Nevermore, My Broken Heart

Chapter 6: Heart Full of Woe

Enid had been pacing for hours, her bare feet silent against the hardwood as she traced the same anxious path between the window and the door. The morning light filtering through their spider-web window caught the dust motes she'd stirred up with her restless movement, creating tiny galaxies that swirled and settled in the spaces Wednesday usually occupied.

Her roommate's side of the room looked exactly as she'd left it—bed made perfectly, typewriter positioned at the perfect angle, everything in its designated place. The order felt like an accusation now, a reminder of Wednesday's need to control every detail of her environment while keeping the people in her life completely in the dark.

"She's been gone all night," Enid said to the empty room, her voice hoarse from crying earlier. "What if something happened to her? What if Tyler—"

Thing tapped sharply against Wednesday's desk, interrupting her spiral before it could gain momentum.

She made her choice, he signed with crisp, decisive movements. Running away instead of facing consequences.

Enid paused mid-step, wrapping her arms around herself. "I shouldn't have called her a coward. That was cruel, even if..." She trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

Thing gestured toward Wednesday's empty chair, then back to Enid. She lied to you for weeks. Treated you like a child who couldn't handle the truth.

"She was trying to protect me."

The disembodied hand went perfectly still for a moment, then began tapping against the desk in a rhythm that sounded distinctly like sarcastic applause. When Enid frowned at him, Thing launched into a series of gestures that grew increasingly animated.

Protect you? She made you think you meant nothing to her. Made you cry yourself to sleep wondering what you'd done wrong.

The words hit hard because they were true. Enid had spent days cataloguing every interaction, every conversation, trying to pinpoint the moment she'd somehow failed Wednesday's friendship. The memory of that hospital room—Wednesday's cold voice declaring they weren't friends—still made her chest ache.

"But what if she really is just trying to keep me safe?" Enid asked softly. "What if staying away from me is the only way to—"

Thing's movements became sharper. Then she should have trusted you enough to explain. Not lie. Not manipulate. Not treat you like a problem to be managed.

Enid sank onto her bed, finally stopping her relentless pacing. Her enhanced hearing strained toward the hallway, searching for the familiar click of Wednesday's boots on stone. Nothing. Just the ordinary sounds of students beginning their morning routines.

"I'm scared," she admitted quietly. "Not of the vision or Tyler or any of that. I'm scared that Wednesday spent the whole night out there alone, maybe hurt, and it's my fault for pushing too hard."

Thing crawled across the desk until he could face her directly. You did nothing wrong. She needed to hear the truth.

"Did she, though?" Enid's voice cracked slightly. "Because she looked... God, Thing, she looked terrified. I've never seen Wednesday scared of anything, and I just kept yelling at her."

Because she was finally facing the consequences. Thing's response carried no sympathy for Wednesday. It's appropriate when you've hurt someone you care about.

Wednesday had looked genuinely panicked in those final moments before she fled—not the controlled version of herself that solved mysteries and faced monsters, but someone whose emotional walls were crumbling in real time.

Pulling her knees to her chest, Enid rested her chin on top of them. "What if she doesn't come back? What if I pushed her away permanently?"

Thing moved closer. Then she was never the friend you thought she was. Real friends don't abandon each other over difficult conversations.

The brutal honesty made Enid wince, but she couldn't argue with the logic. If their friendship couldn't survive her demanding the truth, maybe it had never been as strong as she'd believed.

A sound in the hallway made her head snap up, hope flaring briefly before fading as unfamiliar footsteps passed their door. Not Wednesday. Still no Wednesday.

Thing noticed her disappointment and tapped gently against the desk to regain her attention. She'll come back. Wednesday doesn't leave mysteries unsolved.

"And what if I'm just another mystery to her?" The question slipped out before Enid could stop it. "What if she's been analyzing me this whole time instead of actually caring?"

Thing's stillness stretched long enough that Enid wondered if she'd finally asked something he couldn't answer. When he finally moved, his gestures were slower, more thoughtful.

I've seen how she looks at you when she thinks no one's watching. That's not analysis.

The observation sent warmth spreading through Enid's chest, followed immediately by fresh worry. If Thing was right, then last night's confrontation might have made the damage irreparable.

Returning to the window, Enid pressed her palm against the cool glass as she scanned the courtyard below. Empty pathways, morning shadows, no sign of a familiar figure in black striding across the grounds with determination.

"She has to come back," Enid whispered to her reflection. "She has to."

Behind her, Thing remained silent, offering no false reassurances. Because they both knew that Wednesday Addams was perfectly capable of disappearing if she decided the situation required it. And if she chose to stay gone, no amount of hoping would bring her back.

A sharp knock at the door cut through Enid's spiral of worry immediately. Her heart leaped, hope flooding her chest as she spun toward the sound. Wednesday. It had to be Wednesday—finally back, maybe hurt, maybe ready to talk, but back. Alive and safe and—

"Coming!" Enid called, her voice cracking slightly as she rushed across the room. Her hand trembled as she reached for the handle, already forming the words she needed to say. I'm sorry for pushing so hard. I'm sorry for calling you a coward. Just please don't run away again.

She yanked the door open, her face bright with relief and anticipation.

Bruno stood in the hallway.

The disappointment was palpable. Her expression shifted from hope to confusion to barely concealed devastation as reality crashed down around her.

"Hey," Bruno said softly, his enhanced senses immediately picking up on her distress. The scent of old tears and fresh anxiety clung to her like a second skin. "Are you okay? I've been worried about you since last night."

She managed a weak smile that fooled absolutely no one. "I'm... yeah, I'm fine. Just tired."

Taking in the dark circles under her eyes and the way she unconsciously wrapped her arms around herself for comfort, Bruno frowned. "You look like you haven't slept at all. And you smell like—" He caught himself before finishing that particular observation.

"Like I've been crying?" Enid supplied with a bitter laugh. "Yep, because I have been. Most of the night, actually."

His expression grew even more concerned. "What happened? Is this about the fair? Because if Tyler—"

"No, it's not Tyler." Enid sighed. "It's Wednesday. She… we had a fight. A bad one. And she ran off, and I don't know where she is."

