she offered with a casual shrug. "Unlike some people, I still have classes to attend. Professor Orloff doesn't exactly appreciate tardiness."

Wednesday's eyes narrowed slightly. The excuse was reasonable, which only made it more annoying. "Have you seen any signs of Tyler? Or Judi's crows?"

"No." Agnes stepped further into the chamber. "Everything's been quiet. Almost boringly so."

A pause settled between them, heavy with unspoken questions. Agnes's gaze drifted toward the windows, where the distant figures continued their academic migrations.

"Do you want to know about Enid?" Agnes asked, her voice carefully neutral.

"No." The word emerged sternly. "I don't need distractions."

Agnes nodded, though her expression suggested she found Wednesday's determined ignorance more telling than any direct inquiry would have been. "Right. Of course."

Moving away from the window, Wednesday positioned herself to face Agnes directly. "I have a task for you."

The effect was immediate and gratifying. Agnes's entire demeanor shifted, her spine straightening and her eyes brightening with the sort of eager attention typically reserved for Christmas morning or particularly impressive explosions.

"A task?" Agnes repeated, her voice rising slightly with excitement. "What kind of task?"

"I need you to infiltrate Divina's room and retrieve something of Enid's," Wednesday said, her tone remaining deliberately clinical. "Without Enid knowing."

A predatory smile spread across Agnes's face. "Oh, this is going to be fun. What are we talking about here? Her diary? Some embarrassing photos? That ridiculous collection of nail polish that looks like it was designed by someone with a serious vision problem?"

She began pacing, her movements quick and animated as possibilities multiplied in her mind. "Or maybe those god-awful sweaters that hurt to look at directly? I could take several of those and she wouldn't notice for weeks."

"Her stuffed animal," Wednesday interrupted, cutting through Agnes's enthusiastic speculation.

Agnes stopped mid-stride, her expression shifting from excitement to confusion. "Her... stuffed animal?"

"The unicorn she usually keeps on her bed." Wednesday's jaw tightened. "The pink and purple monstrosity with the glittery horn."

The silence that followed stretched between them. Agnes blinked several times, as if trying to process a particularly complex equation.

"You want me to steal Mr. Sparkles?" she asked finally, her voice carrying a note of barely suppressed amusement.

Wednesday fixed her with a withering glare. "Yes."

Agnes pressed her lips together, clearly fighting the urge to smile. "May I ask why you need Enid's beloved childhood companion?"

"Because I need to trigger another vision," came the reply, in a tone suggesting that anyone requiring further explanation was probably too stupid to live. "To gather more information about Enid's death."

The humor faded from Agnes's expression. "Ah. Psychic imprinting. You think the stuffed animal will carry enough of her emotional resonance to—"

"I don't think," Wednesday cut her off. "I know. Years of constant contact with an object of significant emotional value creates deep psychic impressions. If anything in Divina's room will trigger a vision, it will be that abomination."

Agnes nodded slowly, her tactical mind already working through the logistics. "Understood. Any specific instructions for the retrieval?"

"Don't touch anything else. Don't let anyone see you. And don't get caught."

"Should I bring Mr. Sparkles back here?" Agnes asked, gesturing around the tower chamber.

"No. Bring it to my room." Wednesday turned toward the window again, her posture dismissing further conversation. "I'll be waiting."

Agnes's grin returned, sharp and anticipatory. "Leave it to me."

The air shimmered slightly as Agnes activated her ability, her form becoming translucent before dissolving entirely into invisibility. Her footsteps echoed briefly on the stone stairs before fading into silence, leaving Wednesday alone with Thing and the weight of her own desperate choices.

Thing positioned himself where his signs couldn't be ignored. You realize how this looks?

"Don't."

I'm just saying— Thing began.

"Don't," Wednesday repeated. "Whatever observation you're preparing to make about the tactical necessity of requesting the theft of a stuffed animal, keep it to yourself."

Thing's fingers stilled, though his posture somehow managed to convey the sort of pointed silence that spoke volumes about his opinion of the entire enterprise.

Returning to her vigil at the window, Wednesday observed the distant figures moving across Nevermore's grounds. Somewhere among them, Enid was continuing her life without the dangerous complications Wednesday's presence brought. It was better this way—safer, more logical, tactically sound.

But as the tower bells chimed the hour above, she found herself scrutinizing each colorful figure below, searching for a familiar flash of rainbow hair and wondering if some tactical necessities carried costs that couldn't be calculated in advance.

