The Velvet Bride

by smeggsycolameow

Summary:

A marriage arranged in convenience becomes a love story that devours them whole.
Wednesday Addams and Enid Sinclair fall into a bond too deep, too strange, too perfect to be accidental—soulmates forged by circumstance, sealed by devotion.

But when a petty feud between their parents ignites into something darker, Enid is torn from her wife by force, stolen across an ocean, imprisoned in her childhood home with only hope—and a growing secret—inside her.

Wednesday unravels without her.

A story about love surviving abduction, distance, grief, family wars, and fate itself.
A story where soulmates don’t wait—they fight.

Notes:

The coming together of the Addams-Sinclair families.

After Wednesday’s 29th birthday, Gomez and Morticia had started to worry for their daughter’s lack of romantic life. If they didn’t meddle, not only would Wednesday die alone, their precious lineage would end. And as long as they were alive, they couldn’t allow this.

They’d been searching their networks and connections— for a young woman who could pull Wednesday out of her solidarity and build a life with her, extend the sacred Addams branches.

And meanwhile many women threw themselves at the opportunity— as Wednesday was a woman wanted. Famous regal author and musician. She was this generation’s still point of the universe— for her intellect, her talent, her writing, poems, deathly beauty— and so on.
This was not some ordeal any one woman could attain— a certain look, manner, stature and family name was required.

And fortunately for them— the one and only infamous, world renowned Italian Soprano, Esther Sinclair, stepped forward offering her youngest daughter. Enid Sinclair.

Chapter 1: You understand me.

The town chosen for their exile was Rhinebeck, New York. A place hidden in the crook of the Hudson Valley, where fog rose like ghosts from the river and the old Dutch houses whispered with histories too long and heavy to be retold. It suited the Addams name well enough—quiet, brooding, a place where secrets could nest without disturbance. The house Gomez had purchased for them was a sprawling colonial, all cracked shutters and a roofline sharp enough to slice the sky. It sat at the edge of a forest that spilled out endlessly, like a sea of black bark and rustling leaves, its silence pierced only by owls and the sighs of night wind.

The wedding had ended hours ago, stripped of its pomp now that the guests had vanished back to their carriages of modern convenience. The air inside the house still smelled faintly of candle smoke and lilies, though those bouquets had been discarded on the front porch like offerings to a bride neither of them had truly wanted.

Enid sat on the couch in her wedding dress, its silk folds gleaming bone-white in the lamplight. She was small there, folded in on herself, hands knotted in her lap like she was clutching invisible rosary beads. Her platinum blonde hair—coiled tightly for the ceremony—had begun to fall loose, a curl slipping against her cheek, damp with nervous sweat. She looked every inch the stranger she was: foreign tongue, foreign land, foreign fate.

Across the room, Wednesday was pouring whisky into a glass with the stillness of a surgeon. She wore a black suit tailored to sharpen her silhouette, the vest pulled tight against her torso, her shirt collar severe. The studs of her cufflinks glinted like small, malevolent eyes. A strand of her raven hair had slipped free from its braid, but she didn’t bother to tuck it away; imperfection sat on her with the authority of choice, not chance. She raised the glass to her lips, swallowed.

“I know this arrangement wasn’t your choice,” Wednesday said at last, her voice low, a stone cast into the quiet, “but we can make it work.”

Her Italian was flawless when she wanted it to be. It was in her after all thanks to her mother, alongside her father's Mexican blood. Her English, obviously too, was sharp, each word shaped with precision. But she chose English now, perhaps to force Enid to stretch toward her rather than take shelter in the comfort of her mother tongue.

Enid’s fingers worried at the fabric of her dress. Her lips parted, but nothing came at first. She glanced up, wide-eyed, like a deer testing the silence before stepping into a clearing.

“I… I no… choice,” she said haltingly, her accent thick, syllables tumbling over one another. Her voice cracked around the English, fragile as porcelain. Then softer, almost pleading: “Non volevo.” I didn’t want to.

Wednesday turned at that, her dark gaze catching Enid’s. Something flickered across her face, not pity—Wednesday Addams did not deal in pity—but a recognition. A mirror, even. She understood too well what it was to be bound to an expectation so old it wore the skin of inevitability.

“Lo so,” Wednesday replied in fluent smooth Italian, her tone cooling like steel plunged into water. I know.

The words drew a tremor of relief in Enid’s shoulders. She let out a breath, shaky, and nodded. Still, her eyes clung to Wednesday’s face as though expecting some hidden cruelty to unfold. All her life she had been warned: beauty was her curse, obedience her chain. And now she was practically shackled to this woman—a shadow carved into human form, taller, stronger, her aura magnetic enough to bend others into orbit. Enid could not tell yet if she was safe here, or if she had simply traded cages.

Wednesday crossed the room at last, her steps deliberate, unhurried. She lowered herself into the chair opposite the couch and set her glass down with a muted clink. The silence between them grew heavy, but not unbearable. Wednesday thrived in silence; she wore it like a second skin. Enid fidgeted in it, small and restless, her breath shallow.

“You speak some English,” Wednesday observed, tilting her head just slightly. “Enough to be understood. That is a beginning.”

Enid frowned faintly, cheeks heating. “I… try. È… difficile.” It is difficult. She gestured helplessly, searching for the word. “Words… run… away.”

A corner of Wednesday’s mouth twitched—not a smile, but an acknowledgment of humor found in misery. “They do that,” she agreed dryly. “They flee from me as well, though for other reasons.”

Enid blinked, not entirely understanding, but she caught the cadence, the music of Wednesday’s wit, and it softened something in her chest.

For a long moment, they simply looked at one another. Two women bound by name, not by choice. Wednesday studied her—this soprano’s daughter, her doe eyes wide even as she tried to appear composed, her body humming with unease. There was a purity about her, not the cloying kind that begged for preservation, but the stubborn resilience of someone who had endured, who still endured, despite being placed on an altar she never asked for. Wednesday recognized reverence in herself then, a rare thing. Not desire—not yet—but a solemn respect that this woman could be dropped into fire and still emerge, singed but unbroken.

