Dusk arrived slowly at Nevermore Academy, painting the tall windows in shades of amber, violet, and fading gold. The last sunlight slipped across the stone walls, caught briefly upon the dark rooftops, and disappeared behind the distant trees, leaving the academy beneath a deepening blue sky. One by one, the lamps along the pathways came alive, their warm light spilling over the courtyard where students hurried back to their dormitories before the evening chill settled in. Somewhere beyond the gates, a raven called into the fading light. Its cry echoed across the grounds before the night swallowed it.
For most students, it was an ordinary evening. There were assignments waiting to be completed, friends waiting to exchange gossip, and the familiar arguments about homework, teachers, and the latest peculiar thing Wednesday Addams had done. But for two people living under the same roof, the arrival of evening carried a different kind of anticipation.
Agnes DeMille had spent most of the day pretending that she was not waiting for it.
She had tried to occupy herself with ordinary things. She had attended her classes, listened to conversations she barely remembered, and even attempted to read a book that had remained open on the same page for nearly half an hour. Whenever someone spoke to her, she answered. Whenever something amusing happened, she smiled at the appropriate moment. To anyone watching her, she appeared perfectly normal.
Unfortunately, Agnes had never been particularly good at deceiving herself.
Every time the clock moved forward, she found herself wondering what Sid was doing. Had he slept properly after the previous night's events? Was his magic behaving itself? Had Ryuchi spent the morning making irritating observations about his master? And, perhaps most importantly, would Sid be waiting for her tonight, or would she have to find an excuse to visit his tower again?
She disliked that last thought because it made her feel embarrassingly eager.
It wasn't that she had never wanted someone's company before. Agnes had spent much of her life wanting things she couldn't easily have: recognition, affection, the opportunity to prove that she was more than the person people assumed her to be. But wanting Sid's company was different. She didn't need to impress him every second she was around him. She didn't have to invent some clever reason for being there or make herself seem more interesting than she was. With him, she could simply exist, and somehow that felt both wonderful and terrifying.
The previous night had changed something between them. Nothing had been officially declared, and neither had made any grand promise about what would happen next. There had been no dramatic confession beneath the moonlight, no sudden agreement that they belonged to each other. There had only been honest words, quiet affection, and the sort of closeness that became more meaningful precisely because neither of them had planned it.
Sid had admitted that he appreciated her.
Agnes had admitted the same.
Those words had remained with her throughout the day, returning whenever her thoughts wandered toward him. She could still remember the way he had looked at her when he said them, as though admitting something so simple had required more courage than he wished to acknowledge.
By the time the last class ended, Agnes had already decided that she would visit him that evening.
She would not overthink it. She would not spend another hour debating whether she was bothering him. They had spent the previous night together, and Sid had made it clear that her presence was welcome. There was no reason to turn an ordinary visit into a complicated matter.
At least, that was what she told herself as she walked back toward her dormitory.
She changed into more comfortable clothes, brushed her hair, and sat on the edge of her bed while the room gradually filled with the familiar sounds of evening. Her roommates were talking about something that had happened during the day, their voices rising and falling in a conversation Agnes occasionally acknowledged without truly following. She glanced at the clock, looked away, and then glanced at it again.
"You're doing that thing again," one of her roommates remarked.
Agnes looked up. "What thing?"
"The thing where you look at the clock as though you expect it to apologize for moving too slowly."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Of course you don't." Her roommate smiled knowingly. "You've been staring at that clock for the last ten minutes."
"Perhaps I'm developing an interest in time."
"Perhaps you're waiting for someone."
Agnes immediately reached for the book beside her. "Perhaps you should develop an interest in minding your own business."
The response earned her a laugh, but the teasing did not continue. Her roommate turned back to her own activities, apparently satisfied with the reaction she had received.
Agnes lowered her eyes to the book and discovered that she had opened it upside down.
She closed it.
This is ridiculous, she thought, pressing her lips together to suppress an unwilling smile. I'm simply going to see him. It's not as though I'm going to propose marriage.
The thought made her cheeks warm, and she quickly abandoned it.
Across the academy, in a tower where the fading light stretched long shadows over the floor, Sid Edward was experiencing a remarkably similar difficulty.
He had spent the day attempting to convince himself that he was not looking forward to seeing Agnes.
His efforts had been unsuccessful.
The morning had passed in a haze of interrupted concentration. He had read several pages of a book without remembering a single sentence, spent an unreasonable amount of time trying to repair a small enchantment that had not needed repairing, and listened to Ryuchi make increasingly irritating comments about the state of his attention.
By the afternoon, the white serpent had abandoned subtlety altogether.
"You are doing it again," Ryuchi observed from his usual position near the window.
Sid did not look up from his desk. "If you mean breathing, I assure you it is an involuntary habit."
"I mean pretending that you are interested in that parchment."
"I am interested in the parchment."
"Then perhaps you could explain what you have been reading for the past quarter of an hour."
Sid glanced down.
The parchment was blank.
He stared at it for a moment before turning it over, as though the reverse side might offer a more convincing explanation.