Thing's renewed finger-tapping against the stone suggested he was thinking similar thoughts, though he was wise enough to keep his observations to himself. After all, some humiliations were best endured in silence—particularly when they involved the theft of mythical creatures with glittery appendages.

The weight of Principal Dort's skeptical stare pressed against Bianca's shoulders as she stood beside Ajax in the expanse of the principal's office. Dort's fingers drummed against his mahogany desk, each tap echoing through the silence like a metronome counting down to judgment.

"Let me understand this correctly," Dort began slowly. "Professor Orloff was petrified completely by mistake."

"Yes, sir," Ajax replied, his voice steady despite the nervous energy radiating from his frame. "It was an accident. I was adjusting my beanie and—"

"And somehow your snakes managed to catch Professor Orloff's reflection in a window," Dort finished, his tone suggesting he found this explanation about as credible as a vampire's sunbathing schedule.

Stepping forward slightly, Bianca drew Dort's attention. "We were all working on the gala invitations, Principal Dort. Pugsley, Eugene, Ajax, and myself. Professor Orloff just happened to be in the wrong place when Ajax's beanie slipped."

The lie emerged smoothly. Years of navigating Morning Song's manipulation had taught her to construct deceptions that contained enough truth to feel believable. They had been working on invitations—technically accurate.

Dort's pale eyes shifted between them, lingering on Bianca with the sort of attention that made her skin crawl. She'd felt that particular quality of scrutiny before, usually from adults who viewed her abilities as tools to be leveraged rather than boundaries to be respected.

"How fortunate that you were able to complete the invitation project despite this... mishap," Dort said, his fingers continuing their rhythmic percussion against the desk.

"We're very dedicated to Nevermore's fundraising success," Bianca replied, allowing just enough sincerity to color her voice without crossing into obvious manipulation.

A knowing smile played at the corners of Dort's mouth, the expression of someone who recognized a performance even when he couldn't prove it was one. "I'm sure you are, Miss Barclay. Your commitment to the academy's financial stability has been... noted."

The emphasis on that last word sent a chill down Bianca's spine. Another reminder of the leverage he held over her scholarship, another subtle twist of the knife he'd already embedded between her ribs.

"If that's all, sir," Ajax said, taking a half-step toward the door.

Dort waved them away with a casual gesture that somehow managed to convey both dismissal and warning. "That's all. Do try to be more careful with your... wardrobe malfunctions in the future, Mr. Petropolus."

Together they moved toward the office door with the pace of students who wanted desperately to run but knew better than to show it. The brass handle felt cool under Bianca's palm as she turned it, opening the door to reveal the familiar chaos of Nevermore's main corridor.

They stepped through together, and Ajax pulled the door closed behind them with a soft click that seemed to echo through the stone archways. The moment the latch engaged, both of them released identical sighs of relief, the sound emerging in perfect unison.

"Well, that was uncomfortable," Ajax muttered, running a hand along the edge of his beanie.

"Could have been worse," Bianca replied, though her shoulders remained tense as she began walking toward the dormitory wing. Her amulet rested heavily against her sternum, a constant reminder of the power she'd been forced to wield too often lately.

"Bianca, wait up."

She paused, turning to find Ajax jogging the few steps necessary to catch up with her. His expression carried that particular quality of concern that made her defensive walls snap into place automatically.

"What?" she asked, her tone sharper than she'd intended.

Ajax fell into step beside her, his longer stride easily matching her pace through the corridor. Students moved around them in the typical afternoon migration between classes and dormitories, their conversations creating a familiar backdrop of academic white noise.

"How's your mom?" he asked quietly, his voice carefully modulated to avoid carrying to curious ears.

Her steps faltered for just a moment before she forced herself back into rhythm.

"She's safe," Bianca said, the words emerging more clipped than conversational. "Hidden for now in the old Nightshade library."

It wasn't the complete truth—Gabrielle was as safe as anyone could be while hiding from a collapsed cult and federal investigators.

"That's good," Ajax said, though his tone suggested he was reading the subtext she was trying to hide. "Are you okay?"

The question stopped her dead in the middle of the corridor. Students flowed around them like water around stones, but Bianca felt suddenly frozen in place. Are you okay? When was the last time someone had asked her that and actually wanted an honest answer?

Her mind catalogued the past several days: Dort's manipulation, the forced use of her siren voice on Morticia, the constant pressure to weaponize her abilities for the academy's financial gain. The weight of watching her mother hide like a criminal while bureaucrats decided whether Morning Song's collapse made Gabrielle a victim or an accomplice.