“You need not fear me,” Wednesday said finally, her tone stripped of indulgence. “I will not make a sport of cruelty.”

Enid stared at her, lips parted. Then, slowly, she nodded. “Grazie,” she whispered, the word catching in her throat. Thank you.

It was clear the poor girl struggled to speak English, yet she seemed capable of understanding the sentences Wednesday spoke to her- even if to a small extent, it still made the outmost difference.

The clock ticked. Outside, the forest creaked. Inside, whisky burned in Wednesday’s veins, and Enid’s nerves thrummed like violin strings.

“Tell me,” Wednesday said, leaning back in her chair, her eyes never leaving Enid’s. “What do you want from this arrangement? Not what your family wants. Not what mine wants. You.”

Enid hesitated, her lips forming shapes without sound, then stumbling over fragile English: “Peace. I want… peace. Not… war.” She pressed her hand to her chest. “Heart… want quiet.”

Wednesday considered that, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. Peace was not a concept she often entertained; her life was violence woven into literature, into art, into the very marrow of who she was. But for this fragile, foreign bride… perhaps she could shape her silence into something resembling it. Enid deserved it, she hadn't done anything wrong. She was forced into this as much as Wednesday was.

“You will have it,” Wednesday said, and there was no doubt in her voice. “If I must carve it out of the world myself.”

Enid’s breath hitched, and though fear still clung to her like a second gown, there was something else there now. A flicker. Not trust—not yet. But the faintest ember of it, waiting to be coaxed into flame.

And so they sat, across from each other in a house too large, too empty, two strangers bound by vows older than themselves. Testing the air.

The clock ticked on and on in the cavernous living room, the kind of silence that grew heavier with each passing second. Wednesday had drained half her whisky and poured another before she realised the blonde across from her had not moved except for the restless twitch of her hands.

It was Enid who broke the stillness. She cleared her throat, her voice tentative, the words breaking over themselves like stones in a steep river.

“You… age?” she asked, gesturing with a nervous flick of her fingers toward Wednesday. “You… how… old?”

Wednesday raised a dark brow at the simplicity of the question. It was childlike, almost endearing in its bluntness.

“Twenty-nine,” she said evenly. Then, because reciprocity was demanded of courtesy—even in arrangements like these—she asked, “And you?”

Enid pressed her lips together, counted in her head, then offered, “Venti… tre.” She held up three fingers, blue-green eyes flicking upward to ensure the math was correct. “Twenty-three.”

Wednesday leaned back, crossing her legs, her gaze never wavering. Twenty-three. A gulf of six years between them, yet worlds more in experience. The difference mattered little—it was the fact that Enid looked so young still, delicate, almost untouched by the cruelty of life… until, of course, she began to speak.

The conversation limped forward on questions like stepping-stones—favorite colors, whether they liked cities or countryside, the blunt curiosity of strangers forced into intimacy without the luxury of choice. It was awkward, stilted, but not unbearable.

It was only when the talk bent toward family that Enid’s posture shifted. Her eyes lowered to her lap, her hands tightening until her knuckles whitened. She spoke carefully, deliberately, as though each word cost her something.

“My… madre,” she began, then quickly corrected, “Mother… she say… if no marriage… niente. Nothing.”

Wednesday tilted her head. “She threatened to disinherit you?”

Enid nodded, swallowing hard. “Yes. Cut… cut all. She say… no more casa, no more money, no more… name.” Her accent curled the words, softening their edges, but the truth was jagged beneath them.

Wednesday regarded her silently. Threats of disinheritance were not foreign in families where reputation outweighed humanity. Yet something in the way Enid said it—the tremor in her voice, the way she bit down on the inside of her cheek like she was bracing herself—hinted at deeper fractures.

“Did you ever have her favor to lose?” Wednesday asked, her voice low.

Enid let out a brittle laugh, one that cracked before it fully formed. She shook her head. “She… never love me. Not… once.”

She looked up then, and something unguarded broke free in her face. Words tumbled, halting, broken English stitched with bursts of Italian where her tongue failed her.

“She… always uomo della casa. Man of the house,” Enid said, the phrase sharp. “Not mio padre. Father… small, soft. Greek.” She made a rounded gesture with her hands, as if shaping his belly in the air. “He love her. Sempre. Always. But… weak.”

Her throat worked as she pushed onward. “She scream, she hit. My brothers… i gemelli—the twins—safe. Always safe. I… no.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “She hate me… after six.”

Wednesday did not interrupt. She simply watched, every word recorded in her mind as though carved into marble.

Enid’s voice grew more fragile as she unraveled pieces of her past. “Soap… mouth, sì? Brutale doccia fredda.” Brutal cold showers. She shivered visibly at the memory. “Hair… she pull me… hall. Staff see. Everyone see.” Her fingers touched her scalp unconsciously, tracing phantom pain. “She… slap. Punch mouth.” She mimed it with her hand, quick, jerking. “Kick me… fuori. Outside.”

Her lips trembled, but she didn’t stop. “Always scream. Always… say brutte parole. Fat. Brutta. Piccola. Ugly. Short. Hair…” She lifted a trembling curl from her temple, letting it fall. “Always say… make straight. Straighten. Always wrong. Io… io sempre sbagliata.” I was always wrong.

There was no melodrama in her tone—no self-pity, no attempt at performance. It was delivered plainly, almost clinically, and that was what made it ache sharper. She was not trying to convince Wednesday. She was simply unburdening because there was nowhere else for the words to go.

Wednesday’s fingers tapped once against her glass, the only sign of movement. Her face was unreadable, marble and shadow. Yet something flickered in her dark eyes—fury, perhaps, though tempered into something quieter.

When she finally spoke, her voice was softer than before. “I recall when I first met your mother.”

Enid blinked, caught off guard.

Wednesday’s gaze drifted past her, toward the darkened window, as if replaying the memory on the night outside. “She was… arresting. Beautiful in the way of things sharpened to a point. Intimidating, yes. Commanding. She showered me with compliments—called me brillante, feroce, straordinaria. She looked at me as if I were some prized relic she might display in her collection.”