Ryuchi lifted his head. "Remarkable. Your intelligence remains undiminished, but your ability to perform simple tasks has apparently abandoned you."
"One day, Ryuchi, I am going to find a spell that makes you silent."
"You have threatened that for years. I have begun to suspect that your inability to accomplish it is the only reason you still tolerate my presence."
Sid placed the parchment on the desk and leaned back in his chair. "Have you considered that I tolerate your presence because you're my familiar?"
"I have considered it. I find the explanation insulting."
"You find everything insulting."
"Only things deserving of criticism."
Sid gave him a tired look, but there was no real annoyance behind it. Ryuchi had known him long enough to recognize when silence was preferable to another argument, and today he seemed particularly determined to make his master's distraction impossible to ignore.
After a moment, the serpent's expression softened into something approaching curiosity.
"Will she come tonight?"
Sid's gaze moved toward the window.
He could have denied that he had been thinking about Agnes. He could have offered some elaborate explanation about unfinished research or the possibility that she might require assistance with something. He could even have reminded Ryuchi that Agnes was perfectly capable of making her own decisions.
Instead, he answered with a simple, "I don't know."
"But you hope she will."
Sid's silence was answer enough.
Ryuchi settled more comfortably against the windowsill. "Then I suggest you stop looking as though you are preparing for a funeral. If she comes, you should be pleased. If she doesn't, you may return to staring at blank parchment."
"Your ability to offer advice without making me regret asking for it is extraordinary."
"I have never claimed to possess that ability."
Sid shook his head, but the faint smile that appeared on his face remained for a moment longer than he intended.
He thought of Agnes sitting near his window the previous night, her expression changing when he had spoken honestly about things he rarely discussed. He remembered the warmth of her hand in his, the ease with which their conversation had moved from teasing to something more personal, and the strange relief of being understood without having to explain every part of himself.
He wanted to see her again.
There was no complicated reason behind it. He simply wanted another evening in which the world felt a little less heavy because she was there.
And so, as dusk faded into night, Sid found himself looking toward the door more often than he cared to admit.
Neither of them knew that the evening they had imagined was already slipping away from them.
By the time the first stars appeared, Nevermore had settled into its nighttime rhythm. The dining hall gradually emptied, the corridors became quieter, and the academy's ancient walls seemed to draw closer around the students who remained awake. Somewhere in the distance, a door slammed, followed by the hurried footsteps of someone who was clearly attempting to avoid being caught outside their dormitory after curfew.
Agnes waited until the hour felt appropriate before leaving her room.
She had considered bringing a book, then rejected the idea because she knew perfectly well that she would not read it. She had considered carrying some excuse for her visit, then decided that inventing one would only make her look suspicious. In the end, she took nothing except the small amount of courage required to walk through the corridors and knock on Sid's door.
The journey to his tower felt shorter than it had the previous night. Perhaps she had grown accustomed to the route. Perhaps she was simply too occupied imagining the conversation they might have to notice the distance.
She wondered whether Sid would greet her with one of his dry remarks. She hoped he would. There was something comforting about the way he teased her without making her feel small, and she had already thought of several responses she intended to use against him.
She would ask whether Ryuchi had behaved himself during the day.
She would tell Sid that she had successfully survived an entire day without visiting him, although she might neglect to mention how often she had considered doing so.
And if he looked at her the way he had the previous night, she would probably forget at least half of what she intended to say.
The thought made her smile as she reached his door.
She knocked twice.
There was no answer.
Agnes waited, listening for movement on the other side. She heard nothing except the faint whistle of wind through the tower's narrow windows.
Perhaps he was in the washroom. Perhaps he had gone to speak with someone. Perhaps Ryuchi had somehow managed to lock him out of his own room, which would not have been entirely surprising.
She knocked again, a little more firmly.
"Sid?"
Silence.
Her smile faded slightly.
She reached for the handle and discovered that the door was unlocked. Pushing it open, she leaned into the room with the confidence of someone who expected to be greeted by a familiar face and perhaps a sarcastic comment about her habit of arriving without warning.
"Well, I hope you're decent, because—"
The words stopped.
The room was empty.
For a moment, Agnes simply stood in the doorway, her hand resting against the wood. Her eyes moved instinctively toward the desk, then the window, then the chair where Ryuchi usually coiled himself when he wanted to watch the world outside.
Nothing.
The chair was empty. The desk held a few books and scattered papers, but there was no sign that anyone had been sitting there recently. The curtains shifted slightly in the breeze, and the low-burning lamp on the table cast a pool of golden light across the floor.
The room looked almost exactly as she remembered it from the previous night.
That was what made the emptiness feel so strange.
Agnes stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
"Sid?"
Her voice sounded unnecessarily loud in the quiet room.
She walked toward the desk, glancing at the papers without reading them. Perhaps he had been called away by a teacher. Perhaps something had happened with his magic. She knew enough about Sid by now to understand that his life was rarely as simple as it appeared from the outside.
Still, she had expected him to be here.