Most recently, the decision to use her voice at the police station, wiping away her mother's arrest record and the evidence of Bianca's own involvement. Another line crossed, another compromise with her own ethics for the sake of protection and necessity.

But Ajax was watching her with genuine concern, his dark eyes reflecting the sort of steady support that made dangerous honesty seem almost possible. Almost.

"I'm fine."

The words were bitter, but they were simpler than the truth. Simpler than explaining how each forced use of her siren abilities felt like carving away pieces of herself, how she lay awake calculating the difference between protection and violation, how the amulet around her neck had become both shield and shackle.

His expression suggested he wasn't entirely convinced, but he nodded anyway. Ajax understood boundaries, even when they were built from necessity rather than preference.

Bianca began walking again, her steps carrying her toward the dormitory wing and the illusion of privacy her room might provide. But after a few paces, she found herself slowing, then stopping entirely.

She turned back to find Ajax still standing where she'd left him, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets and his expression carefully neutral. The gesture of not following, of giving her space while remaining available, hit her with unexpected force.

"Ajax," she said, her voice softer than it had been moments before.

He raised his eyebrows slightly, a question without words.

"Thank you," she said. "For your help."

The words carried more weight than they should have, encompassing not just the afternoon's deception but days of quiet support. His presence during Dort's manipulations, his assistance in protecting her mother, his willingness to ask difficult questions without demanding uncomfortable answers.

A small but genuine smile transformed Ajax's features from concern to something warmer. "Anytime."

Bianca nodded once, a gesture that felt more like a salute than simple acknowledgment. Then she turned and continued toward her dormitory, leaving Ajax standing in the corridor behind her.

The sound of her footsteps echoed off the stone walls, each step carrying her further from the honest conversation she couldn't afford to have and closer to the solitude where she could finally let her carefully maintained composure fracture, just for a moment, before rebuilding it for whatever challenge tomorrow would inevitably bring.

The crime board had been Thing's idea, though Wednesday suspected he'd stolen the concept from watching too many procedural dramas during their downtime. Still, the methodology was sound: a systematic visual representation of available data, suspect movements, and tactical patterns.

Before the corkboard she'd commandeered from Enid's side of the room, Wednesday methodically pinned photographs and handwritten notes. Red string connected various points—Tyler's last known location at Willow Hill, the crow attacks, Sheriff Galpin's murder scene. The emerging pattern resembled a spider web designed by someone with homicidal tendencies.

Thing perched on the desk beside her, sorting through additional photographs. His movements were quick and purposeful as he arranged potential sightings in chronological order, occasionally tapping specific images to draw her attention to inconsistencies in witness descriptions.

Three of these sightings happened simultaneously, Thing signed, tapping the relevant papers. Unless Tyler's learned to multiply, at least two are false positives.

"Obviously." Wednesday pulled another length of yarn taut between pins. "Fear makes people see monsters in shadows. We need to filter genuine encounters from mass hysteria."

The knock at her door arrived with the cadence of someone who understood that interrupting Wednesday Addams required both courage and tactical timing. She glanced at Thing, who managed to convey a shrug, before crossing to the door.

Pugsley stood in the hallway, holding a small stack of printed papers. His growth spurt had left him hovering awkwardly in the doorframe, all angles and adolescent uncertainty.

"I have the reports you asked for," he said without preamble.

Wednesday stepped aside, allowing him entry. "How many?"

"Eleven reported sightings since the Willow Hill incident." Pugsley handed her the papers, his fingers careful not to linger during the transfer. "I cross-referenced police reports with social media posts and local news coverage. Some are obviously unreliable, but I highlighted the ones that include specific details about his appearance or behavior."

Wednesday accepted the papers without acknowledgment, her attention already shifting to their contents. The gesture wasn't unkind—merely efficient. Gratitude was an unnecessary expenditure of energy when competence was its own reward.

She spread the reports across her desk, dark eyes scanning each page. Two mentioned the Hyde form specifically. Three included descriptions that matched Tyler's human appearance. The remainder offered variations on "tall, threatening figure" that could have described half the male population of Vermont.

Pugsley remained standing near the door, his gaze drifting from Wednesday's crime board to the conspicuous absence of rainbow-colored chaos that typically marked Enid's half of the room. The fairy lights were dark. The vanity sat empty of its usual arsenal of cosmetics. Even the air felt different—less warm, somehow. Less alive.