Bruno stepped closer, his presence solid and reassuring. "Tell me what you need. I can help look for her, or—"

"Actually," Enid interrupted, glancing back toward Thing, who was making no effort to hide his intense interest in their conversation. "Could we maybe talk privately? I just... I need to process some things, and—"

Thing tapped sharply against Wednesday's desk, drawing their attention. When Enid looked at him, he gestured toward himself, then toward the corner of the room where the elaborate dollhouse sat—Enid's well-meaning gift that Wednesday had initially regarded with horror.

I understand. Privacy required.

"Thing, you don't have to—" Enid began, but Thing was already moving across the desk and down to the floor.

Positioning himself in front of the front entrance, Thing seemed to steel himself for a moment, then began the somewhat undignified process of squeezing through the child-sized doorway.

Bruno watched in fascination as the disembodied hand maneuvered himself inside, limbs akimbo, before managing to close the tiny door behind him with a decisive click.

The absurdity of it—a sentient hand retreating to a dollhouse to give them privacy—startled a genuine laugh out of Enid for the first time since Wednesday had fled. "He's actually really sweet once you get used to him."

Bruno's mouth quirked upward. "I'm still processing the fact that your roommate has a pet hand."

"He's not Wednesday's pet. More like her partner in crime, actually." Enid corrected.

The mention of Wednesday's name brought the weight of the situation crashing back down. Enid's brief moment of levity faded quickly, replaced by the gnawing worry that had been eating away at her all night.

"Come in," she said quietly, stepping aside to let Bruno enter. "I think I need to tell someone what happened, or I'm going to lose my mind."

Bruno settled beside her on the colorful bedspread, his weight making the mattress dip slightly. The familiar warmth of his presence should have been comforting, but Enid felt balanced on a precipice, one wrong word away from falling into territory she wasn't ready to explore.

"So," he said gently, "want to tell me what really happened after we left the fair?"

Enid wrapped her arms around her knees. "I told you. Wednesday and I had a fight."

"About what?"

"Just... Wednesday being Wednesday. You know how she is." The words felt flimsy even as she spoke them. "She's impossible to get along with sometimes."

Bruno's dark eyes studied her face with the attention of someone who knew her well enough to see through deflection. "Enid, you've been off for days now. Even before we left for the fair. Yesterday at lunch, you could barely focus on anything anyone was saying."

Heat crept up her neck. She'd thought she'd been hiding her turmoil better than that.

"I've been worried about her," she admitted quietly. "The investigation, Tyler being out there somewhere... She keeps putting herself in danger."

"That's not what this is about, though, is it?" His voice remained gentle, but there was something knowing in his tone that made her stomach twist. "This feels bigger than worrying about a friend's safety."

Enid's throat tightened. "We're roommates. Of course I worry—"

"You smell like heartbreak, Enid."

She turned away, focusing on the spider-web window as tears threatened to spill over. "I don't know what you mean."

"Yes, you do." Bruno shifted closer, his shoulder brushing hers. "I've been able to smell it on you for weeks. This deep sadness that you're trying so hard to hide. It gets stronger every time Wednesday's name comes up."

A single tear escaped despite her efforts, tracking hot down her cheek. "She told me we weren't friends. At the hospital, after Tyler threw her through that window. I thought she was going to die, and when I finally got to see her, she looked me in the eye and said we were just roommates. Nothing more."

Bruno was quiet for a moment. "That must have hurt."

"It did." The words came out thick with unshed tears. "But last night I found out she was lying. Thing told me about this vision she had—of my death, of me blaming her for it. She's been pushing me away because she thinks keeping her distance will somehow keep me safe."

"So she was trying to protect you?"

"By lying to me!" Last night's anger flared again. "By making me think I'd imagined everything between us. Do you know what it's like to question every conversation, every moment you thought meant something? To wonder if you're just completely delusional about someone caring about you?"

Bruno's hand found hers. "That sounds awful."

"She called me a liability," Enid continued. "Said I should stay away from the investigation and let her handle things alone. Like I'm some kind of burden she has to manage instead of—" She caught herself before finishing the thought.

"Instead of what?"

The question hung in the air between them. Enid stared at their joined hands, Bruno's fingers intertwined with hers, and felt the weight of everything she'd been avoiding settle on her chest.

"Instead of someone who matters to her."

"But you do matter to her. Anyone can see that."

"Can they?" Enid's voice cracked. "Because sometimes I think I've just been projecting feelings onto someone who sees me as nothing more than an inconvenience she has to tolerate."

Bruno was quiet for a long moment, his thumb tracing gentle circles across her knuckles. When he spoke, his voice was careful, thoughtful.

"Enid, can I ask you something?"

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

"When you imagine your future—college, traveling, whatever comes after Nevermore—is Wednesday in it?"

The question caught her off guard. Without thinking, without filtering, she answered honestly. "Always. I can't imagine any version of my life that doesn't have her in it somehow."

"And when you thought she might die at the hospital or at the fair, what did that feel like?"

Enid's breath hitched as the memory crashed over her—Wednesday's broken body on the rain-slicked pavement, the terrible stillness, the compressions that weren't working fast enough. "Like the world was ending. Like nothing would ever be okay again if she wasn't in it."

Bruno's hand stilled against hers. "When you thought Tyler had killed her, before they managed to bring her back, what went through your mind?"

"That I should have told her I—" Enid stopped abruptly, her eyes widening as she realized what she'd almost said.

"Told her what?"

The dollhouse in the corner seemed to lean closer, as if even Thing was holding his breath. Enid felt something fundamental shift inside her chest, like tectonic plates realigning after an earthquake.

"Oh God," she whispered, her free hand coming up to cover her mouth.

Bruno's voice was barely audible. "Enid, are you in love with her?"

Enid's world tilted as months of compartmentalized feelings suddenly organized themselves into a pattern she could no longer ignore.

"No," she said automatically, then stopped. "I mean... that's not... we're friends. She doesn't even believe in love. She thinks it's a chemical imbalance that makes people stupid."

"That's not what I asked."

Enid's vision blurred as tears spilled over freely now. Her chest felt like it was being squeezed in a vise, pressure building until she thought she might shatter.

"I don't know," she whispered, then shook her head. "Yes. I am." The words came out broken, barely audible. "I'm in love with her, and she barely thinks of me when I'm not right in front of her."