She had spent the entire day looking forward to this evening. She had imagined sitting beside him, listening to him complain about something trivial, and perhaps talking about the previous night if neither of them found a reason to avoid it. She had expected to see him, and that expectation had become so natural in her mind that she had never considered the possibility of arriving to find nothing but an empty room.
Agnes moved toward the window and looked down at the courtyard.
Students crossed the paths below, their figures passing through the pools of lantern light. Two students stood near the fountain, talking quietly. A group emerged from one of the side entrances and disappeared around the corner of the building.
Sid was nowhere among them.
She drew back from the window and folded her arms.
"Fine," she murmured to herself. "Be mysterious. It's not as though I came all this way specifically to see you."
The statement would have been more convincing if she had not immediately sat down in his chair.
She waited.
At first, she was certain he would return within a few minutes. She imagined him entering with an explanation, perhaps looking mildly surprised to discover her there. She would ask where he had been, he would make some unhelpful remark, and the evening would continue as though the delay had been nothing more than an inconvenience.
She could already hear the conversation in her head.
You could have told me you were going somewhere.
I wasn't aware that I required permission.
You don't. But a warning would have been polite.
I'll remember that the next time I leave my own room.
She almost smiled at the imagined exchange.
Then several minutes passed.
The lamp continued to burn. The curtains continued to move. Somewhere in the tower, an old pipe made a faint clicking sound.
Sid did not return.
Agnes rose and walked to the door, half expecting that she might encounter him in the corridor. She opened it, looked in both directions, and found only the empty passage stretching away beneath the wall lamps.
She considered leaving.
She really did.
It would be perfectly reasonable to return to her dormitory, tell herself that Sid had been occupied, and wait until the following day to see him. There was no promise between them that required him to spend every evening in her company. She understood that. She would never ask him to give up his own life simply because she wanted to be part of it.
But understanding something logically did not always prevent it from hurting.
Agnes closed the door again and returned to the chair.
"Ten minutes," she decided quietly. "I'll wait ten minutes, and then I'm leaving."
She glanced at the clock.
It was already later than she had intended to arrive.
Still, ten minutes seemed fair.
She sat down, drew her knees up slightly, and looked toward the door.
And waited.
Sid had no intention of abandoning his plans for the evening.
That was the curious thing about what happened next: at no point did he consciously decide that Agnes could wait, nor did he consider that her feelings were unimportant. When he left his tower earlier that evening, he had every expectation of returning to his room and seeing her there—or of finding that she had not yet arrived and waiting for her himself.
His disappearance began with a sound he almost mistook for something ordinary.
He was walking through one of Nevermore's older corridors, heading toward the central stairway after leaving his tower for a brief errand, when a strange sensation passed through the air. It was not quite a sound, though something in the silence seemed to change. It was not quite magic, though the familiar energy that surrounded the academy's enchanted architecture shifted in a way that made the hairs along his arms rise.
Sid stopped.
For several seconds, he remained perfectly still, listening.
The corridor stretched before him, empty except for the faint glow of the lamps and the long shadows cast by the statues lining the walls. At the far end, a window stood slightly ajar, allowing the cold night air to slip inside. Nothing appeared disturbed.
Then he felt it again.
This time, the sensation was unmistakable.
Psychic magic.
But it was not the ordinary residue of a vision, the faint impression that sometimes lingered around a psychic after an especially vivid experience. This was sharper, more violent, as though someone had forced open a door inside their own mind and discovered something waiting on the other side.
Sid's expression changed.
He had encountered enough strange magic in his life to recognize the difference between power and control. Whatever had just happened was not simply a psychic receiving an unexpected vision. It felt like someone had pushed beyond their limits and suffered the consequences.
He turned toward the adjoining corridor.
A few steps later, he heard someone running.
The footsteps were uneven and hurried, followed by a frightened voice calling a name that made him stop again.
"Wednesday!"
Sid moved immediately.
He reached the junction and found a small group of students gathered near the wall. One of them stood frozen, staring at something on the floor. Another had pressed a hand over their mouth. Their expressions told him that whatever had happened was worse than he had initially imagined.
"Move aside," Sid said.
He did not shout, but there was enough authority in his voice that the students moved without arguing.
And then he saw her.
Wednesday Addams lay on the stone floor, her black clothing stark against the pale tiles. Her body was convulsing in violent, involuntary movements, and dark liquid streamed from the corners of her eyes, tracing black lines down her face.
For one brief instant, the corridor seemed to disappear around him.
Sid knew what he was seeing.
Black tears.
He had heard about the phenomenon long before coming to Nevermore, although he had never expected to witness it so close at hand. Psychic overexertion could be dangerous in ways ordinary magical exhaustion was not. A psychic might push too far in pursuit of an answer, a warning, or a glimpse of something that had not yet happened. Sometimes the mind could endure the strain. Sometimes it could not.
And sometimes the consequences were visible.
Sid dropped to one knee beside Wednesday.
"Give her space," he ordered, glancing at the students who had gathered around them. "All of you. Move back. Don't crowd her."
One student hesitated. "But she's—"
"I can see that."
His voice was sharper now, and the student stepped back.
