A/N: If you haven't already, look up "Clandango" on YouTube. This chapter won't make much sense unless you've seen that video. I don't own any characters but Cassandra, etc.
"Wednesday?"
"Yes?"
"Are you a grown-up now?"
The older girl didn't look away from the mirror. "Legally, yes."
"But are you really?" Cassandra asked from the bed behind her. Swinging her short legs, the six-year-old tugged at a loose thread on the comforter.
"Well," Wednesday replied, glaring at the mirror, "considering I still look about 13 years old…"
Her sister hopped down from the bed. "I can fix that."
The reflection in the mirror raised an eyebrow skeptically. "What?"
"I can make your hair look better."
Any other teenager would have snorted. The oldest Addams sibling just looked over her shoulder and shot her sister a dubious look. "No."
"Please?" Cassandra said, pouting. Her blue eyes grew wide and her lower lip quivered. Even Wednesday had to admit that it was one of the better puppy faces she'd ever seen, especially from an Addams. But this was still an extraordinarily bad idea.
"You're six. No."
The cajoling tone left the little girl's voice. "I know what to do; Mother taught me and I practiced on my dolls. So you can trust me or get her to help you." When there was no reply, she added, "Face it- I know you better."
In the mirror, the older girl's brown eyes seemed to be boring holes into the dressing-table. After a moment, though, she sighed heavily and crossed to the bed. Slapping her hairbrush into Cassandra's hand, she sat down on a rickety stool with her back against the black comforter.
"Fine."
Cassandra brushed her sister's hair, her pale fingers fiddling with the uneven, shoulder-length strands. After a few seconds of thought, she asked, "Where are the scissors?"
"Sewing basket," came the reply after a moment's hesitation.
The wooden floor creaked under Cassandra's tiny boots as she retrieved the tool in question. Once she returned to her perch on the bed, Wednesday twisted around on the stool.
"If this ends badly-"
"-you'll feed me my own burning entrails," the child finished, rolling her eyes. "You always say the same thing; it's boring. Just trust me."
Still glaring, Wednesday nevertheless turned back around and kept silent.
As she set to work, the little girl kept talking.
"Mother and Father and the ancestors say you're a grown-up. And you're legally one. So you must be one, right?"
"I'm 18," Wednesday replied. "That can mean whatever you want it to."
Cassandra paused to smooth back her own long, black hair. "I think you're a grown-up, since you're going to marry Lucas."
"What?!" If not for the surprisingly strong grip on her shoulder, the teenager would have turned around.
"I read his letter. He said you were engaged."
"You little rat."
"Thank you."
Gently, Cassandra turned Wednesday's head to one side. "It's nice. But only grown-ups get married, so you must be a grown-up."
"Look," Wednesday said, "I still feel 17, no matter what anyone says. The only difference is that Mother can't order me around anymore. Understand?"
"Then why are you getting married?"
The room was silent for a minute except for the quiet, occasional sound of the scissors. At last, she replied, "Because I love him."
The six-year-old leaned forward slightly. "Enough not to want anybody else?"
"Yes," her sister replied.
"Forever?"
"Yes."
"Then you're a grown-up," Cassandra said matter-of-factly.
Wednesday opened her mouth to reply- and closed it again. They sat quietly for a while, the older sister lost in her thoughts and the younger in her work.
Finally, Cassandra ran the brush through Wednesday's hair once more and said, "Done."
The latter stood and walked to her dressing-table. The cracked, stained mirror showed a pale young woman with side-parted black hair that brushed the collar of her (also black) dress. She looked, Wednesday thought absently, old enough to be married.
"Thank you," she said, turning back to Cassandra. A small, satisfied smile crossed the little girl's face, making her look even more like her mother than usual.
"I told you to trust me," the mini-Morticia said smugly.
Suddenly, the door slammed open. Their brother stuck his head into the room.
"Hey. Maggot. Mother says to go to bed."
As Cassandra left the room and started down the hall, the pudgy 16-year-old turned his attention to Wednesday.
"What happened to your hair?" he asked, scowling.
"Cassandra," she replied, straightening a few bottles on the ebony table. "I'm going to assume that's what you're talking about, because otherwise you were asleep standing up with your eyes open a few hours ago."
His frown deepened. "I don't like it. You don't look like…you."
"Did I ask for your opinion? Just get out of my room." All said in her usual monotone, but a small, cloudy bottle of strychnine shattered in her hand.
"But you were going to drill my-"
She cut him off. "Get. Out."
"What's with you?" he asked angrily. But he turned and stormed down the hall; Wednesday slammed the door shut behind him. A chime from the cell phone on the bed made her jump slightly. She picked it up and slid her thumb across the lock.
Can't wait to see you. –Love, Lucas.
Tossing the phone aside, she fell back onto the bed and closed her eyes. "I don't know, Pugsley," she whispered.
A/N: And so it begins...