"I guess Enid's still gone," he observed, his voice carrying the tone that suggested he knew he was testing dangerous waters.

"Yes." The word emerged flat and final, designed to close the topic before it could properly open.

But Pugsley possessed the particular brand of stubborn persistence that ran in the Addams bloodline like a hereditary curse. He shifted his weight, studying Wednesday's profile as she continued sorting through witness reports.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

Wednesday's hands stilled on the papers. The question hung in the air between them, loaded with implications she had no intention of exploring. Was he concerned about her recent hospitalization? The obvious signs of sleep deprivation that even her carefully controlled appearance couldn't entirely conceal? Or perhaps the simple fact that two homicidal maniacs with personal vendettas against her were currently roaming free through the Vermont countryside?

She turned to face him, her expression hardening.

"Yes."

The syllable contained enough finality to end most conversations, but Pugsley had inherited more than just the family's taste for the macabre. His dark eyes held a stubborn concern that refused to be dismissed with simple monosyllables.

Thing positioned himself between them, his fingers moving in rapid translation. He's worried about you.

"He shouldn't be," Wednesday replied, though whether she was addressing Thing or Pugsley remained deliberately ambiguous. "Worry is a waste of mental resources better applied to productive activities."

Pugsley opened his mouth as if to argue, but before he could manage a response, a series of sharp knocks at the door drew their attention.

He glanced at Wednesday, his expression questioning whether he should answer the increasingly insistent knocking. When she offered no guidance beyond a barely perceptible nod, Pugsley moved to the door and pulled it open.

Agnes stood in the hallway, cradling what appeared to be a small pink and purple catastrophe. The stuffed unicorn looked even more offensive than Wednesday had remembered—its glittery horn catching the corridor light like a disco ball designed by someone with questionable taste and no understanding of subtlety.

Pugsley's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline as he took in the sight of Agnes holding what was unmistakably a child's toy. His gaze shifted between Agnes and Wednesday, confusion written across his features in letters large enough to be read from orbit.

Agnes remained frozen in the doorway, her eyes darting between the Addams siblings with the expression of someone who'd walked into a conversation she couldn't quite parse. The silence stretched until it became actively uncomfortable.

"That'll be all, Pugsley."

His shoulders lifted in a shrug that somehow managed to convey both resignation and mild amusement. He'd learned long ago that Wednesday's business was often better left unexamined.

"Right," he said, stepping around Agnes. "I'll let you know if I find anything else."

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Wednesday and Agnes alone with the unicorn that seemed to emanate cheerfulness with nauseating intensity. Agnes stepped further into the room, her movements careful as she navigated around Thing, who had positioned himself strategically near the crime board.

"It certainly took longer to get it than expected."

Agnes adjusted her grip on the plush creature, treating it with surprising care. "Enid's been spending more time indoors than usual," she replied, her voice carrying implications that hung in the air like smoke. "It made timing... complicated."

The admission created a sensation beneath Wednesday's chest that she immediately suppressed. Enid's retreat from her normal social patterns was likely a direct result of their last conversation. The tactical success carried an emotional cost she refused to calculate.

Agnes approached the center of the room, extending the unicorn toward Wednesday like an offering to an unpredictable deity. "Mr. Sparkles," she announced with what seemed like amusement.

Wednesday accepted the abomination without hesitation, fingers closing around its repulsively soft body. The desperation she'd been holding in check threatened to crack through her carefully maintained composure. This had to work. It had to provide the vision she needed, the crucial information about Enid's death that would allow her to prevent it.

The pastel monstrosity was warm from Agnes's body heat, and it carried Enid's scent—vanilla perfume mixed with something uniquely her that Wednesday had never bothered to identify until its absence had become noticeable.

A glance at Thing revealed he had moved closer to observe the proceedings. His posture conveyed both hope and apprehension—the stance of someone who understood the stakes involved in this particular gamble.

Wednesday closed her eyes, clutching the unicorn against her chest despite every aesthetic instinct screaming in protest. She reached for her gift, that elusive psychic sight that had abandoned her when she needed it most.

For a split second, the world behind her eyelids flickered.

Enid's tombstone materialized in her mind's eye—the same weathered granite she'd seen before, carved with letters that spelled out her roommate's name and dates that bracketed a life cut tragically short. The vision was brief but crystal clear, accompanied by the echo of Enid's voice carrying across the impossible distance between life and death.