Her eyes returned to Enid, sharp and unyielding. “And yet, she could not summon the same reverence for her own daughter.”

Enid’s throat tightened. She ducked her head, tears threatening but held at bay. “No. Never. For me… only…” Her hands clenched as though wringing invisible cloth. “Only hate. She do this all my life.”

Wednesday leaned back in her chair, folding her arms. Her jaw tightened. In the quiet, the image of Esther returned—her poise, her air of command, her carefully constructed elegance. A woman who had valued Wednesday enough to praise her brilliance, yet discarded her own blood like spoiled fruit.

It was grotesque. Hypocritical. Almost amusing, if it weren’t so despicable.

Wednesday allowed a long silence to linger before she spoke again. Her words were deliberate, carved. “Your mother is mistaken.”

Enid looked up, startled, confusion written across her features.

“You are not fat. You are not ugly. And you are certainly not unworthy.” Wednesday’s voice was steady, not indulgent, not softened for comfort—but firm, undeniable, like law spoken from the bench.

The words struck Enid harder than she expected. Her lips parted, her chest hitched with a breath she hadn’t meant to take. For a moment, she looked as though she might crumble under the weight of hearing it aloud—for the first time, perhaps, from anyone who mattered.

She swallowed, blinking rapidly, then nodded, almost frantically, as if to seal the moment away before it slipped from her grasp. “Grazie,” she whispered. “Grazie.”

Wednesday did not respond with sentiment. She merely lifted her glass, the amber liquid catching the lamplight, and drank. But in her silence, the words lingered, heavy as stone yet strangely protective.

The clock continued to tick on.

Enid, fidgeting with the lace of her sleeve, suddenly smiled in a way both wistful and shy. “Your… parents,” she began carefully. “Molto… molto gentili. Very… very kind. Strani… strange.” Her lips twitched with a nervous laugh. “But… dream. Dream parents.”

Her eyes softened with the memory, blue-green shimmering like glass catching candlelight. “They… hug me. Subito. Immediately. Say… bella figlia. Beautiful daughter.” The words fell awkward in English but earnest, warmed by the glow of recollection. “They… look at me… like sun.”

For a moment, Enid’s voice almost broke. She bit down on her lip, eyes darting away. To be welcomed by strangers as family, when her own blood had scorned her since childhood—it had cracked something open in her chest, something she wasn’t sure could ever be closed again.

Wednesday did not soften in return, but she did not remain untouched. Her dark gaze was steady, reflecting her own parents’ faces in memory.

“They have always been like this,” she said evenly, though her tone carried a weight of reverence. “It is their greatest gift. Fierce love, unbroken passion. It is what made the Addams name endure long past what history should have allowed.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, not in malice but in reflection. “Even if others see us as grotesque, eccentric, mad—they still envy. They want what they have. That devotion. That fire.”

Wednesday’s voice shifted lower, almost contemplative. “They would sooner impale themselves on an iron spike than raise a hand to me or Pugsley. I was always allowed my freedom. To play, to experiment, to craft my macabre amusements without restraint. There was no leash, no scolding voice, no chain.”

Her fingers tapped against the arm of her chair, the only break in her stillness. “Until…”

The word lingered, heavy, and Enid’s gaze rose, curious, nervous.

Wednesday’s eyes fixed on the dying embers. “Until my brother died.”

The silence cracked sharp then, sharper than the fire’s hiss.

“My sweet, beloved Pugsley,” Wednesday continued, her voice so level it felt carved from stone. “His death broke them. They were… devastated. Hollowed out. And in their grief, fear began to bloom where freedom once thrived.”

Enid’s lips parted, stricken, but no words came. She knew grief, in her way, but to hear Wednesday speak so starkly of it—without tears, without tremor—was almost more haunting.

“They began to look at me differently,” Wednesday said. “No longer as a daughter free to sharpen her own edges. But as a vessel. A last hope for the bloodline. The one who must carry forward what Pugsley no longer could.”

Her dark eyes flicked to Enid, unwavering. “It is why we sit here, tonight. In this house. In this arrangement neither of us asked for.”

Enid swallowed hard, her curls trembling as she nodded. She wanted to speak—her English flailed, but she forced it forward. “So… not you. Not… your want. Is… tradition.”

Wednesday inclined her head. “Precisely. They tolerated my refusals for years. But once I turned twenty-nine—the age, they tell me, when a woman is perfectly ripe for elopement and children—they began to press harder. Push further. Overstep.”

The whisky caught lamplight as she swirled it, her expression unchanged. “I have entertained lovers before. Mere arrangements of interest. But those… were not enough. A lover is not a marriage. Without a marriage there is no consummation. Without consummation, no children. And without children… no legacy.”

Her mouth twisted then, not quite a smile—something sharper, bitterer. “And so, I am married. To a stranger whose language barely meets mine, in a house chosen by others, with a future scripted long before either of us could reject the role, or even get a mere say.”

Enid sat stunned, her lips trembling as she took it in. She had thought Wednesday cold, untouchable, stone and blade in human form. But what she heard now was something different—still sharp, still terrifying in its honesty, but human in a way she hadn’t expected.

For a long moment, she could only whisper: “Mi dispiace.” I’m sorry.

Wednesday’s dark gaze caught hers again, piercing. “Do not be sorry,” she said. “Pity is wasted on me.”

Enid nodded quickly, cheeks flushed. “No pity. Only…” She searched desperately for the word, pressing her hand to her chest. “Dolore.” Pain.

Wednesday’s stare lingered a beat longer, then she inclined her head. Acknowledgment, if not acceptance.

The silence returned, but it was not the same silence as before. It was thicker now, laced with truths too raw to ignore. Enid’s chest rose and fell quickly, her hands trembling faintly as she folded them tighter into her lap. Wednesday reclined back, a shadow carved against the lamplight, and yet… something softer had seeped in around the edges of her presence.