The confession hung between them like a burning truth. Bruno's hand tightened around hers—not possessive, but anchoring.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.

"For what?"

"For not seeing it sooner. For making this harder for you."

The kindness in his voice broke something loose inside her. "Bruno, I never meant—I didn't even realize—"

"I know." His smile was sad but genuine. "I think I've known for a while. The way you light up when she's with you, the way you worry about her, the way you defend her even when she's being impossible. I kept hoping maybe with time..."

"I'm so sorry," Enid whispered, guilt crashing over her. "You deserve so much better than someone who was just pretending—"

"You weren't pretending," Bruno interrupted softly. "You care about me. I know that. But caring about someone and being in love with them are different things, and I'd rather have your honest friendship than a relationship that you're trying to force yourself into."

Enid turned to look at him fully, seeing the hurt he was trying to hide beneath his understanding. "Are you okay? Really?"

Bruno was quiet for a moment. "I will be. It explains a lot, actually. Why there always felt like there was this part of you I couldn't reach, no matter how close we got."

"What happens now?"

"Now I figure out where I go from here," he said with a rueful smile. "And you get to figure out what you're going to do about being in love with Wednesday Addams."

"Even if she never feels the same way?"

"Especially then," Bruno said softly. "Because at least your feelings are honest. Mine were just... hoping I could change something that was never going to change."

Enid felt something settle inside her chest—not relief exactly, but a kind of terrifying clarity. The truth was finally in the open, impossible to take back or ignore. She was in love with Wednesday Addams, and everything that came next would have to start from that devastating, liberating fact.

From the dollhouse came the faint sound of miniature furniture being rearranged, as if Thing was making himself comfortable for a very long stay.

Morticia settled deeper into the passenger seat as Lurch guided their sedan through Nevermore's iron gates. In the back seat, Wednesday maintained her characteristic rigid posture, every line of her uniform perfect despite the emotional storm that had raged through Rotwood Cottage mere hours before. Only Morticia's maternal eye could detect the subtle tension radiating from her daughter's shoulders—the almost imperceptible tightness that suggested Wednesday was preparing herself for war.

The girl who had trembled in the cottage parlor, whose walls had crumbled under the weight of unspoken feelings, had once again donned the impenetrable mask of Wednesday Addams.

"Remember what we discussed," Morticia said as Lurch drew the car to a stop near Ophelia Hall's entrance. "Honesty, not strategy."

Wednesday's gaze shifted to meet her mother's reflection in the window glass. "I'm perfectly capable of conducting a conversation without your constant guidance, Mother."

"I wasn't questioning your capability. Merely reminding you that some victories require vulnerability rather than strength."

"Vulnerability is a luxury I cannot afford with Tyler still hunting." Her jaw tightened by the smallest degree. "Emotional displays serve little purpose."

"And yet they may be the only currency Enid will accept."

The observation hung between them like a challenge. Through the windshield, Morticia watched clusters of students moving across the courtyard—conversations conducted in tighter groups.

Lurch opened the rear door, and Wednesday stepped onto the cobblestone path. She turned back toward the vehicle, her expression softening by perhaps a single degree.

"Thank you," she said rigidly. "For last night."

Morticia's smile remained slight but genuine. "Courage, my darling. You'll find the right words when it matters."

With a small nod, Wednesday moved towards Ophelia Hall. Yet as she approached the dormitory entrance, Morticia caught the momentary hesitation in her daughter's stride—the brief pause before she squared her shoulders and disappeared into the building's welcoming shadows. Even Wednesday Addams, it seemed, wasn't entirely immune to nerves when facing the prospect of genuine emotional honesty.

Settling back as Lurch guided them toward the administrative wing, Morticia's thoughts shifted from maternal concern to political calculation, prompted by Dort's early morning summons.

His message had been vague but urgent, suggesting complications regarding the gala that required immediate attention. Given the previous night's disaster and Tyler's continued freedom, she suspected their conversation would center on security protocols and risk assessment—areas where her practical experience might prove invaluable despite her recent demotion from the planning committee.

The irony wasn't lost on her that Dort might need her expertise precisely when her own mother's social maneuvering had pushed her aside. There was a certain poetic justice in being summoned to solve problems created by her mother's ambitions, though Morticia took little satisfaction in potential vindication while her daughter's safety remained at stake.

Through the windshield, Nevermore's familiar towers rose against the morning sky like sentinels. The school that had once sheltered her own tumultuous adolescence now harbored her daughter's greatest threats and deepest revelations. Some patterns, Morticia reflected, transcended generations—though she sincerely hoped Wednesday's romantic complications would resolve with considerably less bloodshed than her own had required.

Her heels clicked against the polished stone floor of Nevermore's administrative corridor, each step echoing off Gothic arches that had witnessed decades of academic intrigue. Morning light streamed through tall windows, casting geometric patterns across walls lined with portraits of former principals—their painted eyes seeming to follow her progress toward what promised to be a delicate conversation.

Pausing before the heavy oak door marked with brass lettering that proclaimed Dort's territory, Morticia composed her expression into the serene mask that served her so well in family politics, preparing to navigate whatever crisis required her supposedly indispensable guidance.

The door swung open to reveal a tableau that stopped her dead in her tracks.

Hester Frump sat behind Principal Dort's massive mahogany desk like a queen holding court, her silver hair arranged in its usual immaculate style, her steel-blue eyes fixed on some point beyond the window as if the entire office existed solely for her. The position clearly communicated her intended dominance in the situation.

Near the window, Dort himself hovered like a nervous courtier, his theatrical smile notably absent as he turned toward Morticia's entrance. Relief flooded his features as if her arrival might somehow rescue him from whatever conversation he'd been enduring with her dear mother.

"Mrs. Addams!" he exclaimed with forced enthusiasm that didn't quite mask his obvious discomfort. "Thank you for coming so promptly. I trust Wednesday is settling back into her routine after yesterday's... excitement?"

With her usual grace, Morticia stepped into the office, her dark eyes cataloging the power dynamics on display. The scent of fresh coffee mingled with Hester's subtle perfume—something expensive and coldly floral that seemed designed to intimidate rather than attract.

"Wednesday is remarkably resilient," she replied, closing the door behind her. "Though I suspect her routine will remain somewhat disrupted until certain security concerns are adequately addressed."