Sid kept his hands clear of Wednesday's head and watched her carefully, trying to determine whether she was breathing normally between the convulsions. He did not attempt to restrain her movements. He knew better than to assume that force would help, especially when the danger appeared to come from within her own mind.
"Wednesday," he said firmly. "Can you hear me?"
There was no answer.
Her eyes remained closed, the black tears continuing to run down her cheeks.
Sid felt the psychic residue around her again, and this time it was so strong that it made the air seem unnaturally cold. He could not see what she had seen. He could not enter her mind simply because he recognized the signs of her distress. Whatever vision had brought her to this state belonged to her alone.
But he could recognize the aftermath.
"Someone find Morticia Addams," he said without looking away from Wednesday. "Now."
A student hurried off.
Sid leaned a little closer, keeping his voice controlled. "Wednesday, if you can hear me, don't try to force yourself back. Just breathe. Let it pass."
He did not know whether his words reached her. He continued speaking anyway, because the alternative was to sit in silence while the girl before him suffered through something he understood far too well to dismiss.
For a moment, Wednesday's movements grew more violent.
Sid's jaw tightened, but he did not lose his composure. He shifted slightly to ensure that she would not strike her head against the stone and remained beside her until the convulsions began to lessen.
The corridor had fallen almost completely silent.
Even the students who had gathered nearby seemed to understand that this was no ordinary fainting spell. They watched Sid with the uncertain expressions of people who had expected someone to panic and were now confused by the fact that he had not.
He was worried. Deeply so.
But fear and panic were not the same thing, and Sid had learned long ago that panic rarely helped anyone who needed him.
Footsteps approached from the far end of the corridor.
Quick, purposeful footsteps.
Then a woman's voice cut through the silence.
"Wednesday!"
Morticia Addams appeared around the corner, her black dress moving with her as she hurried toward her daughter. For the briefest instant, her composure broke when she saw Wednesday on the floor. She dropped beside her, her face paling as she took in the black tears.
"Oh, my darling."
Sid moved back enough to give her room, though he remained close by.
Morticia reached for Wednesday with practiced urgency, calling her name and checking her condition. Her hands were steady, but Sid noticed the tension in her expression, the particular kind of fear that came not from uncertainty but from recognizing something one had desperately hoped never to see again.
Morticia looked up.
Her eyes found Sid.
For a moment, neither spoke.
She noticed the way he had positioned himself beside Wednesday, the space he had left around her, and the fact that he was not staring at the black tears with the bewilderment she had seen on the faces of the other students. He looked concerned, certainly, but there was something else in his expression.
Recognition.
"You," Morticia said quietly. "What happened?"
"I found her like this," Sid answered. "I heard someone calling her name and came here. She was already convulsing when I arrived."
Morticia looked down at her daughter again, brushing a strand of black hair away from Wednesday's face. Her expression tightened when she saw the tears.
"How long?" she asked.
"I can't be certain. Only a minute or two before I sent someone to find you."
"And you know what these are."
It was not a question.
Sid held her gaze for a moment before answering. "Yes."
Morticia's eyes narrowed slightly. Not with hostility, but with the attention of someone who had suddenly discovered an unexpected detail in a frightening situation.
"Most people would not recognize them."
"Most people haven't had a reason to learn."
The answer was deliberately incomplete, and Morticia seemed to recognize that as well. She did not press him. Her attention returned to Wednesday, whose movements had finally begun to settle.
"Wednesday, darling, can you hear me?" Morticia whispered.
A faint movement passed through Wednesday's fingers.
Morticia immediately leaned closer. "That's it. Stay with me."
Sid watched in silence as Wednesday's breathing gradually became more regular. The black tears remained visible against her pale skin, but the violent convulsions had subsided. She looked terribly young in that moment, stripped of the sharp words and unshakable confidence that usually made her seem untouchable.
Morticia gathered her daughter carefully, supporting her as she began to regain awareness.
Wednesday's eyelids fluttered.
For a few seconds, her gaze remained unfocused. Then she looked at her mother, and the confusion in her expression gave way to something much darker.
Fear.
It vanished almost immediately, buried beneath the familiar mask of composure, but Sid saw it.
So did Morticia.
"You're safe," Morticia told her gently. "I'm here."
Wednesday swallowed, her gaze moving across the corridor. She noticed the students standing at a distance, the worried faces, and finally the young man kneeling nearby.
Sid.
Her eyes stopped on him.
He was not looking at her with pity. He was not asking whether she was all right, nor was he offering the useless reassurance that everything would be fine. He simply met her gaze with an expression that suggested he understood that something serious had happened, even if he did not know precisely what.
Wednesday studied him for several seconds.
Then she spoke, her voice rough from the ordeal.
"You knew."
Morticia glanced at her daughter. "Wednesday, you need to rest."
"You knew what was happening," Wednesday repeated, this time looking directly at Sid.
He did not pretend otherwise.
"I recognized the signs."
"Of what?"
"Psychic overexertion."
The words seemed to change the atmosphere around them.
Morticia's expression became more guarded, while Wednesday's gaze sharpened despite her exhaustion.
