Magic At Nevermore

“Flour, Eggs, Milk, Fat…No sugar?” Wednesday furrowed her brows. “I thought this was a dessert?”

Thing 'shrugged', pointing at the recipe book before handing her the cup of lard.

She snatched the cookbook off its mantel, reading and rereading the blurb on 'Yorkshire pudding'. She thought she had British nomenclature down after spending the whole evening elbow-deep in various batters. Pudding meant sweet dishes. But just like their colonialist past, the crown had no problem turning a blind eye to the misleading description of Yorkshire pudding.

“How needlessly contrarian,” Wednesday murmured, placing the book down with a thud. Thing tapped on the counter.

“No I do not want to start over,” She warily scanned the messy space. “Again.

Wednesday always hated mess, she prided herself on being an organized person. But if you walked in on her now, you could have never guessed it. Flour dusted her cheeks, her hair was slightly frizzy and sticking to her face, and her apron was littered with splash marks of various colours and consistencies.

It looked like she just fought a kitchen pantry and lost.

When she and Thing broke into the kitchens past curfew to prepare a British-style feast, she thought she knew what to expect. Baking was a science after all and she was rather good at that.

However, that's not exactly how things panned out.

Dishes that seemed easy were complicated and dishes that seemed complicated were even more so. As with any good science experiment, She had to look at areas of improvement. She suspected the problem could be semi-boiled down to not knowing how to properly utilize the equipment.

Apparently, you weren't supposed to use the stove as a Bunsen burner or the kitchen aid as a makeshift vortex mixer. Furthermore, the instructions were unclear and terribly vague. What was considered 'high heat' and what was the difference between sweating an onion and sautéing it?

She was glad she had a ludicrous amount of ingredients to work with or else she'd be serving up half-baked kidney pies and salty bread pudding. Wednesday sighed, leaning on the counter over her failed Yorkshire Pudding. She had no one else to blame but herself, this was a rather unorthodox spur-of-the-moment decision after all. She was all for spontaneity, that is, if one had the tools and know how to follow through. Both of which she did not for have for this particular venture.

The idea came earlier that day when Caspian had a rather vocal back-and-forth with the lunch lady. He came back to the table settling for a corn dog (not what he wanted) which was apparently a normal occurrence for him. He murmured something about aubergines and how different food could be here. He complained to Xavier about how he didn't know if it was a multidimensional difference, a muggle one, an American one, or a mixture of the three.

It was rather entertaining how worked up he got about food. Wednesday for her part lived on a well-balanced diet that promoted optimal nutrition, gut bacteria, dental strength, and general health. She never gave much thought to food beyond that. But that did get her thinking.

She read a paper on the Proust Phenomenon, an involuntary recollection of memories triggered by the five senses. It's caused by the brain’s amygdala and hippocampus working in tandem with the olfactory bulb. Which in turn fire off a dopaminergic response to the brain if the memory is a positive one. Food, music, and atmosphere can elicit a positive emotional response.

That's when it struck her. She may not be able to send him back home physically, but she can send him back emotionally with food.

The sound of fingers against metal caught Wednesday's attention. She narrowed her eyes. “And no I am not getting sidetracked.”

Thing made a scribing motion.

“I'll just double down on my writing time tomorrow.”

He made a reading gesture.

“I was already ahead in all my subjects, I can afford to spare a night.”

It took a while to guess what the Hand was trying to act out but she figured it out eventually.

“It's good to shock your body's sleeping habits every so often.” She couldn't help but let out a frustrated huff. “What's gotten into you? The point is I'm not getting sidetracked, end of conversation.” She promptly went back to trying to save her batter.

She watched as Thing gave her a long 'look' before scampering off the table. Wednesday let out a sigh. He's been more persistent by the day. In her 16 years of living, he's never felt the need to drastically course-correct her before. She didn't know what was more worrisome, his increasing insistence she should give up or the fact she wasn't heeding his warning. It wasn't like she didn't take into account Thing's worries. Wednesday reasoned she was overextending herself just a tad. But she felt like she was on the verge of a breakthrough with him. She's come too far, sacrificed too much to quit now.

Thing flung a picture at her bowl. “Why do you have that?“ she asked puzzled. It was the picture of baby Tyler and his mom from her evidence board. She hasn't added much to it since the Bash aside from a couple newspaper clippings of the attack. The lack of progress was mostly due to the lack of substantial hard evidence linking anything and her recent priorities shifting.

Thing tapped accusingly, Wednesday unable to resist letting out a defensive sigh. “I didn't forget.” She dug her hands out of her batter, spinning around to wash them. “I have made plans for Tyler, but all my plans require further knowledge to execute. Thanks to the buzz from the attack and heightened awareness from the teachers, it's been hard to do anything. We'll break into the police station as soon as it's tactically viable.”

She turned, wiping her hands on the last clean spot on her apron. Her eyes landed on Things static form.

“What?” she raised a brow when she didn't get an immediate answer.