Hester's gaze shifted from the window to fix on her daughter. "Morticia, darling. How thoughtful of you to join our little strategy session."

The words dripped with condescension, designed to establish that this meeting was already in progress before Morticia's "late" arrival.

"Mama," Morticia acknowledged with a nod that managed to be both respectful and subtly mocking. "I wasn't aware you'd developed such an early morning routine. How industrious of you."

With the desperation of a man watching a nuclear weapon being armed in his living room, Dort cleared his throat. "Yes, well, Mrs. Frump was kind enough to arrive early to discuss some concerns regarding the Nevermore Gala. Given recent events, we felt it prudent to review our security arrangements and... contingency planning."

He moved toward his desk, clearly hoping to reclaim his seat, but Hester showed no inclination to vacate her commandeered position. Instead, she leaned back in the leather chair.

"The question," Hester said, "is whether we allow fear to dictate our actions or maintain the dignity and tradition that Nevermore represents."

Morticia's eyebrows rose fractionally. She recognized this particular tone—the one Hester employed when she'd already decided the correct course of action and expected everyone else to fall in line. It was the same voice that had once declared Ophelia's institutionalization "regrettable but necessary."

"I see," Morticia murmured, settling into one of the chairs. "And what specific dignity and tradition are we discussing?"

Behind one of the remaining chairs, Dort positioned himself, gripping its high back like a shield against the escalating tension between mother and daughter. His usual theatrical confidence had evaporated, replaced by the nervous energy of someone who'd realized he'd accidentally scheduled a duel in his office.

"The situation," he began, "is somewhat... complex. Ms. Frump and I have been discussing whether to proceed with next Saturday night's gala as planned, given yesterday's unfortunate incident with Tyler Galpin."

Against the desk's leather surface, Hester's fingers drummed with impatience. "What Barry is attempting to articulate," she interjected, "is that we have a difference of opinion regarding risk management."

Morticia settled deeper into her chair. Her mother had always possessed an uncanny ability to reframe any discussion in terms that positioned her as the reasonable figure while casting others as either hysterical or incompetent.

"I believe," Dort continued quickly before Hester could commandeer the entire explanation, "that we should consider postponing the event until Mr. Galpin is apprehended. The safety of our donors, faculty, and students must take precedence over social obligations."

With fractional narrowing of her steel-blue eyes, Hester fixed him with a cold stare. "While I maintain that canceling our most important fundraising event sends precisely the wrong message to both our supporters and our enemies. We're proud educators, not cowards."

Morticia recognized the fundamental philosophical divide immediately—Dort's pragmatic concern for actual safety versus Hester's aristocratic refusal to be seen retreating from threats. It was the same stubborn pride that had once insisted the Frump name never bowed to scandal, regardless of the human cost.

"Surely the safety of our community outweighs concerns about appearances?"

"Easy words," Hester replied, her voice sharpening, "from someone who wasn't entrusted with the responsibility of organizing this event."

The subtle dig landed precisely where intended. Morticia felt the familiar sting of her mother's ability to transform any conversation into a referendum on personal adequacy. But she also recognized the defensive posture beneath Hester's attack—the telltale signs of someone whose position wasn't as secure as they'd prefer.

Through the window, Morticia could see students moving across the courtyard in careful clusters, their usual carefree energy replaced by something more vigilant. Even the children understood that normalcy was a luxury they couldn't currently afford.

Between them, Dort shifted uncomfortably, clearly regretting whatever impulse had led him to request this meeting. "The challenge," he said, "is that significant resources have already been committed. Catering deposits, entertainment contracts, venue preparations... The financial implications of cancellation are considerable."

"Not to mention," Hester added, "the message it sends to our donor base. That Nevermore Academy cancels its obligations at the first sign of difficulty."

Leaning forward slightly, Morticia fixed her dark eyes on her mother's face.

"And what message does it send when our donors are potentially murdered at our fundraising event?"

For a moment, the older woman's composure flickered, revealing something that might have been uncertainty beneath the aristocratic confidence.

Dort seized the opening. "Which is precisely why I've asked you here, Mrs. Addams. We need a deciding voice. Someone with... perspective on both the institutional and personal ramifications."

The irony was exquisite, and Morticia savored it like fine wine. Twenty-four hours ago, Hester had maneuvered her out of this exact decision-making role. Now Dort was essentially restoring her authority to resolve the crisis that Hester's ambition had created.

She could see her mother processing the same realization, the slight tightening around Hester's eyes betraying her recognition of the tactical reversal.

"You want me to choose between institutional pride and student safety?"

"Between prudent caution and unnecessary panic," Hester corrected sharply. "Tyler Galpin is one disturbed young man, not an invading army. Surely adequate security measures—"

"Adequate security measures," Morticia interrupted, her tone growing colder, "failed to prevent him from nearly killing my daughter yesterday evening. They failed to prevent his escape from a psychiatric facility. They failed to contain him during his original rampage."

Each point dismantled Hester's argument piece by piece. But Morticia wasn't simply winning a debate—she was demonstrating something far more fundamental about priorities and values. The difference between protecting one's reputation and protecting one's children.

Rising from her chair, she continued, "The question isn't whether we can theoretically protect our guests. It's whether we should place them in danger for the sake of maintaining social calendars."

With almost imperceptible tightening of her jaw, Hester maintained her position. "Some risks are worth taking for the greater good."

"And some children are worth protecting regardless of the cost," Morticia replied, the words carrying undertones that only Hester could fully appreciate.

The silence that followed crackled with unspoken history. Images of Ophelia—institutionalized for "her own good", sacrificed to maintain family stability—hung between them like ghosts demanding acknowledgment. Dort glanced between them with growing confusion, clearly sensing deeper currents beneath the surface conversation but unable to navigate them safely.

"My recommendation," Morticia said finally, her voice returning to its usual composure, "is immediate postponement. Tyler Galpin's continued freedom poses an unacceptable threat to anyone associated with Nevermore Academy, but particularly to high-profile gatherings of potential targets."

She moved toward the window, her silk dress whispering against her legs as she surveyed the campus below. The morning light caught the Gothic architecture at precisely the right angle, transforming the familiar towers into something almost ethereal. Beautiful, but fragile. Like everything worth protecting.