"Interesting," Wednesday murmured.
It was a strange thing to say after collapsing on a corridor floor, but Sid had already learned that Wednesday Addams possessed an impressive ability to prioritize curiosity over nearly everything else.
"Not particularly," he replied. "It's a dangerous thing to recognize."
"Only if one is afraid of dangerous things."
"That depends on whether the dangerous thing is trying to kill you."
For the first time since waking, Wednesday's expression shifted into something almost resembling interest.
Morticia interrupted before she could answer.
"That is enough for tonight." Her tone was gentle, but it carried the unmistakable finality of a mother who had no intention of allowing her daughter to interrogate anyone while barely recovered from a psychic collapse. "Wednesday needs to rest."
Wednesday looked as though she had several objections prepared.
Morticia gave her a look.
The objections remained unspoken.
With Sid's help, Morticia ensured there was enough room for Wednesday to rise safely. He offered his arm when necessary, but once Morticia had her daughter supported, he stepped back and allowed them to proceed without interfering.
Before they left, Wednesday turned her head toward him.
"Edward."
Sid looked at her.
"Don't disappear."
It was not a request. It was an instruction, delivered with the calm authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed.
Sid raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't aware I had been summoned."
"You have now."
Morticia sighed softly. "Wednesday."
"What? He knows something."
"And you will have the opportunity to ask him about it when you're feeling better."
Wednesday looked dissatisfied with that arrangement, but she did not argue further. Her attention remained fixed on Sid as Morticia guided her away from the corridor.
Sid watched them disappear around the corner.
Only then did he allow himself to breathe out fully.
He had recognized the black tears. He had known what they meant. But witnessing them had been different from reading about them or hearing them discussed in the distant, detached language of magical theory. There was something deeply unsettling about seeing a person brought so low by the very ability that was supposed to make them extraordinary.
And Wednesday Addams, of all people, was not someone who would willingly accept that she had reached her limits.
Sid glanced toward the window at the end of the corridor.
Outside, the night had deepened. The courtyard was almost empty now, and the lights of the academy glimmered against the darkness.
He thought of his room.
Of the lamp he had left burning.
Of the possibility that Agnes might have arrived by now.
A small, uncomfortable feeling settled in his stomach.
"I should go," he murmured.
No one remained nearby to hear him.
He turned toward the stairs and began walking back to his tower, unaware that with every passing minute, Agnes's patience was becoming harder to maintain.
Agnes had been waiting for considerably longer than ten minutes.
She had abandoned the idea of reading. She had tried standing near the window, then sitting at the desk, then walking around the room in the hope that movement would make the time pass more quickly. None of it helped.
Every so often, she would hear footsteps outside and lift her head.
Every time, the footsteps belonged to someone else.
The first few times, she had found the mistake amusing. By the fourth, she had begun to feel foolish. By the sixth, she was no longer counting.
She rose and crossed to the desk, where she noticed a small object lying beside one of Sid's books. It was something she had seen him use before, though she couldn't remember what it was for. She picked it up, examined it briefly, and returned it to precisely the same place.
Then she looked at the door again.
"Where are you?" she whispered.
There was no accusation in the question. Not yet.
She knew Sid had a life beyond their conversations. She knew he possessed responsibilities and secrets, and that some of those secrets were probably far more complicated than anything she could imagine. She had never expected him to explain every detail of his life simply because they had grown closer.
But a small part of her had hoped that, after the previous night, she would no longer have to wonder whether he wanted her around.
She had hoped that perhaps she could visit him without feeling like an interruption.
That hope made the empty room hurt in a way she found difficult to explain.
Agnes sat on the edge of the bed, then immediately stood again.
"This is stupid," she muttered.
She walked toward the door.
This time, she genuinely intended to leave.
Her hand rested on the handle, and she looked back at the room. The chair near the window, the books on the desk, the soft light spilling across the floor—all of it seemed to mock her for having imagined that the evening would unfold differently.
She could return tomorrow.
She could pretend she had never come.
She could even make a joke about it if Sid asked where she had been.
But the thought of seeing him tomorrow and pretending that she had not spent an entire evening waiting for him made her chest tighten.
Agnes released the handle and returned to the chair.
"Five more minutes," she decided.
She sat down and folded her hands in her lap.
The clock continued moving.
And Sid still did not come.
The Nightshades' secret library was hidden behind a passage that most students would have walked past without noticing. Its entrance lay beyond a stretch of stone corridor that appeared to lead nowhere of importance, concealed by old architecture and the kind of enchantment that rewarded curiosity while discouraging careless exploration.
Wednesday knew the way.
Even after what had happened, she remembered enough to insist on going there rather than returning directly to her dormitory. Morticia had wanted her to rest, but Wednesday had never been particularly good at accepting instructions that interfered with her investigations.
She waited until her mother had been occupied with a conversation elsewhere before slipping away.
The black tears had been cleaned from her face, though the memory of them remained unpleasantly vivid. Her body felt heavy, and a dull ache lingered behind her eyes, but her mind was already working through the details of the evening.
The vision.
Enid.