Chapter 2: Blue Velvet

The silence had thickened again, pressing against them like the velvet of a coffin lid. Enid shifted uncomfortably on the couch, her bare toes curling against the rug, her pristine heels dangling from one hand like defeated weapons. Wednesday noticed the tension — it lived in the blonde’s shoulders, in the stiff posture of someone who still didn’t know where to place herself.

Abruptly, Wednesday rose. The motion was fluid, sudden, like a crow lifting from a branch. Her glass made a sharp sound as she set it down on the table.

“Come,” she said, the command softened only by the faintest tilt of her head. “I’ll show you the house. You may as well know the grounds of your captivity.”

The words should have cut, but her tone gave them a sardonic edge, as though she meant to spare Enid the awkwardness of sitting still, stewing in confessions.

Enid blinked, surprised, then scrambled up quickly, clutching her shoes tighter to her chest. She nodded, curls bouncing with the motion. “Grazie,” she whispered, the word catching in her throat.

They began their slow ascent up one of the great curling staircases, side by side — though “side” was relative. Wednesday’s height placed her shoulders just shy off Enid’s crown, her elbow brushing where Enid’s shoulder hovered. Though the goth still had her dark cutting heels on, the blonde seemed way smaller without hers than she had earlier at the altar. She seemed almost fragile against the dark, gothic sweep of the staircase.

It was Enid who spoke first, voice soft but steady as they walked. “I… read… libro.” She tapped her chest lightly, eyes darting to Wednesday. “Book. In Italia. Poetry. Yours. I… like.”

Wednesday’s steps faltered for the briefest instant. Her gaze snapped to Enid, dark eyes narrowing in sharp curiosity. “Which?”

Enid’s lips curved shyly, pleased she’d caught the woman’s attention. “Rovine della carne.” Ruins of Flesh. She stumbled over the English, so she said the title in Italian instead, reverent. “It… make me… think. Molto.” A lot.

For a heartbeat, the air seemed to tighten around them. Wednesday’s books had traveled, of course. Her words were dissected by critics, devoured by readers, translated into a dozen languages. But to hear that this stranger — this reluctant wife — had held her work in her hands, had thought about it, even admired it… that was something else entirely.

Wednesday’s voice, when it came, was quieter than before. “What did it make you think?”

Enid clutched her shoes tighter, cheeks coloring faintly. “About… dolore. Morte. But… also… amore.” Pain. Death. Love. She hesitated, searching for words. “Not… not sweet love. But… dark. Sharp. Like… knife.”

Wednesday’s lips twitched — a ghost of approval, too small to be called a smile. “Good. Then the translation did not fail me.”

They continued upward, limbs brushing now and then with each turn of the spiralling staircase. The silence between them wasn’t empty anymore — it hummed with a thread of connection, tenuous but undeniable.

At the top, they emerged into a long hallway. The walls were crowded with paintings, each framed in dark golden borders. Relatives stared out in oil and canvas — stern ancestors with hollow eyes, cousins captured mid-duel, aunts cradling strange pets, the Addams bloodline immortalised in brushstrokes.

But what caught Enid’s gaze most were the younger portraits — a pale little girl with ink-dark braids, her eyes already sharpened with a kind of solemn defiance. A boy beside her, pudgy, grinning, his hand holding what appeared to be a stick of dynamite. Pugsley.

Enid’s lips curved into an involuntary smile. She lifted a hand, not quite daring to touch the frame. “Piccola,” she murmured softly, eyes shining as she looked at young Wednesday. Little one. She turned toward her wife, almost teasing. “Carina." Cute.

Wednesday arched a brow, unimpressed. “That word has never applied to me.”

But Enid only smiled more, her eyes lingering fondly on the canvas.

They walked further down, and Enid’s expression shifted as she noticed several frames hanging empty, canvases stark and blank within their ornate borders. They looked like open coffins waiting for bodies.

“Why… no paint?” she asked, gesturing.

Wednesday’s gaze swept over them, her voice even. “They were meant to be filled. One was intended for me. The rest…” She paused, the weight of the sentence pressing like stone. “The rest were meant for us. For our children.”

Enid blinked, her throat tight. The blank canvases suddenly felt heavy, staring back at her like demands rather than possibilities.

“The man who painted us,” Wednesday continued, her voice softer, “had been with the family for decades. He died last year. His tools, his paints… they still remain. A room above us, untouched.”

Enid turned to her, her curls brushing her cheek. “I can.”

Wednesday’s eyes narrowed. “You can… what?”

Enid gestured to the frames. “Paint. Your portrait. Like… him. Same style.” She looked back at one of the finished works, then nodded with quiet certainty. “I can do.”

Wednesday’s composure cracked for the first time that night — not visibly, but inwardly, like a single note breaking the rhythm of a march. She tilted her head, studying Enid as though the blonde had just spoken in tongues. “You’re a painter?”

Enid nodded, like it was nothing. Like it didn’t matter.

For Wednesday, it mattered. Deeply. She did not show it — her expression stayed neutral, sharp as ever — but inside, something eased, something unfamiliar. Relief, perhaps. Satisfaction. A wife of substance, not ornamentation. A partner with a craft of her own.

“Very well,” Wednesday said simply, her tone as dry as old parchment. “I expect it will be adequate.”

But when Enid turned her face away, she missed the flicker in Wednesday’s eyes — a glimmer of something almost… glad.

They continued walking, turning a corner that unfurled into a hallway so long it felt endless. Ten doors lined each side, their shadows pooling into the carpet. As they walked, Enid began to speak again, her voice loosening as the subject of art drew her out of her shell.

“I… learn young,” she said, her Italian accent softening the edges of each word. “Always… draw, paint. But… perfectionist. Se non buono, distruggo.” If it wasn't good, I destroyed it. She mimed ripping paper, her cheeks warming with embarrassment. “Many, many project… gone.”

Wednesday’s gaze flicked toward her, sharp with recognition. “I understand. When a story fails me, I burn it. Better ash than mediocrity.”

Enid laughed softly, almost in relief at being understood. “Sì, sì! Ash. Fire. Always better than… wrong.”