"Furthermore," she continued without turning around, "proceeding with the gala would require security measures so extensive that they would transform a celebration into an armed camp. Our donors would find themselves subjected to searches, escorts, and restrictions that would rather defeat the purpose of elegant entertainment."

With visible relief at having someone articulate his concerns, Dort nodded vigorously. "Yes, exactly. The logistics alone would be—"

"Prohibitive," Morticia finished. "Not to mention the liability issues should anything go wrong."

Behind her, she could practically feel Hester's fury radiating like heat from a forge. But more importantly, she could sense something else—a growing recognition that perhaps, just perhaps, Morticia's priorities were more appropriate than Hester's own had been in similar circumstances.

"However," Morticia added, turning back toward them with a slight smile, "I assume we're not simply here to postpone events, but to find alternatives that serve everyone's interests?"

"Actually," Dort said, his theatrical enthusiasm returning as he seized on Morticia's opening, "I do have an alternative proposal. Something that might address everyone's concerns while maintaining morale among our students and faculty."

Hester's expression remained cold, but Morticia detected the subtle shift in posture that suggested grudging interest.

"The Nevermore Day of Remembrance," Dort continued. "Nevermore hasn't observed it in... oh, nearly twenty years. But it seems particularly appropriate given current circumstances."

With genuine curiosity, Morticia's eyebrows rose. The ceremony honoring students lost to their own ambitions had always carried a particular weight at Nevermore—a reminder that power without wisdom exacted its own price. "The ceremony honoring Ezekiel Grimwald?"

"Precisely!" Dort beamed, clearly pleased to demonstrate his knowledge of academy traditions. "A brilliant student taken too young by the dangers of unchecked experimentation. It would be entirely internal—students, faculty, staff only. No external guests, no security complications, but still a meaningful event that acknowledges our community's resilience."

Morticia found herself considering the proposal with growing appreciation. It was elegant in its simplicity, transforming a crisis into an opportunity for genuine community building. More importantly, it removed Tyler's potential targets while maintaining the ceremonial dignity that Nevermore required.

"The students involved in gala preparations would have an outlet for their efforts," she mused, already seeing how the various moving pieces could be reassembled. "The band, the decorating committee, the costuming staff..."

"Exactly. And frankly," Dort's voice dropped conspiratorially, "some of our younger students don't even know about Mr. Grimwald's contributions to outcast innovation. It could be quite educational."

From the commandeered chair, Hester rose, her silence speaking volumes about her displeasure with the entire proceeding. But when she finally spoke, her voice carried grudging acceptance rather than open rebellion.

"I suppose it's... adequate," she said, the word dripping with disdain. "Though hardly the statement of institutional strength I had envisioned."

She moved toward the door with the pace of a dramatic exit.

"I trust the arrangements can proceed without requiring my... guidance at every step?"

Morticia recognized it for what it truly was—Hester's way of withdrawing from the field without admitting defeat. She wasn't pulling her funding, wasn't sabotaging the alternative plan, merely expressing her displeasure before making a strategic exit.

"Naturally," Dort said quickly, relief flooding his voice. "Though your expertise will always be welcome."

Hester's eyes met Morticia's for one final moment. Something passed between them—acknowledgment, perhaps, or warning. Then she was gone, leaving only the faint scent of expensive perfume and wounded pride.

Outside the window, a harsh cry echoed across the courtyard. Morticia glanced toward the sound, her instincts sharpening as she spotted a large crow perched on the ancient oak that bordered the administrative wing.

She watched it for a moment, noting how the morning light caught the creature's feathers—too glossy, too perfect. When it shifted its position, Morticia's hand instinctively moved toward the window latch.

"Principal Dort," she said quietly, never taking her eyes from the crow, "I believe we should continue this conversation elsewhere."

The maintenance shed squatted like a forgotten gravestone among the trees, its weathered boards silvered with decades of rain and neglect. Judi picked her way through the pre-dawn forest, each footstep cushioned by the thick carpet of leaves that laid across Nevermore's perimeter. The structure had been abandoned for years—a relic from when the academy's groundskeeping required manual labor rather than supernatural finesse.

At the door, she paused, noting the fresh gouges where claws had tested wood. The scent hit her immediately: blood and unwashed fear, layered beneath the earthier smells of decomposing leaves and the distant ozone that promised storms. Her nose wrinkled slightly at the mixture, though her expression remained pleasantly composed.

"Tyler," she called softly. "It's me."

The door opened with a protesting creak. Tyler Galpin stood in the entrance, though he bore little resemblance to the confident barista who'd once charmed Wednesday Addams with coffee and conversation. His clothing hung in shredded tatters, revealing pale skin crisscrossed with healing scratches—souvenirs from his encounter with the werewolf pack. Dark circles shadowed his eyes like bruises, and his hair fell in lank strands across his forehead.

Yet beneath the exhaustion, something dangerous still burned in his gaze. An ember of violence, waiting for the right fuel.

"About time," he growled, stepping back to allow her entry. "I've been rotting in this place all night."

The shed's interior revealed his makeshift sanctuary: stolen camping supplies arranged on the dirt floor, empty food cans scattered near a pile of moldering blankets, and the unmistakable musk of a creature caught between human and monster. Weak morning light filtered through gaps in the walls, creating diagonal slashes of illumination that did little to warm the cramped space.

After closing the door behind her, Judi surveyed Tyler's condition, her eyes adjusting to the dimness. The wounds were quickly, but the psychological damage ran deeper than mere physical trauma.

Good, she thought. Wounded pride makes for better motivation than simple hunger.

"I have news," she announced, settling onto an overturned crate. "The Nevermore Gala has been postponed."

The scent of barely contained rage filled the air.

"What?" The word emerged as a snarl. "You promised me revenge. You said we'd make them pay for humiliating me."

"And we will," Judi replied smoothly, her tone never losing its helpful cadence despite his obvious agitation. "Just not at the gala. It seems your little demonstration at the fair convinced them that hosting a large gathering might be... inadvisable."

He began pacing the confined space like a caged animal. Each step sent vibrations through the floorboards.