The grave.
The accusation.
Wednesday could still hear Enid's voice in her memory, telling her that her death would be her fault. She could still see the tombstone, the name carved into it, and the terrible certainty that had accompanied the vision.
She did not know whether it had been a warning or a glimpse of something inevitable.
She hated not knowing.
But the vision was not the only thing occupying her thoughts.
Sid Edward had recognized the black tears.
He had not looked confused. He had not needed Morticia to explain what was happening. He had known what he was seeing, and he had acted with the calmness of someone who understood the seriousness of the situation.
That was not an ordinary response.
Wednesday entered the secret library and lit the nearest lamp. Warm light spread across the shelves, revealing old books, dusty tables, and the collection of strange objects that the Nightshades had accumulated over the years. The room was quiet enough that she could hear the faint ticking of a clock somewhere among the shelves.
She chose a chair near the central table and sat down.
Then she waited.
She had told Sid not to disappear, and Wednesday generally expected people to take her instructions seriously. However, she had also learned that the most interesting people were often the least inclined to obey her.
If Sid failed to appear, she would find him herself.
She had just begun considering the most efficient way to accomplish that when footsteps sounded beyond the hidden entrance.
Wednesday lifted her head.
The door opened.
Sid stood in the doorway, looking at her with the expression of someone who had anticipated several unpleasant possibilities and was now deciding which one he had encountered.
"You followed my instructions," Wednesday observed.
"You made them sound like a threat."
"They were an instruction."
"That distinction must be very comforting to the people who receive them."
Wednesday gestured toward the chair opposite her. "Sit down."
Sid remained where he was for another moment, glancing around the room.
"I assume this is not a social visit."
"You're correct."
"Then I assume you have questions."
"Several."
"Of course you do."
He entered and closed the door behind him. The sound echoed softly through the library, separating them from the ordinary world beyond its walls.
Sid took the chair opposite Wednesday, settling into it with a quiet sigh.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Wednesday studied him with the unwavering attention of someone examining a puzzle whose pieces had unexpectedly begun moving on their own.
Finally, she leaned forward.
"How did you know?"
Sid looked at her. "You're going to have to be more specific."
"The black tears."
He was silent for a moment.
Then he answered carefully. "I've studied unusual magical conditions. Psychic overexertion is one of them."
"That explains how you knew what they were called. It doesn't explain why you looked as though you had seen them before."
"Perhaps I have a good imagination."
"Your imagination didn't make you check my breathing, keep the students away from me, or recognize that I shouldn't be restrained during the convulsions. Those were decisions made by someone who understood what was happening."
Sid's expression became more serious.
Wednesday continued, her voice quiet but relentless. "You were concerned, but you weren't surprised. Everyone else looked as though they were watching a body being prepared for burial. You looked as though you knew what I was experiencing, even if you didn't know why."
"I knew you were in danger," Sid said. "That was enough."
"Not for me."
"I gathered that."
She leaned back slightly, studying him.
"Do you know what happened to me?"
"No."
The answer came without hesitation.
Wednesday's eyes narrowed. "You expect me to believe that?"
"I expect you to believe that I wasn't inside your head."
"Psychics can share visions."
"Some can. That doesn't mean every person who recognizes psychic distress automatically experiences the same vision."
For a moment, Wednesday said nothing.
The answer appeared to satisfy one part of her curiosity while irritating another. Sid could see that she wanted a more complete explanation, preferably one that would allow her to reconstruct the event from beginning to end. Unfortunately, he had no such explanation to offer.
"I saw something," Wednesday said eventually.
Sid waited.
"It involved Enid."
Her voice had changed. It was still controlled, but something beneath it had become more fragile, as though she were reluctant to acknowledge the importance of the name she had spoken.
Sid did not interrupt.
Wednesday looked down at her hands. "I saw her grave. I saw her blaming me for her death."
The words remained between them.
For the first time since entering the library, Wednesday seemed uncertain about what to say next. Her gaze moved toward the shelves, but she did not appear to see them. She was remembering something that had happened inside her own mind, something that no one else in the room could verify.
Sid understood enough not to dismiss it.
"Do you believe the vision was a prediction?" he asked.
"I don't know."
It was perhaps the most honest answer she had given all evening.
Wednesday seemed to recognize that fact herself, because she immediately added, "Which is precisely why I intend to determine whether it was."
"By interrogating me?"
"You're a promising starting point."
"How flattering."
"You were present when I collapsed. You recognized the symptoms. And you appear to know considerably more about psychic magic than you have any intention of admitting."
Sid rested his hands on the table.
"Wednesday, I can explain what I recognized. I can tell you what I know about the dangers of pushing a psychic ability too far. But I cannot tell you what your vision means, because I didn't see it."
"Then tell me what you do know."
And so, beneath the old lamps of the Nightshades' secret library, Sid began to explain.
He spoke about psychic exhaustion, about the strain that could accumulate when a person repeatedly forced their mind toward visions they were not prepared to endure. He explained that visions did not always arrive in a form that could be understood immediately, and that the intensity of an experience did not necessarily determine its accuracy. Sometimes a vision revealed a possible future. Sometimes it exposed a fear that had already taken root in the mind. And sometimes, particularly when a psychic was exhausted, distinguishing between the two became difficult.