“What is it spit it out?”

Thing hesitated, before tapping resolutely. “What's that supposed to mean?… Oh, you'll believe it when you see it.” Wednesday almost chuckled, folding her arms. “I don't need to prove myself to you, I'm still dedicated to the original plan I had coming into this semester.”

The hand tapped again, a little more forcefully.

Wednesday bit her bottom lip, jutting out her chin. “I'm well aware of your reservations towards him. I've taken your input into account, and yet I still stand firmly by my ideas.”

Thing has never taken a liking let alone an interest to Caspian at all. In fact, He hated his guts. If she had to guess when exactly her Hand came to that conclusion was probably the first visit she paid Caspian in the infirmary wing. When he quite literally kicked her out of his room. She recalled the way Thing reacted.

Just about ready to kill him with his bare fingers.

It must've been borderline insulting to watch a member of the family you were sworn to serve treated so unceremoniously. Now that Wednesday thinks about it, Thing has been serving the Addams for generations now. How old was the hand? How did he come into existence?

She shook those thoughts away. Point of the matter was, he's made his distaste for Caspian known through his tone and subtext.

We have bigger problems to worry about Wednesday.

He doesn't deserve your time.

He's too hardheaded to care for your efforts.

I don't like the way he looks.

Ok, the last one was pretty on the nose, but he's only recently been that blunt. Wednesday had to admit, it must be frustrating and anger-inducing to watch someone you care about turned down at every corner.

Thing raised his fingers, seemingly giving up on trying to persuade her. Wednesday thought that was the end of it, but the hand paused in his retreat, scampering back hesitantly.

She arched a brow, waiting patiently for him before he started tapping. The noise was almost too soft to register but it instantly piqued her interest.

“A breakthrough in the stalker case?”

For a good moment, she just stared at him. She treated her stalker situation like it was a blooming black dahlia. First closed off from prying eyes, but with time and continuous effort, the epicentre would blossom revealing all its inky black glory. However, this jump in schedule was a surprise. Wednesday usually didn't like surprises, even if they were objectively good ones.

“Have you been holding out on me?” She must've unfurled her arms as she was currently leaning on the counter.

Thing hesitated, tapping gently, only deepening the concerned crease between her brows. “I don't understand. What do you mean you didn't know how to tell me?”

He took a couple steps back, pacing around the counter. Wednesday's intrigue and unease only increased. What could he have possibly found that made him so reluctant?

Finally, he stopped. Turning to face her fully. He gave her a long look before tapping, the one word reverberating around the empty kitchen.

Enid.

Wednesday's blood ran cold. “I-I'm sorry what?” She heard herself stammer, her eyes going unfocused.

She vaguely heard Thing's explanation. Something about her always being in the right place at the right times and always having a phone in her hand. She was sure there was more concrete evidence he had, Thing wouldn't just jump to conclusions like that. Especially considering how close he was to Enid.

How close they both were.

It was like her mind was plunged into a bath of icy cold water. It simultaneously shocked all her senses awake, yet paralyzed them all the same. She was suddenly hyper-aware of the burning smell of pie crust in the air, the sound of the water faucet dripping, and the feel of sticky dough beneath her fingernails. It was like she was trying to focus on everything, anything but what was in front of her.

Wednesday couldn't help but recall a chapter on dissociation when she was preparing for Ms. Lindsay's questioning. It would seem she was prone to it. She didn't recall feeling this way last term or even at the Battle of the Quad. She was usually light on her feet and quick to act. She prided herself on her ability to assess a situation and respond accordingly. But perhaps she wasn't as level-headed when it came to the fickle nature of relationships.

Wednesday though she knew what to expect when letting someone into her life. The costs and benefits of such an arrangement. What she failed to realize however was that companionship was not only a way for her enemies to get to her, but a way for her friends, to get to her. A far wost fate if the poets were to be believed.

As Ms. Lindsay says, Friendship was a two-way street. Both had to walk it, yet it did not discriminate if one had a knife behind their back.

Until it was too late.

“Well,” She suddenly cleared her throat loudly, stopping whatever rambling Thing was in the middle of. She blinked a couple times to clear her eyes, turning away to busy herself with whatever she could get her hands on. She was far too fidgety for her liking. “As soon as we're done here. P-please, trail her.”

She saw Thing linger in her periphery. She gathered up the will to look back at him as coldly and disinterested as she could. “Be as thorough as you must Thing. We can't afford to leave no stone unturned.”

Wednesday forced herself to harden her. The hand finally conceded, nodding gently before plopping down on the counter. It would seem he too was just as enthusiastic about the whole ordeal as she was.

She always knew her friends were possible if not likely candidates. Bianca, Xavier, and Enid were all top of her list even before she started this semester. But it didn't make the sting of confirmation hurt any less.

Wednesday sniffled, dropping her head slightly. She eyed her failed dough mixture. “On second thought, perhaps I should start over.”

Thing couldn't have been more happy to agree.