"I die because of you!"

The repeated words hit harder than she expected, carrying all the pain and betrayal she'd witnessed in that first, terrible vision. The connection snapped like a broken wire, leaving Wednesday disoriented and gasping.

A single black tear traced down her cheek, the physical manifestation of psychic overreach that Morticia had warned her about. The salt taste reached her lips before she could stop it—metallic and bitter, like liquid grief given form.

Agnes stepped closer, her expression shifting from anticipation to obvious concern.

Thing positioned himself where Wednesday couldn't avoid seeing his worried gestures. What happened?

"I'm fine," Wednesday replied, her voice firm enough to discourage further inquiry. The deflection came automatically, a defensive reflex honed through years of refusing to acknowledge weakness in any form.

Her grip tightened on the plush toy, its synthetic fur soft against her palms as she closed her eyes again. This time, she would push deeper. This time, she would force the vision to continue beyond that first terrible moment, to reveal the crucial details Hester had promised waited beyond her emotional resistance.

She reached for her gift again, stretching her consciousness toward the psychic realm that had always responded to her will.

Nothing.

Not even the faintest tremor of supernatural awareness disturbed the darkness behind her eyelids. The silence was absolute, mocking, complete.

Frustration exploded through her like a detonation. Her arm swept across the desk with violent force, scattering Tyler's sighting reports, red yarn, and thumbtacks across the floor in a shower of paper and metal. The crime board's careful organization dissolved into chaos, hours of meticulous pattern analysis reduced to debris.

Mr. Sparkles became the focus of her rage. Wednesday raised it above her head, muscles tensing to hurl the offensive creature against the wall where it would hopefully shatter into pieces and cease its existential mockery of her situation.

But something stopped her at the apex of the throw. Perhaps it was the memory of Enid's sleeping face, peaceful and trusting in the moonlight that used to filter through their shared window. Perhaps it was the recognition that destroying this particular symbol of innocence would accomplish nothing beyond satisfying her own fury.

Instead, Wednesday shoved the unicorn into Agnes's hands with enough force to make the younger girl stagger backward.

"Return it to Enid."

Agnes held the plush toy tentatively, and for a moment, her mouth opened to speak. But she'd learned enough about Wednesday's moods to recognize when retreat was the wisest choice.

She nodded without a word and moved toward the door. The click of the latch echoed through the room as she departed, leaving Wednesday alone with Thing and the wreckage of her failed experiment.

Wednesday pressed the back of her hand against her cheek, wiping away the black tear's residue. The salt stain remained on her skin like a brand, physical evidence of her psychic failure.

Her gaze drifted across the room to Enid's vacant territory—the empty bed with its perfectly arranged pillows, the silent vanity, the dark fairy lights that would never again cast rainbow patterns across their shared walls. The absence felt heavier than any presence could have, a void that seemed to pulse with accusation.

I die because of you.

The words echoed in her mind, carrying all the weight of prophecy unfulfilled and futures she couldn't see clearly enough to prevent. Somewhere in the darkness ahead, Enid's death waited like a trap she couldn't disarm because she couldn't find its mechanism.

And Wednesday Addams, for perhaps the first time in her life, had absolutely no idea how to proceed.

Enid pulled open another dresser drawer, her movements becoming more frantic as she searched through Divina's neatly folded clothes. "I swear I left him right here on your bed yesterday," she muttered, pushing aside a stack of silk scarves. "He has to be somewhere."

Divina sat cross-legged on her unmade bed, watching Enid's increasingly desperate search with amusement. Her dark hair was tucked neatly behind her ears, and she wore the kind of effortless elegance that came naturally to sirens—even in pajama pants and an oversized sweater, she looked like she'd stepped out of a magazine.

"Enid, relax. I'm sure Mr. Sparkles is somewhere in here." Divina's voice carried the subtle musical quality that marked her species. "Maybe he fell behind the nightstand? You know how these old dorm rooms have weird gaps everywhere."

Dropping to her knees, Enid peered into the narrow space between the nightstand and wall. Nothing but dust bunnies and a forgotten hair tie. Her chest tightened with an anxiety that felt disproportionate to losing a stuffed animal, but Mr. Sparkles wasn't just any toy. He was comfort incarnate, the one constant that had survived every move, every heartbreak, every moment when the world felt too big and hostile.

"This is ridiculous," she said, sitting back on her heels. "I'm sixteen years old, and I'm having a panic attack over a unicorn."