Wednesday listened without interrupting.
It was not that she accepted every word without question. She challenged his explanations whenever they seemed incomplete, demanded clarification when he used terminology she considered unnecessarily vague, and asked several questions that forced him to reconsider the precise wording of his answers.
But she listened.
And as the night deepened beyond the hidden walls of the library, their conversation moved beyond the black tears and toward the more troubling question neither could easily answer.
What if Wednesday's vision was telling her the truth?
Sid did not offer false reassurance. He did not tell her that Enid would certainly be safe, because he had no way of knowing that. Nor did he encourage Wednesday to accept the vision as an unavoidable future.
Instead, he told her that a possible future was not the same thing as a fixed one.
Wednesday considered this for a long time.
"You believe the future can change."
"I believe people make choices. Choices have consequences. And sometimes, knowing what might happen gives you the opportunity to make a different choice."
"And sometimes," Wednesday replied, "knowing what might happen simply gives you enough time to make the wrong choice more efficiently."
Sid's mouth curved faintly. "You do have a talent for making optimism sound like a criminal offense."
"Optimism is frequently a failure of imagination."
"Or perhaps a refusal to assume the worst before the evidence is available."
Wednesday regarded him with renewed interest.
"You sound like someone who has learned that lesson personally."
Sid's faint smile disappeared.
For a moment, the silence between them changed. It was no longer simply the pause between questions and answers. It became something more deliberate, a space in which both of them recognized that the conversation had approached a boundary.
Wednesday noticed the change immediately.
"Your turn," she said.
Sid raised an eyebrow. "My turn?"
"You've spent the last hour explaining the limitations of psychic abilities. You've told me what can happen when someone pushes beyond their limits, but you've been remarkably careful about explaining how you came to know all of this."
"I thought we were discussing your vision."
"We were. Then I discovered that the person explaining it knows more than he is willing to reveal."
"That must be an exhausting discovery for you."
"It is. Fortunately, I possess considerable endurance."
Sid leaned back in his chair and considered her.
He could tell her something about his own magic. He could explain that he understood the danger of power becoming unpredictable, that he knew what it felt like when something inside him responded too violently to emotions he had failed to control. But those were not small admissions, and Wednesday had not yet earned the kind of trust that would make him comfortable revealing everything.
Not even tonight.
"Let's say," he began slowly, "that I've learned from experience that power doesn't always behave the way people expect it to."
Wednesday's expression sharpened.
"What kind of power?"
"The kind that becomes dangerous when its owner mistakes control for certainty."
"That isn't an answer."
"No. It's the answer you're getting tonight."
She looked almost offended.
"You realize that withholding information makes people more likely to investigate you."
"I'm beginning to suspect that is your preferred method of encouraging conversation."
"It has an excellent success rate."
"Then I suppose I'll have to disappoint you."
Wednesday studied him for several seconds, then settled back in her chair.
"Very well," she said. "For tonight."
Sid could hear the unspoken promise in those words.
Wednesday Addams had no intention of abandoning the subject. She would remember every hesitation, every carefully chosen phrase, and every detail that seemed inconsistent with his explanations. If Sid had secrets, she would eventually discover them.
But for now, she had something more important to consider.
She turned her attention back to the vision.
"I don't know whether Enid's death is inevitable," she said quietly. "But I know what I saw. I know what she said to me. And I know that I was responsible for something terrible in that vision."
Sid watched her carefully.
"You saw yourself being blamed," he said. "That isn't necessarily the same as knowing you caused it."
Wednesday's gaze lifted to his.
"You think the distinction matters?"
"I think it matters considerably."
"Explain."
"If you believe that every terrible thing you see is your fault, you'll spend your life trying to prevent things that haven't happened yet. And when something does happen, you'll blame yourself for failing to prevent it, even if there was no way you could have known how."
Wednesday's expression became very still.
Sid continued, his voice quieter now. "You can't protect everyone by treating yourself as the cause of every possible disaster. You can pay attention. You can make decisions. You can try to help the people you care about. But you cannot control every outcome, Wednesday."
For several seconds, she did not answer.
The library seemed unusually quiet around them. The lamps flickered gently, and somewhere behind the shelves, the old building creaked as the temperature dropped.
Finally, Wednesday looked away.
"I don't particularly enjoy being told what I cannot control."
"I hadn't noticed."
Her eyes returned to him, and for the first time that evening, something almost amused passed through her expression.
It was not quite a smile.
But it was close enough that Sid noticed.
"You are remarkably irritating," she said.
"I've been told."
"By Agnes?"
The question came so unexpectedly that Sid paused.
Wednesday watched his reaction with interest.
"Ah," she murmured. "So that is the name."
Sid gave her a flat look. "I don't remember mentioning her."
"You didn't have to. Your expression changed when you thought about returning to your room. It was a subtle change, but noticeable. I assumed there was someone you expected to find there."