Their voices carried down the hall, two women speaking in halting phrases but finding an unlikely harmony in their shared obsession with precision.

For Wednesday, it was a small but undeniable revelation. For Enid, it was a lifeline.

When they finally reached and entered, the master bedroom was cathedral-like, the ceilings high and shadowed, the velvet curtains drawn against the winter-dark. The bed was enormous, its frame wrought in black iron, the velvet comforter heavy and dark as a night sky. A fire cracked faintly in the hearth at the far wall, throwing orange light across polished wood floors. The room seemed almost too large for two, but tonight it felt smaller, compressed by silence and expectation.

Wednesday’s voice cut through the quiet after a stretch of walking and wandering. She had guided Enid through the house long enough; now her dark eyes fixed on the blonde with characteristic bluntness.

“Do you have anything to sleep in?”

Enid blinked, caught off guard by the question. Her accent curled around the answer, soft and careful. “Sì. Yes. My… things… not come yet. Maybe… few days.” She held up the skirts of her gown with both hands, the weight of satin and lace making her look smaller still. “But… smart. I put…” She gestured toward her chest, lowering her voice almost conspiratorially. “…nightgown. Under. Dress.”

Wednesday’s brows arched, the faintest flicker of acknowledgment in her expression. Clever. Practical. Considerate. All qualities she valued.

Enid walked delicately toward the corner of the room, her bare feet silent against the rug. With care, she bent and placed her heels neatly side by side, almost reverently, as though she were leaving them as offerings. She straightened again, smoothing her skirt, then padded back to the middle of the room with the soft grace of someone born to appear elegant even when stripped of certainty.

Wednesday watched it all with quiet fascination. Not because Enid was performing anything spectacular — but because of the way she moved through even the smallest tasks with dignity. The careful neatness, the soft consideration, the elegance stitched into the seams of her movements. It radiated off her, an aura that demanded reverence without ever asking for it.

Wordlessly, Wednesday stepped forward, her long fingers finding the fastenings at the back of Enid’s gown. The fabric yielded beneath her touch, the hooks and ties loosening under precise movements. She raised her hand when she finished, pointing to the en-suite.

“You may change there,” she said simply. “I’ll remain here.”

Enid nodded quickly, clutching the fabric at her chest as though it might betray her before she reached safety. “Grazie.” Her voice was small, grateful. She disappeared behind the door, the soft click echoing in the cavernous room.

Wednesday disrobed quickly, as efficient in privacy as she was in everything else. The suit was removed and hung neatly in the wardrobe. Her braids were unraveled, black hair falling in straight sheets past her shoulders. She slid into her own nightwear — a dark silk two-piece set, the fabric clinging and whispering against her pale skin. She moved with ritual precision: folding, arranging, discarding. Then she slipped beneath the heavy velvet comforter, the black quilt swallowing her form as she reclined against the pillows.

It was fifteen minutes before the door clicked again. Enid had battled her own war inside — first with the dress, layers upon layers stitched like a prison. Hooks, corset laces, stockings, garters, brassiere — each one a chain, each one peeling away with effort and frustration. Her hair had been stabbed with fifty-five pins; she removed them one by one until her curls finally spilled free, tumbling down her shoulders in a golden cascade. She scrubbed at her face with the only soap she could find, washing away powders and paints until her skin was bare, flushed pink with relief.

And then — the sigh. That heavy, soul-deep sigh when she slipped into her nightgown. Deep blue velvet, the weight of it like a shield. Bishop sleeves, fabric falling to her ankles, warm and soft against the winter air. She had hidden it within the folds of her gown, tucked away as insurance against nights exactly like this.

She gathered the discarded items into a neat fold, dropping the pins in the bin like tiny instruments of torture. Then, finally, she opened the en-suite door and stepped out.

She tiptoed as though intruding into sacred ground. Wednesday lay turned slightly toward the wall, dark hair spilling across the pillow. For a moment, Enid thought perhaps she slept. She set her folded things carefully on the settee, her motions quiet, deliberate. Then she turned toward the bed.

Barefoot, curls falling loose, the velvet gown hugging her form — she looked more herself than she had all night. More natural, more bare. Her face stripped of paint, her skin glowing faintly in the firelight. She crept closer, eyes wide, her hand poised above the comforter.

She was a breath away from lifting the cover when Wednesday turned suddenly, her gaze snapping toward her.

The reaction was violent, startling. Wednesday flinched, her hand pressing hard to the wall as though repelling something unnatural, then propelling herself upright until her back hit the headboard. Her eyes, wide and dark, scanned Enid like she were some apparition risen out of the floorboards.

Enid froze. Her heart leapt into her throat. Her body stiffened, curls trembling with the sudden jolt. Terror flashed in her eyes, followed by something softer — wounded confusion.

“Che ho fatto?” she whispered, pressing a hand to her chest. What did I do?

Wednesday’s voice came low, sharp, blunt. “You look like a child.”

The words sliced the air.

Enid reeled back, as if struck. Her lips parted, her hand still clutching her chest, the velvet of her gown curling beneath her fingers. “Io… no.” Her voice trembled, a whisper of protest. Then stronger, in broken English: “I am twenty-three.”

Wednesday’s expression did not shift. Her gaze was unflinching, dissecting, precise. “You look fifteen. At best.”

How dare she.

Enid’s mouth fell open, eyes brimming with hurt in the softest, most delicate way. Her lips trembled. For a moment, she looked as though she might cry — not out of shame, but out of the soft devastation of being misunderstood.

Then something hardened.

She drew herself up, lifting her chin with a quiet pride. With one swift, fluid motion, she tugged the velvet of her gown tighter against her frame. The fabric pulled, revealing the unmistakable silhouette beneath — the generous fullness of her chest, the curve of her waist, the swell of her hips.

A woman’s body. All of it.

She held Wednesday’s gaze, her lips pursed in a defiant line.

“Try again,” she said softly, her accent thick but her meaning sharp. Then, without another word she slipped beneath the velvet comforter as though diving into unknown waters, curls spilling against the dark pillow like threads of swirly sunlight that refused to die out.