"Then what's the point? If they're hiding behind their walls, how do we—"

"They're not hiding," Judi interrupted, her smile taking on a sharper edge. "They're simply changing venues. Tomorrow night, Nevermore will host a Day of Remembrance festival, limited to students, faculty, and staff. No external security complications, no escape routes for the truly guilty parties."

She watched him process this information, noting how his instincts responded to the possibility of cornered prey. The psychological profile she'd built during their underground meeting proved accurate: Tyler craved not just violence, but the specific satisfaction of seeing his enemies trapped and helpless.

"A festival," she continued. "Honoring the tragic losses in Nevermore's history. Specifically commemorating one Ezekiel Grimwald—a brilliant student who perished in a laboratory accident decades ago."

"Never heard of him."

"Most haven't these days. Not by name. But Ezekiel was quite remarkable in his time." A note of genuine fondness carried in Judi's voice. "A true visionary whose promising future was cut short by his ambitious experiments. In fact, you might find him rather fascinating."

The subtle shift in her tone caught Tyler's attention. He stopped pacing, his instincts picking up something beneath her words—an undercurrent of anticipation.

"What aren't you telling me?"

Before Judi could respond, the shed door creaked open again. With supernatural speed, Tyler spun toward the entrance, his muscles coiling for attack. Every instinct screamed of potential threat or betrayal.

"Relax," Judi said calmly, rising from her makeshift seat. Her smile widened, revealing teeth that caught the filtered morning light. "The man of the hour has arrived."

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The mechanical rhythm preceded the figure that stepped through the doorway, each gear marking time like death itself. In the weak morning light, Tyler could see the newcomer clearly for the first time—pale skin almost restored to human warmth, a gait that suggested he'd been out of practice, but unmistakably intelligent eyes.

Those eyes fixed on Tyler with the intensity of a researcher examining a particularly fascinating specimen.

"What the hell is that?" Tyler recoiled instinctively.

"This," Judi replied with pride, "is Ezekiel Grimwald. Or what's left of him."

Moving to stand beside Slurp with the confidence of someone introducing a beloved colleague rather than presenting an undead horror, she briefly touched his shoulder in a gesture of familiar affection that made Tyler's stomach lurch.

"When I was a young girl," she began, "my father taught at Nevermore Academy. I spent countless afternoons exploring those gothic halls while he conducted his research. And among all his students, one stood out as truly exceptional."

Slurp's lips curved into something approximating a smile. The mechanical rhythm from his chest never faltered.

"Ezekiel was brilliant," Judi continued. "The most gifted mind Nevermore had seen in decades. While other students struggled with basic applications of their abilities, he was designing machines that would've changed the world."

"You're telling me this... thing... is your father's student?" Disbelief colored his words as his gaze darted between them.

"Was," Slurp corrected, his voice raspy. "Now I'm something rather more interesting."

This wasn't mindless hunger or animal rage—this was intelligence preserved in rotting flesh, calculating and patient.

With an approving nod, Judi continued, "Ezekiel and my father were the minds behind the technology that eventually became LOIS. They discovered how to transfer outcast abilities to normies, how to break down the barriers that kept power concentrated in bloodlines rather than distributed by merit."

"And how exactly is a walking corpse supposed to help us kill Wednesday?" Skepticism mixed with disgust in his tone.

"Ezekiel is far more familiar with Nevermore's architecture than I am." Judi explained. "The hidden passages, the security systems, the structural weaknesses that aren't documented in any official blueprint."

Despite his revulsion, a flash of interest sharpened Tyler's focus. Strategic advantages had a way of overriding aesthetic preferences when survival was at stake.

"There are dozens of ways into Nevermore," Slurp announced. "Service tunnels that connect to the old cemetery, maintenance shafts that bypass the main corridors, even a few routes that lead directly into faculty quarters."

Access to Nevermore's vulnerabilities, paths that avoided detection, knowledge that could turn the academy's defenses against itself.

"But what's your motivation?" Tyler asked, looking between them. "Why do all of this?"

"Wednesday Addams destroyed everything my father and I built at Willow Hill." Judi's expression hardened, the cheerful assistant mask slipping completely. "Decades of research, perfectly conditioned test subjects—all reduced to screaming chaos because one little girl couldn't mind her own business."

With each word, her voice grew colder. "She turned my subjects against me. Destroyed the technology that would've advanced human evolution by decades."

"My death wasn't an accident," Slurp said, his smile taking on a darker edge. "I was betrayed before I could complete my life's work. But my research is still hidden within Nevermore's walls, waiting for someone with the wisdom to appreciate its potential."

Understanding the language of betrayal and revenge, Tyler nodded slowly. These weren't random monsters—they were wounded intellectuals seeking vindication through violence.

"So what's the plan?"

"Simple," Judi replied, her helpful tone returning. "We infiltrate the festival from within Nevermore's walls. Kill Wednesday and any witnesses and leave before the faculty realizes what's happened."

"No." His rejection was immediate and absolute.

Judi's eyebrows rose with genuine surprise. "No?"

"Wednesday doesn't die until I've killed her little friend in front of her," Tyler snarled, his eyes flashing with hunger. "I want her to watch Enid bleed out knowing it's her fault. Then I'll tear Wednesday apart piece by piece."

The memory of Enid's claws raking across his ribs, of being overwhelmed and humiliated by a pack of teenage wolves, fueled his rage. He wouldn't just settle for Wednesday's death—he needed her to suffer first.

"Tyler," Judi said patiently, "you were nearly killed by four werewolves at that fair. Every additional target increases the chance we'll have an entire school full of powered outcasts hunting us."

"I won't let those wolves humiliate me again," he insisted, though uncertainty flickered behind his bravado. The memory of their coordinated attack still burned.

Slurp's mechanical heart ticked steadily in the growing silence. "Actually," he said, "I may have an answer to both concerns."

Both Tyler and Judi turned toward him with sharp attention.

"During our research, Augustus and I discovered methods for temporarily blocking outcast abilities. Electromagnetic interference that disrupts the neural pathways supernatural powers require." Slurp's smile widened, revealing teeth that gleamed too brightly in the dim light. "If you can lead them into the right location, you won't be dealing with outcasts. You'll be facing ordinary children."

The thought of Enid stripped of her supernatural strength, reduced to human fragility, sent a thrill through Tyler that made his pupils dilate. His expression transformed from skepticism to anticipation.