He looked away for a moment.
Wednesday leaned forward slightly. "You have someone waiting for you."
It wasn't a question.
Sid glanced at the clock on the wall.
The hour displayed there made his stomach sink.
He had intended to return to his room long before this. He had meant to check whether Agnes had arrived, perhaps spend the remainder of the evening with her, and continue their conversation from the previous night. Instead, he had allowed himself to be drawn into an unexpected discussion that had stretched far beyond what he had anticipated.
He stood abruptly.
"I need to go."
Wednesday looked up at him. "Now?"
"Yes, now."
"You haven't answered my question about—"
"We've been talking for hours, Wednesday."
"That is hardly my fault."
"Of course not."
He reached for his coat.
Wednesday rose from her chair, watching him with a mixture of curiosity and dissatisfaction. She had not obtained every answer she wanted, but she had learned enough to understand that Sid's knowledge was not accidental. There was a story behind it, and she intended to discover what that story was.
"Will you come back?" she asked.
Sid paused near the door.
He could have promised that he would. He could have told her that he would explain more tomorrow, though he had no idea whether that would be possible. He could even have tried to reassure her that the vision would make more sense with time.
Instead, he gave her an answer he could honestly keep.
"If you have more questions, ask me when we're both awake enough to have a sensible conversation."
Wednesday looked unimpressed. "I have never needed sleep to be sensible."
"That explains a great deal."
She ignored the remark.
"Edward."
He turned.
For the first time since their conversation began, Wednesday appeared to be struggling with something that was not curiosity. The expression was fleeting, almost invisible, but Sid recognized the effort it took for her to say what came next.
"You didn't leave when everyone else was standing around staring at me."
Sid's expression softened slightly.
"You needed help."
"Most people would have panicked."
"Most people weren't the ones standing beside you."
Wednesday considered that answer.
Then, after a moment, she gave a small nod.
It was not a conventional thank-you, but Sid suspected it was the closest she was prepared to offer.
He opened the door and stepped into the corridor.
Behind him, Wednesday remained in the library, already turning over their conversation in her mind. The questions had multiplied rather than disappeared, and the black tears were no longer the only mystery she intended to solve.
Sid, meanwhile, began the walk back to his tower.
He had no idea what Agnes had been doing during the hours he had spent in the library. He did not know that she had visited his room, found it empty, and waited for him until disappointment began to replace anticipation. He did not know that the evening she had imagined had slowly become a night she would remember for very different reasons.
All he knew was that the corridor was quiet, the hour was late, and he had spent an entire night discussing death, visions, and the dangerous limits of magic with Wednesday Addams.
He quickened his pace.
For the first time that night, he hoped he was not too late.
But when Sid finally reached his tower, the room that had been empty earlier was empty again.
Agnes had gone.
The lamp still burned beside his desk. The books remained where he had left them, and the chair near the window stood at the same angle as before. Nothing appeared disturbed, yet something about the room felt different now, as though the absence of another person could leave behind a presence of its own.
Sid stopped in the doorway.
His gaze moved toward the chair.
Then to the window.
Then to the clock.
He understood immediately.
Agnes had come.
And he had not been there.
A quiet unease settled over him as he stepped inside and closed the door. He remembered the previous night, the things they had said to each other, and the unspoken expectation that they would meet again. He remembered how much he had wanted to see her when dusk first arrived.
He had wanted that just as much as she had.
But wanting something and making room for it were not always the same thing, and tonight he had failed to do the latter.
Sid crossed the room and sat down in the chair she had occupied earlier, unaware of the precise moments she had spent there, the times she had looked toward the door, and the small arguments she had made with herself about whether to leave.
He could imagine her waiting.
He could imagine her becoming irritated with him.
What he could not know was how the empty room had felt to her after she had spent an entire day looking forward to seeing him.
For a long time, he remained still.
Then he lowered his head and exhaled slowly.
"Well done," he murmured to himself. "Truly exceptional work."
Ryuchi, who had returned to the room before him by some route known only to himself, lifted his head from the windowsill.
"Are you speaking to me?"
"No."
"How disappointing. I had several criticisms prepared."
Sid looked at him.
"Not tonight, Ryuchi."
The serpent fell quiet, recognizing something in his master's voice that made even him reluctant to continue teasing.
Outside, the last traces of dusk had long since disappeared. The stars shone above Nevermore, indifferent to the things that had happened beneath them. Somewhere in the dormitories, Agnes was trying to convince herself that she had no reason to be upset. Somewhere behind a hidden door, Wednesday was already piecing together the mysteries Sid had tried to leave unanswered.
And Sid sat alone in his room, realizing that the night he had intended to spend with Agnes had become a night he would have to explain.
He did not yet know what he would say to her.
He only knew that the silence between them had begun without either of them choosing it.
And sometimes, he was learning, the most difficult consequences were not caused by the decisions a person made deliberately, but by the moments in which they forgot that someone else was waiting.
The night had given Wednesday the answers she needed to begin asking better questions.
It had given Agnes nothing but an empty room.
And for Sid Edward, dawn would arrive far too soon.