No — she was no child. Not in form. Not in essence. She was small, yes. Fragile in bearing, perhaps. But she was woman, through and through.

The velvet sheets may have enveloped her in warmth, but her heart was beating far too fast for comfort to settle in.

Wednesday remained upright, pressed against the headboard, her dark eyes unblinking. Her fingers flexed slightly on the iron frame, every line of her body taut. She had faced death in its countless disguises — executions staged for novels, macabre rituals in research, and real-life encounters with people darker than herself. And yet here, before this girl — no, this woman — she felt alarm of a wholly different kind.

She forced her voice low, careful, steady. “You startled me.”

Enid turned her face toward her, wide-eyed in the half-light, her English soft but edged with hurt. “Startle… not good. I make… wrong?”

Wednesday studied her for several long beats. Her instinct was to dissect, to pierce, to lay out answers with surgical precision. But something in Enid’s expression — the fragile vulnerability hiding behind dignity — made her temper the blade.

“No,” she said finally. “Not wrong. Just… unexpected.”

Enid’s lips pressed together, then she pulled the covers higher over herself, shoulders curling inwards as though the weight of that single word still pressed on her chest.

Wednesday watched her quietly, then forced herself to recline, lowering against her own pillow with mechanical deliberation. She lay on her back at first, arms folded neatly over her ribcage, the same way she might lay in a coffin. The fire popped across the room, the only sound between them for a time.

Enid fidgeted beside her, her breath uneven, her hands clutching the blanket in small fists. She felt the weight of every inch between them — not much space, but it felt like miles. The awareness of Wednesday’s nearness made her chest ache in ways she couldn’t quite explain.

After several long minutes, Wednesday turned her head just enough to glance at her. Her voice was quieter now, almost stripped bare.

“You said twenty-three.”

Enid nodded against the pillow, hesitant. “Sì. Ventitré.” Her hand lifted slightly, as if to swear it. “I not… lying.”

“I didn’t say you were lying.” Wednesday’s lips curved — not into a smile, but into that familiar, thin sliver of wry acknowledgment. “You’re simply… deceiving by appearance. It unsettled me.”

Enid let out a soft huff, something between relief and irritation. “Is… my face. Always… baby.” She gestured to herself with one hand, curling her fingers at her cheek and chin. “People… school… call me… bambina." Little girl. She pulled a face at the memory, nose wrinkling faintly.

Wednesday’s gaze lingered on her, the corners of her mouth twitching as if she’d allow the ghost of amusement. “Cruelty,” she said flatly. “Children are always desperate to wound what they envy.”

Enid blinked at her. Slowly, almost shyly, her lips curved into the smallest smile. “You… think envy?”

“I know envy,” Wednesday corrected, her voice dry as winter wood. “I’ve cultivated it. It’s an art form. And you, Enid Sinclair, are… envied. Whether you see it or not.”

The blonde flushed faintly, her hand smoothing the velvet fabric of her gown as if it might shield her from the weight of the words. Compliments, when they came, always left her uncertain — especially when spoken so starkly.

The silence crept back in, softer this time, the fire filling the room with small crackles and shadows dancing across the walls.

After a moment, Enid shifted onto her side, facing Wednesday fully. Her curls spilled forward, the light catching on strands like threads of gold. “You… not scared easy,” she said carefully, piecing the sentence together. “But… I scare you?”

Wednesday turned her head to meet her gaze. The bluntness of the question landed like a stone in water.

Her voice dropped low, grave. “You do not scare me. You remind me.”

Enid frowned faintly. “Remind… what?”

Wednesday’s eyes darkened, the shadows deepening around her irises. “That life is still fragile. That it can look… delicate. And yet still endure.”

Enid tilted her head, not fully understanding, but sensing something important in the cadence of the words. Her chest ached with the weight of it — this strange, solemn honesty.

For the first time all night, Wednesday shifted closer. Not much — an inch, maybe two — but enough that the air between them felt different. Denser. Enid’s breath caught, her lashes fluttering as though uncertain whether to hold or look away.

Wednesday studied her again, sharp as ever, but this time there was something else in her gaze. Something reverent.

“You’ve been stripped of everything familiar,” Wednesday said. “Your country. Your language. Even your dignity, by those who claimed to love you. And yet… here you are. Still intact.” Her voice lowered to a murmur. “Most would have shattered.”

Enid’s lips parted, her chest rising and falling quickly. Her English faltered, but she forced the words out, soft and trembling. “Maybe… I am. Just… I hide better.”

The admission hung in the air, fragile as glass.

Wednesday let it settle before she responded. Her tone was not softened — she never softened — but it carried a weight, a solemn acknowledgment. “That makes you stronger than most.”

Enid swallowed, her throat tight. She turned her face partly into the pillow, her lashes lowering. Her voice came muffled, half-hoped Wednesday wouldn’t hear.

“You speak… like poet.”

Wednesday’s eyes lingered on her a long while. Finally, she closed them, the faintest sigh escaping her lips as she let herself sink into the pillow.

“I am one.”

The fire hissed. The night wrapped around them, velvet and weighty, like a closing curtain. The house breathed with them.

Side by side in heavy silence, two women who had met only hours ago lay in the same bed. Not as lovers. Not yet even as friends. But as strangers tied by chains of family, of expectation, of fragile beginnings.

This woman would not shatter.
And if she did, Wednesday would be the one to gather the pieces, glue them back together. Or perhaps it'd be the other way 'round entirely. 

Notes:

Carina and bambino are actually the sweetest sounding words I’ve ever encountered in my life.

Also, yes, we got ourselves a tall Wednesday. It’s an AU and I have free will, cause if in every other fic I’ve read of them, the one inch height difference of wenclair is multiplied by ten for no reason, it’s only fair I swap it. I believe it suits her more and I’m not here coddle anyone but express myself 🤷‍♀️

Also poor Enid, baby face syndrome. Jokes aside— not really, Wednesday is just overly dramatic.