"Hey." Divina's tone softened, losing its musical edge entirely. "There's nothing ridiculous about missing something that makes you feel safe. Especially after everything that's happened."

The gentle understanding in her friend's voice made Enid's throat tighten. She'd been staying in Divina's room for two days now, sleeping on the pull-out couch and trying to pretend that the hollow ache in her chest was just temporary displacement. But Divina saw through her attempts at casual normalcy with the clarity reserved for close friends.

Rising from the floor, she perched on the edge of Divina's desk chair, her fingers twisting together in her lap. The room felt warm and lived-in, decorated in shades of blue and silver that complemented Divina's natural coloring. It was beautiful, welcoming even, but it wasn't home.

"Speaking of everything that's happened," Divina said, her voice carefully neutral, "have you talked to Wednesday since she got back from the hospital?"

Her spine stiffened despite efforts to appear casual. "No."

"Why not?"

The question hung in the air between them. Enid focused on a water stain on Divina's ceiling, tracing its irregular edges with her eyes rather than meeting her friend's knowing gaze.

"There's nothing to talk about," she said, aiming for dismissive and landing somewhere closer to defensive.

Divina shifted on the bed, the mattress creaking softly under her weight. "Enid, you two got pretty close last year. One fight can't just—"

"It wasn't a fight." The words came out sharper than intended, carrying an edge that made Divina raise an eyebrow. "Wednesday made her position very clear. She doesn't want me around."

"So why don't you just go talk to her? Clear the air?"

Her hands clenched into fists in her lap. "Because she's the one who told me to leave, Divina. She looked me in the eye and said we weren't friends, that we were just roommates."

The memory of that moment in the hospital room replayed in her mind—Wednesday's voice, cold and clinical, delivering those words. The way she'd turned away afterward, dismissing Enid as easily as she might wave off an annoying insect.

"I'm not going to keep crawling back to someone who made it clear I don't matter to her," she continued, her voice gaining strength. "If Wednesday wants to talk, she knows where to find me."

"So why don't you just move on? You finally found your place in the pack. Plus you have Bruno now."

The suggestion should have been reasonable. Wednesday had made her choice, after all. But the thought of simply forgetting their friendship, of pretending those late-night conversations and shared secrets had never happened, made something revolt in Enid's chest.

"I've tried," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "God, I've tried so hard to just... let it go. But I can't."

"Why not?"

Quiet for a long moment, she stared at her hands as she tried to find words for something she'd barely acknowledged to herself. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft and uncertain.

"Because I can't imagine my life without her in it."

The silence that followed felt heavy with understanding. Divina's expression shifted, becoming gentle in a way that made Enid's cheeks burn with embarrassment.

"Enid," Divina said carefully, "do you love her?"

The question threatened to illuminate feelings she had kept carefully buried under layers of friendship and loyalty and reasonable explanations. Her face flushed crimson as she scrambled for a deflection.

"What? No, that's—we're friends. Were friends. I mean, she's..." The words tumbled over each other to deny what felt too dangerous to explore. "It's not like that."

Divina's knowing smile suggested she wasn't buying the protest for a second, but she had the mercy not to push further.

"How are things going with Bruno?"

The change of subject should have been a relief, but instead it only made the storm forming in Enid's chest more ferocious. With a sigh, her shoulders sagged under the weight of another relationship she was probably ruining through her inability to move forward.

"Good," she said, then paused. "Bruno's sweet. And understanding. He doesn't push when I'm not ready to talk about things, and he makes me laugh, and he's..." She trailed off, searching for words that felt honest.

"But he's not Wednesday."

It wasn't a question. Divina said it with the gentle certainty of someone stating an obvious truth, and Enid felt her carefully constructed defenses crumble. She didn't have an answer because they both knew it was true.

The silence stretched between them, filled with all the things Enid couldn't bring herself to say. Finally, she stood abruptly, her movements sharp with sudden decision.

"I need to take my mind off Wednesday," she announced, pulling her phone from her pocket. "I need to do something fun. Something normal."

Divina sat up straighter, intrigued. "What's the plan?"

Her thumb hovered over Bruno's contact for a moment before she pressed call. The phone rang twice before his warm voice filled the speaker.

"Hey, Enid. Everything okay?"

"Bruno, hi." She forced brightness into her tone, channeling the bubbly energy that used to come naturally before everything became complicated. "I changed my mind about tonight. I want to go to the fair."