"I know exactly what bait to use," he said, his smile growing wider.

The mechanical ticking of Slurp's heart seemed to quicken, marking time toward whatever horror they were planning to unleash.

Wednesday stood motionless outside her dorm room door, her pale fingers hovering inches from the handle as if the metal might burn her on contact. Through the thick wood, she could hear Enid's voice—muffled but unmistakably animated—punctuated by the occasional rhythmic tapping that could only be Thing's responses. What once felt like sanctuary now seemed foreign, transformed by their devastating confrontation mere hours ago.

Fragments of their fight echoed through her mind: You're a coward. The accusation still carved fresh wounds every time she recalled Enid's voice breaking around the words. Every time you've pushed me away. Her hand trembled involuntarily as she remembered the look of betrayal in those blue eyes, the way Enid's composure cracked.

She forced herself to breathe steadily, drawing on the conversation with Morticia that had stripped away her last defenses. She deserves honesty, her mother had said. The words felt like foreign scripture in a language Wednesday had never learned to speak fluently.

With familiar weight, the door handle turned, and she crossed the threshold into territory that no longer felt entirely hers.

Seated cross-legged on her rainbow bedspread, Enid's usual posture curved inward as if protecting herself from further assault. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and her hair hung in uncharacteristic disarray—evidence that the night had been as sleepless for her as it had been for Wednesday. Thing perched on Wednesday's desk, his stillness suggesting he'd been caught mid-conversation.

Their eyes met across the room's invisible divide, and the air itself seemed to thicken with unspoken accusations and desperate explanations. The rehearsed words dissolved on her tongue, leaving behind only the raw honesty she'd spent sixteen years learning to suppress.

"Wednesday," Enid said quietly, her voice carrying none of its usual warmth. The single word felt like a test—not hostile, but guarded.

"Enid."

Her gaze shifted to Thing, who was watching this reunion with both interest and growing discomfort at the tension crackling between them.

The silence stretched until Wednesday realized she needed to manufacture privacy for what promised to be the most terrifying conversation of her life. Her mind seized on the first plausible excuse.

"Thing," she said, her voice gaining steadiness through routine. "Mother mentioned she needed to speak with you regarding security arrangements. She's currently in Principal Dort's office."

It wasn't entirely fabricated—Morticia was indeed meeting with Dort, though Wednesday doubted security consultations with disembodied hands featured prominently on their agenda. But the excuse served a purpose.

Thing's posture shifted as he processed the request, clearly torn between family obligation and his obvious investment in witnessing this long-awaited confrontation. He moved toward Enid first, offering a gentle tap against her wrist that somehow conveyed both support and encouragement.

Be honest, his gesture seemed to say. Both of you.

Then he scuttled toward the door reluctantly, pausing once to look back as if memorizing the scene for later. The soft click of the door closing behind him felt final, like the last barrier between Wednesday and the reckoning she could no longer avoid.

The silence that followed expanded to fill every corner of their shared space. Both girls had spent the night rehearsing arguments and explanations, but faced with each other's physical presence, all their careful preparations crumbled into inadequacy.

Near the door, her spine rigid with tension, Wednesday remained standing while Enid stayed curled on her bed like a wounded animal deciding whether to trust the approaching stranger. Between them lay the wreckage of trust that Wednesday had systematically destroyed in her misguided attempts at protection.

Neither spoke, both waiting for the other to make the first move toward either reconciliation or final devastation.

"You didn't come back last night."

Her jaw tightened. "I was unaware I required permission to sleep elsewhere."

The quip emerged with its usual bite, and she watched Enid's expression harden in response. They were already falling into the familiar pattern—thrust and parry, sarcasm and withdrawal, the emotional fencing that had defined too many of their recent conversations.

"Right," Enid's voice cooled further. "Of course. Wednesday Addams doesn't answer to anyone."

"I fail to see how my whereabouts concern—"

She caught herself mid-sentence, hearing the defensive edge creeping into her voice. This was precisely what her mother had warned against. If she continued down this path, she would lose whatever fragile opportunity remained to repair what she'd destroyed.

Honesty, not strategy.

She forced herself to stop. To breathe. To remember why she'd come back.

"I apologize."

The two words fell into the space between them with all the grace of a stone into still water. Simple words that felt impossibly heavy on her tongue, carrying the weight of weeks of lies and careful manipulations designed to keep Enid safe and ignorant.

Enid's blue eyes studied her face with an intensity that made Wednesday want to look away. The silence stretched long enough that Wednesday wondered if her apology had arrived too late, if the damage was too extensive for two words to bridge.

"For?"

Her eyes widened slightly. She had expected forgiveness or rejection, not this demand for specificity. Her mind raced as she realized Enid wasn't going to accept a surface-level acknowledgment of wrongdoing.

"For not telling you about the vision."

"And?"

Her hands clenched at her sides.

"For keeping you away from my investigation."

"And?"

Each repetition felt like a scalpel cutting deeper, exposing nerve endings Wednesday had spent years learning to protect.

"For lying to you for weeks."

"And?"

Her breathing became slightly uneven. She could stop now, fall back into sarcasm and deflection, but the memory of Enid's devastated expression during their fight the night before kept her in place. Some wounds required full exposure to heal properly.

"For treating you like a child instead of trusting you to make your own decisions."

"And?"

And this is deliberate torture, Wednesday thought to herself. Enid was systematically forcing her to confront every aspect of her mistakes, refusing to let her minimize or deflect. The worst part was recognizing that she deserved it.

Her voice dropped lower. "For telling you that we weren't friends."

"And?"

The question hung in the air like a challenge. Wednesday stared at Enid's face, searching for some indication of what else she was supposed to acknowledge. But Enid's expression remained implacable, waiting for Wednesday to excavate whatever truth she was still withholding.

Something cracked inside her chest as she realized what Enid was demanding. Not just acknowledgment of her actions, but recognition of the deeper wound she'd inflicted. The cruelty that had cut deeper than any physical violence Tyler could have inflicted.

"For making you believe that you meant nothing to me," Wednesday said, her voice quiet. "When the truth is that you mean everything."

The confession tore a piece of her as it escaped. This was now raw honesty that left her completely exposed, standing in the wreckage of her emotional armor without any protection against whatever judgment Enid might render.