If my previous note is showing I’m afraid I don’t know how to take it off, or if it’s just my decrepit device being an asshole. My apologies .

Chapter 3: Euphoria in my sternum

---

The fire in the hearth had burned down to its bones by the time the house exhaled into silence. Outside, November pressed against the windows — damp earth, skeletal trees, the faint bite of frost still waiting its turn to settle. Inside, under the weight of velvet comforters and the hush of a vast, unfamiliar house, two strangers turned wives slept.

They slept as though the weight of the day had lead them hollow. The ceremony, the endless eyes, the tension of expectation, and the bruising exhaustion of holding themselves upright beneath it all— it emptied them. They surrendered without struggle, without resistance.

And so the night held them like children—one dark, one golden, both carried away by the velvet embrace of sleep.

Wednesday lay on her back, pale hand curled near her collarbone, hair spread black against the pillow like an ink spill. Her face, usually a portrait of precision and severity, had softened in unconsciousness — lips parted faintly, lashes shadowing her cheeks.

Beside her, Enid slept curled onto her side, her body a little crescent facing inward, her nightgown pooling velvet folds around her knees. Her curls were wild now, tamed by no pins or brush, spilling in loose coils across her face and pillow. One hand had somehow drifted outward in her sleep, as though reaching unconsciously toward the warmth that lay beside her.

The fire was just nothing but a dim glow of orange glazing the coals, occasionally punctuating the silence with faint sighs. The room smelled faintly of smoke and faintly of roses — remnants of the wedding bouquet Morticia had insisted on bringing before the ceremony, now resting in a vase on the dresser.

For hours, the two women breathed together, slow and even, the synchronisation of strangers sharing space.

When the pale light of dawn began to creep across the curtains, both stirred almost at once. Not from alarm, nor from noise, but from the ingrained rhythm of discipline — both had been trained, in their very different worlds, to wake early.

Wednesday’s eyes opened first, the dark irises catching the faint silver of morning that pushed through the velvet curtains. She inhaled sharply, disoriented for a breath — the ceiling above was not the familiar one of her childhood, nor the suffocating one of her university’s dormitor, nor any of the apartments she’d briefly claimed as her own. No. This was hers. Theirs.

The bed was unfamiliar, the house still smelled too new, but the presence beside her was undeniable.

She turned her head slightly, slow and deliberate.

Enid’s lashes fluttered as though she felt the weight of being watched. A small wrinkle pinched her forehead as she stirred, blinking awake. Her eyes, blue-green and glassy with sleep, opened to find Wednesday staring at her with that unsettlingly direct gaze.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Two women, lying side by side for the first time in daylight, stripped of ceremony, stripped of defenses, simply looked.

 

Enid’s breath hitched softly, her cheeks warming beneath the scrutiny. She had never been looked at like that — not even on her wedding day, not truly. Wednesday’s stare was not hungry, not romantic, not even entirely curious. It was… exacting. As if she were being studied, catalogued, but not in cruelty. In reverence.

“Buongiorno,” Enid whispered finally, her voice raspy with sleep. Good morning.

Wednesday’s lips twitched, not quite a smile, but something lighter than her usual stillness. “Good morning.”

The words hung there, absurd in their simplicity, yet weighted with the odd intimacy of being the first exchanged as wives waking under the same roof.

Enid shifted slightly, tugging the blanket up higher to her chin. The velvet rustled softly. “You… wake always early?” she asked, her accent curling around the words, cautious.

“Yes,” Wednesday replied. Her tone was clipped, as though the very concept of sleeping in were an insult. “Discipline requires consistency. I rise at dawn. Earlier, if work demands it.”

Enid hummed faintly, nodding. Her lashes lowered again before lifting, studying Wednesday back with a timid kind of boldness. “You… look different. Sleep.”

Wednesday arched a brow. “Different?”

“Yes.” Enid pressed a finger gently to her own mouth, mimicking parted lips, then gestured at her cheeks. “Not… angry. Soft.”

Wednesday’s expression flattened, though a faint flicker of awareness crossed her face. “Sleep is the only time we surrender to weakness. I despise it.”

Enid shook her head gently, curls scattering. “Not weak… bella.” Pretty.

The word landed heavily, as if hurled with surprising force.

Wednesday blinked, momentarily caught off guard. Compliments, when given, usually dripped with irony, or menace, or both. Enid, however, had said it without hesitation, without angle. Pure. And it left Wednesday strangely… unmoored.

She turned her face back toward the ceiling, her hair fanning across the pillow. “You’re unreasonably honest for someone in your position.”

Enid tilted her head, confused. “Position?”

“My wife. Alone. In my house. Dependent, at least temporarily, on my hospitality.”

Enid frowned, lips pressing together. She propped herself on one elbow, her curls tumbling around her face like a halo. “Not… dependent. We… together. No?”

The simplicity of it nearly disarmed Wednesday. She turned her gaze back, meeting Enid’s clear, earnest stare. “Together,” she echoed, her voice low, deliberate.

Something in Enid eased at that, her shoulders softening. She lay back down slowly, the faintest sigh escaping her lips. For the first time since the ceremony, she seemed to truly relax.

The fire gave a last pop, collapsing into embers. Outside, a crow cawed from some distant branch, the sound carried faintly through the morning stillness.

The silence lingered between them like an extra quilt, heavy and velvet-thick, stitched together by breath and warmth. Enid remained on her side, curls spilling in loose spirals, her cheek pressed against the pillow. Wednesday lay flat on her back, arms at first folded, then slowly loosening as the minutes ticked by.

The morning light slipped through a thin gap in the thick velvet curtains, painting faint stripes across the wall and catching in Enid’s hair, turning it to molten white gold. Wednesday noticed, because of course she noticed everything. She catalogued it— the way the strands shifted when Enid breathed, the way her nightgown caught the glow, the rhythm of her pulse at her throat.

Enid stirred, her gaze drifting from the ceiling back to Wednesday. She studied her openly, though hesitantly, her lips parting before she dared a word.

“You… not sleep molto?” she asked softly, her accent curling around the syllables.