There was a pause, then the sound of his smile carried through the connection. "Really? That's great. I was hoping you'd come."

"What time should I meet you guys?"

"We're getting ready to leave now. Meet us in the quad—Maya will show you the passage."

"Perfect."

"Enid?" His voice carried a note of concern. "Are you sure you're okay? You sound..."

"I'm fine," she said quickly. "Just excited to get out of here for a while. See you soon."

The call ended before he could ask any more questions. Turning to Divina with a smile that felt only slightly forced, Enid nodded with determination.

"There. Problem solved. A night of carnival games and terrible food, and no mysterious investigations or psychic visions or murders."

Divina nodded approvingly, though her expression remained thoughtful. "That sounds perfect. Just... be careful, okay? I know you want to forget about everything, but—"

"I'll be fine," Enid interrupted, already moving toward the door. "It's just a fair. What's the worst that could happen?"

She grabbed her jacket from the chair and headed for the exit, pausing only to squeeze Divina's shoulder in goodbye. "Thanks for letting me crash here. And for listening."

"Anytime," Divina smiled. "Have fun tonight."

The door closed behind Enid with a soft click, leaving Divina alone in the sudden quiet of her room. She picked up her phone from the nightstand, scrolling absently through social media as she processed their conversation. The soft glow of the screen illuminated her concerned expression as she wondered if she should have pushed harder, said more, somehow convinced Enid to reconsider whatever plan was forming in her impulsive friend's mind.

A movement in her peripheral vision made her look up.

Agnes materialized in the center of the room like a magic trick in reverse, her invisibility dissolving to reveal her clutching something pink and glittery against her chest. Mr. Sparkles stared back at Divina with his button eyes and rainbow mane, looking obscenely cheerful in Agnes's anxious grip.

Divina's phone slipped from her fingers, clattering onto the bedsheets as her heart jumped into her throat.

"What the hell are you doing in my room?" she demanded, her voice carrying enough siren influence to make the windows rattle.

The normal face of mischief or childhood innocence that usually followed Agnes' reappearance was gone—replaced by clear urgency.

"What fair?"

At the makeshift investigation hub in her room, Wednesday examined the pattern of red threads that linked the various locations of Tyler's reported sightings. The connections were becoming clearer now—a trail of destruction with Jericho as its destination.

From his position on the desk, Thing gestured toward specific locations on the map.

He's circling back, he signed, tapping the cluster of pins near Jericho.

"Obviously." Wednesday stretched the yarn between two markers, creating a direct line from Tyler's last known position to the town center. "His childhood home is still there. Sheriff Galpin's house remains unoccupied. He knows every back road, every hiding place."

Her attention shifted to another section where photographs of Judi Spannegel, Augustus Stonehurst, and Dr. Fairburn stared back at her. Red X's marked the faces of the confirmed dead—casualties of the zombie's escape during the Willow Hill chaos. Crimson threads connected Fairburn and Augustus to a question mark representing their undead killer.

The symmetry was almost elegant.

"Judi's lost her research team," Wednesday continued, her voice clinical. "Stonehurst's expertise died with him. Fairburn's psychiatric evaluations are useless now. She's operating with diminished resources."

Thing moved to where Wednesday couldn't ignore him. What's her next move?

Fingers drumming against the desk, Wednesday considered the question. Judi had spent years perfecting the LOIS program, harvesting outcast abilities and transferring them to normies. The process had transformed her from ordinary human to Avian controller—a living testament to the program's success.

"She'll need new test subjects," Wednesday said finally. "Fresh specimens to continue her experiments. But more immediately, she needs to eliminate the threats to her operation."

Meaning you.

"Initially, I was simply an annoyance—a meddlesome student investigating murders." Her expression hardened. "But now I possess comprehensive knowledge of LOIS, the fake cremations, the imprisoned outcasts. I've become a liability she can't afford to ignore."

The admission carried weight beyond tactical analysis. By exposing the truth about Willow Hill, Wednesday had painted a target on herself that extended beyond mere academic curiosity. Judi would come for her—not out of malice, but out of necessity.

Thing approached the portion of board dedicated to Enid's prophesied death. The makeshift shrine consisted of a single photograph—Enid's bright smile frozen in time—surrounded by question marks and incomplete theories.

How does Enid fit into this? Thing asked, his gestures carrying the frustration they both felt at the missing pieces.

"I don't know." The admission tasted like defeat. "The vision shows her death, shows her blaming me, but the circumstances remain unclear."