Enid's expression shifted fractionally—not forgiveness, but acknowledgment that Wednesday had finally reached the bottom of her catalog of wrongs. The systematic dismantling was complete, leaving behind only the question of whether anything could be rebuilt from the debris.

The silence that followed Wednesday's confession felt alive, pressing against her exposed nerves excruciatingly. She stood frozen, having offered up the most vulnerable truth of her existence, waiting for Enid to either accept or destroy what remained of her carefully constructed identity.

"Everything," Enid repeated softly, testing the word's weight. "I mean that much to you."

Wednesday's hands twisted in front of her. The impulse to retreat, to qualify the statement with logical disclaimers and emotional caveats, clawed at her consciousness. But she forced herself to remain still, to let the truth stand without modification.

"Yes."

Rising from her bed, Enid crossed the invisible boundary that had divided their room for so long, stopping just within a few feet.

"Then why didn't you tell me about the vision?" Enid's voice carried no accusation now, only a desperate need to understand. "If I meant that much to you, why keep me in the dark about my own death?"

Her hands began to tremble again, betraying the control she was fighting to maintain. "Because the vision showed you blaming me for it. Your voice, as clear as this conversation, telling me that you died because of me."

She forced herself to meet Enid's gaze. "I couldn't bear the thought of you knowing how I'd failed to protect you. So I decided that if I could prevent the circumstances that led to your death, the blame would be irrelevant."

"By pushing me away."

"By removing myself as the catalyst." Her voice grew smaller. "Tyler will target the people important to me. Judi Spannegel would do the same. Every investigation I pursue puts anyone close to me in danger. I thought that distance would eliminate the threat."

Enid took one step closer.

"You thought wrong," She said, but without malice. "Because I was already in danger the moment Tyler decided I mattered to you. Distance wouldn't have changed that. It just meant I was facing it alone."

The observation made Wednesday visibly wince. Her protective measures hadn't eliminated risk—they'd simply removed her ability to respond to it effectively.

"Wednesday." Enid said softly. "Do you know what it was like? Watching you pull away, day after day, and not understanding why? Wondering what I'd done wrong, what I could do differently to get my roommate back?"

Her gaze fixed on the floor between them. "It was necessary."

"It was torture," Enid corrected. "Lying in this bed every night, listening to you type or turn pages, knowing you were ten feet away but feeling like you'd disappeared completely. Waking up every morning hoping maybe today you'd look at me like I was a person instead of a problem."

"Enid—"

"The hospital was the worst part," Enid continued. "When you told me we weren't friends. I thought you were going to die, and all I wanted was for you to know how much you mattered to me. And you looked me in the eye and told me I was nothing."

Wednesday's voice was softer. "You weren't nothing."

"Then why not just tell me the truth?"

"Because I was terrified." She admitted. "Terrified of losing you, of watching Tyler or someone like him hurt you because of your association with me. Terrified that my feelings would compromise my judgment and make me useless to protect you when it mattered."

She pressed on, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I've never cared about anyone the way I care about you. It's completely irrational and strategically disadvantageous and it makes me vulnerable in ways I don't know how to navigate. So I tried to eliminate the variable."

Enid's expression softened. "You tried to eliminate me."

"I tried to eliminate the weakness." Her voice dropped lower. "But it turns out caring about you isn't something I can simply decide to stop doing."

They stood facing each other across the small space that separated them, the honesty hanging between them like a bridge neither was sure they could trust.

"I was scared too," Enid said finally. "Every time you went investigating without me. Every time Agnes got to help with something while I was told to stay away. Every time I saw you putting yourself in danger and couldn't do anything about it."

Her voice grew stronger. "You talk about protecting me, but who was protecting you? When Tyler threw you through that window, when you were chasing leads alone—you could have died, Wednesday. And I would have spent the rest of my life knowing you died thinking I didn't care about you."

The weight of that possibility settled between them. Wednesday tried to imagine dying with the belief that Enid truly considered her nothing more than an inconvenient roommate, and the thought made her chest ache.

"I'm sorry," Wednesday said, the words carrying more weight than the previous apology. "For all of it. For the lies, the manipulation, the deliberate cruelty. For making you question yourself instead of trusting you with the truth."

Enid studied her face for a long moment, then stepped forward to close the distance. Before Wednesday could react, warm arms enveloped her in an embrace that reminded her of their reconciliation at the end of last semester—but different. Deeper. Weighted with new understanding and forgiveness that felt almost too precious to accept.

Her body tensed instinctively against the physical contact, but she forced herself to relax into Enid's warmth. Her arms came up hesitantly to return the embrace, her chin resting against Enid's shoulder as something fundamental shifted inside her chest.

"I forgive you," Enid whispered. "But don't ever lie to me like that again."

"I won't," Wednesday promised, meaning it more than any vow she'd ever made.

They held each other for a moment that stretched beyond time, the months of accumulated hurt and misunderstanding finally beginning to dissolve. When they pulled back, they remained close enough that Wednesday could see the flecks of gold in Enid's blue eyes, could count the freckles scattered across her nose like constellations.

Something electric passed between them—recognition of territory they'd never explicitly acknowledged before. The air seemed to thicken with possibility as Enid's gaze dropped briefly to Wednesday's lips before returning to her eyes.

Her heart hammered against her ribs as she realized what was happening. The space between them had contracted to inches, close enough that she could feel the warmth of Enid's breath against her skin.

Enid's hand came up slowly, tentatively, to cup Wednesday's cheek. Her thumb traced the sharp line of her cheekbone with a tenderness that should have made Wednesday recoil but instead made her lean into the touch.

Their eyes fluttered closed as the distance between them disappeared. The world narrowed to this single moment, this impossible convergence of everything she'd tried to deny and everything she'd been too afraid to want.

Just as their lips were about to meet, the vision hit.

Lightning blazed behind Wednesday's eyelids as her body went rigid. Her head snapped back, breaking the contact as familiar darkness consumed her awareness. The romantic moment shattered like glass as psychic sight dragged her consciousness away from Enid's warmth and into the terrible clarity of prophecy.

She heard Enid's startled cry from impossibly far away as the physical world dissolved into prophetic sight, but she was already falling into whatever future her restored abilities demanded she witness.