Wednesday’s dark eyes flicked to her. “I slept enough.”

“But look… tired.”

Wednesday’s mouth pulled faintly into that almost-smile she seemed to keep locked behind glass. “I always look tired. It is my face.”

That pulled a small laugh out of Enid, quick and breathy, before she clapped a hand over her lips as if afraid to wake the house. Wednesday tilted her head slightly, regarding her with a look she reserved for rare specimens she hadn’t decided whether to dissect or protect.

“You laugh easily,” Wednesday observed.

Enid peeked through her fingers, her eyes sparkling despite the heavy shadows of fatigue beneath them. “Maybe… is easy… with you.”

Wednesday’s brows arched. That was not an answer she expected, nor one she was prepared to ignore. She studied Enid more closely, dark gaze raking over the subtle curves of her face, the soft edges, the faint pink still lingering on her cheeks from sleep.

It unsettled her— that Enid could say such things so simply, without any agenda or coyness. Just… honesty.

She turned onto her side, slow and deliberate, facing Enid now. The shift of movement dragged the covers between them, and Enid inhaled sharply at the sudden proximity. Their faces weren’t close—not quite—but the angle of the bed made the distance feel smaller, charged.

Enid’s breath caught in her throat. She pressed her lips together, but the sound escaped anyway: a soft, shaky exhale that made the air between them feel alive. Her sternum tightened, that strange euphoric burn climbing up into her chest, stealing her composure.

Wednesday noticed, of corse she noticed everything. Her gaze lingered, sharp but unreadable, and though she didn’t move closer, the weight of her presence filled every inch of the bed.

“You’re uncomfortable,” Wednesday said finally, though her tone was not an accusation.

Enid shook her head too quickly, curls bouncing around her flushed face. “No. Not… un… comfort.” She struggled, then touched her sternum lightly, fingers splaying against her chest. “Is… here. Fire.”

Wednesday’s eyes tracked the gesture, then flicked back to Enid’s face. “Euphoria,” she said flatly.

Enid frowned, tilting her head. “Euph…?”

“A rush. A flood. The body betraying its calm.”

Enid’s throat worked as she swallowed. She nodded slowly, whispering, “Yes. That.”

They held each other’s gaze then, both silent, both acutely aware of the thrum beneath the surface. Enid’s breathing was shallow, uneven, her lips parted. Wednesday’s face remained composed, but her eyes — those black, unyielding eyes — softened at the edges, as if even she could not deny the current sparking between them.

After a long moment, Enid’s lips moved again. “You… not cruel,” she whispered, voice trembling but certain. “Everyone say… you cold. Cruel. But… not to me.”

Wednesday’s reply was instant, and sharp. “I would never be cruel to you.”

The conviction in her tone struck Enid harder than she expected. Her chest tightened again, her hand pressing against it as if to contain the strange ache. She nodded faintly, eyes glistening but not with tears. It was something else, something unnamed and perhaps even untamed.

Coincidentally he warmth in the bed seemed to grow heavier.

Enid shifted closer — just an inch, maybe two, the velvet of her gown brushing faintly against the silk of Wednesday’s sleeve. She held her breath like a child testing the edge of ice.

Wednesday didn’t move away. She only watched her, eyes lowered slightly now, lashes shadowing her gaze.

“You risk much,” Wednesday murmured.

Enid’s lips curved faintly, nervously. “Maybe… worth.”

That word hung between them, potent and fragile, like a single drop of blood in water.

Wednesday did not reach for her. She did not touch. But her presence alone bent toward Enid like a magnet, an unspoken acknowledgment of what seemed to be happening between them.

“You’re very brave,” Wednesday said at last, her voice as low and deliberate as if spoken to a courtroom.

Enid blinked, her brows pinching. “Brave? No… io non sono…” She stumbled, shook her head. “Not brave. Scared… always.”

Wednesday’s lips twitched, the barest curve of irony. “Bravery and fear are not opposites. Bravery is doing what frightens you anyway.”

The words sank deep into Enid, deeper than she expected. Her chest ached again, and her lips parted around a shaky breath. “Then… maybe brave. Little.”

“I’d argue more than little.” Wednesday’s eyes sharpened, though her tone softened by a thread. “You chose to speak. You chose to come closer. That alone frightens most people.”

Enid’s lashes lowered, her throat tight. She whispered, almost conspiratorially, “You scare me.”

Wednesday inclined her head, unsurprised. “Good. Fear is honest.”

Enid swallowed, her gaze flicking back up to meet the dark eyes across from her. “But… I stay…I take it.”

That admission struck Wednesday in a way she hadn’t anticipated. It was reverent, like a vow whispered in a church. She inhaled slowly, her composure tightening even as her body betrayed her with the faintest quickening of her pulse.

The silence stretched again, taut and humming. Enid shifted, so small a movement it could have been a trick of the sheets, her knee brushing lightly against Wednesdays beneath the comforter. She froze instantly, her breath catching as though waiting for reprimand.

Wednesday didn’t recoil. She didn’t even blink.

Instead, she let the contact linger, the smallest point of warmth radiating outward, a quiet acknowledgment that this wasn’t unwelcome.

“You’re trembling,” Wednesday murmured.

Enid’s laugh came soft, breathless, almost embarrassed. “Sì… little bit.” She touched her sternum again, pressing where her heart hammered. “It… burn more now.”

Wednesday’s gaze dropped briefly to her hand, then returned to her beautiful face. “That’s your body betraying you again.”

“Betray…” Enid echoed, her accent curling around the word. “But… is nice. Not bad.”

That disarmed Wednesday in a way even her most eloquent critics had failed to. She tilted her head against the pillow, her hair slipping across her shoulder like black silk. “You find pleasure in discomfort?”

Enid hesitated, then smiled faintly, shyly. “Maybe…a little.

 

---

 

 

Notes:

I know this is not the largest chapter, I’ll try to post more tomorrow..!!

In this chapter I’m trying to show that clearly there’s some sort of divine electromagnetic love connection between them. Sparks and sensations and all that…

Also love Enid for stepping it up 😩