Wednesday's hand drifted unconsciously to her temple, where the phantom ache of psychic overreach still lingered. With properly functioning abilities, she could have traced the causal chain from present circumstances to Enid's future demise. Instead, she was reduced to speculation and incomplete data.

"If my sight was working," she muttered, "I could have solved this already. I could see the path that leads to her death and simply... alter it."

Thing's posture radiated the particular brand of patience he reserved for Wednesday's more stubborn moments. You could go talk to her.

"No."

She's your best friend. She deserves to know—

"She deserves to live." The words emerged with finality that brooked no argument. "Which she won't if she remains nearby while two homicidal maniacs hunt me."

His response was a subtle shift that somehow managed to convey both understanding and exasperation. Thing had witnessed Wednesday's sacrifices before, watched her choose calculated losses over emotional victories. But this particular decision carried costs that extended beyond simple strategy.

Tell her how you feel, Thing persisted, his signs carrying gentle insistence.

Turning away from the investigation display, Wednesday's expression suggested that further discussion of her emotional state would be neither welcome nor productive. "I don't know how I feel."

The admission escaped before she could stop it, carrying more vulnerability than she'd intended to reveal. Thing's stillness indicated he, too, recognized the significance of the confession.

"And it doesn't matter," she continued quickly, rebuilding her defenses. "Feelings aren't going to save Enid's life. Strategic thinking will. Not... this."

With a vague gesture toward the space between them, Wednesday encompassed all the messy emotional complications she typically chose to ignore.

Thing's response was interrupted by the sound of rapid footsteps in the corridor outside. The rhythm was wrong—too urgent, too purposeful for casual student traffic. Wednesday moved toward the door as the footsteps halted directly outside her room.

Agnes burst through without knocking, her usual invisible entrance abandoned in favor of speed. Her flushed face and labored breathing suggested she'd crossed significant distance in minimal time.

"What are you doing here?" Wednesday demanded. "You should be monitoring Enid's location."

Standing straighter, Agnes's expression carried the urgency that preceded very bad news. "That's the problem. Enid's gone."

Wednesday's heartrate spiked though her face remained impassive. "Clarify."

"She left Nevermore." For once, Agnes spoke without preamble. "Through the old passages with Bruno and their pack. They're heading to Jericho."

Wednesday's gaze snapped back to the investigation board, to the cluster of pins marking Tyler's return to his hometown.

"Where in Jericho?"

"The Pilgrim World Fair," Agnes replied. "Divina mentioned it would be crowded—good for blending in."

This development should have been predictable. Enid seeking normalcy, choosing the very location where Tyler would have every advantage. Crowds to hide among, familiar terrain to exploit.

Crossing to her desk where Thing waited with obvious concern, Wednesday pulled a map of Jericho from beneath a stack of witness reports. Her finger traced the route from Nevermore to the fairgrounds.

"Stay here," she instructed Thing. "Monitor the police scanners."

Thing's response was immediate. I'm coming with you.

"No."

Enid matters to me too, Thing signed, his gestures fierce with protective loyalty.

Wednesday paused, recognizing the truth in his statement. Thing had formed his own bonds with her roommate, had served as translator and mediator during their friendship's more complicated moments. His investment in Enid's survival was both independent of and connected to Wednesday's own feelings.

But tactics overrode emotions.

"Someone needs to coordinate from here," she said finally. "If things go poorly, get help."

The explanation was logical, reasonable, and completely transparent as a justification for keeping Thing safe. He recognized the deflection for what it was but chose not to challenge it directly.

Turning to Agnes, Wednesday asked, "What's the fastest way to Jericho?"

Agnes straightened, her earlier anxiety replaced by eager anticipation. "There's an old road through the forest. Cuts travel time by half."

"Show me."

As they moved toward the door, Wednesday cast one final glance at the board. The crimson threads stretched between pins like arteries, and at its center sat the photographs of everyone who mattered—suspects and victims, the living and the dead, the hunters and the hunted.

Somewhere in that tangled pattern, Enid was walking into danger. In most situations, Wednesday would appreciate the irony. In trying to protect Enid by staying away, she'd created the exact conditions for the confrontation she'd been trying to prevent.

But as she followed Agnes into the corridor, Wednesday discovered that irony mattered far less than the simple, terrifying truth that had been growing in her chest like a tumor:

Some things were worth any risk.

Even the risk of fulfilling the very prophecy she was desperate to prevent.