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She used a swift finger to pull the book entitled 'Greed' out from the shelf, letting it spring back into place as the bookcase swung open and she was faced with consuming darkness. It was a relief to step within, to be enfolded in safety.

She heard him cry her name before it slammed shut and was about to turn, when she realised it would be impossible to face her husband. Instead she proceeded forward, past the myriad of dangling chains, and down onto a staircase which spiralled into the depths of their home and to the lake beneath. She made her way to his den and closing the heavy door behind her, sat down behind his desk. In here it was so peacefully quiet that the only noise she could hear was the rage rushing between her ears.

A new knife, presented lovingly on a display cushion, sat atop the surface. She lifted it and examined it. The sapphire was beautifully cut and polished, making for a sharp tip which she dug into the pad of her thumb until a little rivulet of scarlet traced its way back along the blade to the hilt.

She didn't even flinch, such was her strength in the face of pain.

She knew and didn't know why she'd chosen this room. After all, the Addams estate was full of places to disappear to. That was the wonder of this vast area of land; there were limitless possibilities for adventure. It seemed right to come here, in a poetic way, and defile that which he held so obviously more sacred over her. More practically, and less poetically, he would never think to look for her here.

Married! Her little girl. She laughed and it bounced around the sweating walls of the chamber, rustling the peeling wallpaper and returning to her as a curse and a cry all in one.

Her anger came from a strange realisation that she'd already decided Lucas was the right person for her daughter, yet no one gave her credit for it. Instead they assumed some sort of insane jealousy or cruel disbelief.

Was this really what those who loved her thought? Was she deserving of such a monstrous reputation?

She thought of her own marriage and its origins in the seedy affair on which she'd embarked, betraying her sister and breaking her mother's heart in the process. When had she ever claimed rights to judgement over romantic decisions following that? Never once had she made any values based on anything other than her belief she had no right to interfere in anyone's relationship.

She had, of course, been afraid to tell her own parents but for very different – and real – reasons. Her reasons came flooding back to her, and they made sense when she thought of this evening's situation but they skewed her narrative and she hated them for it.

She stood up and went towards the intricate and sprawling train set which dominated the centre of the room. It didn't just stay on the table on which it had been mounted but climbed up onto the ceiling, suspended from steel wires, and wound its way around the chamber. It was another one of his joys and he had spent a lot of time, effort and money building the little bridges and hills. Gomez took pleasure, joy, in everything. Though his trains often soothed his panic as well. She picked up a diesel engine – one he'd had since he was a boy. It was a scarlet steam engine replica, which he never used now but kept nearby nonetheless. Placing it back down she resisted the urge to toss it at the wall, not because she didn't really want to but because she considered herself well above the mundane reaction of ruining something he cared about.

She sat back down, this time on the garrotting bench she had bought him a few Christmases ago. Had it been only last week they'd played their own amended version of the Reformation on this very device? The leather straps, hanging limply on either side, might as well have witnessed their passion an eternity ago rather than just last week. It too shared her misery at the developments of the last hour.

It seemed to induce her tears in an almost intimate way, coaxing them from her. The memories and heat, the laughter and honesty coaxed them too; seducing them to fall.

They fell angrily, unwanted, creeping on to her cheeks and slipping down to dangle on her patrician jaw line. Though few, they were a humiliation all of their own as they came. She swept them away with the back of her hand but more kept coming.

She hated them because they were a symbol of her weakness. A symbol of the vulnerability to him which she could never quite escape.

-0-

"Wednesday! You shouldn't have told them like that," Lucas cried, dashing after her, "I'm not doing this. I'm not leaving without speaking to them."

She turned to him, her crossbow clutched in her hands, "Why do you care so much?"

He pushed out his hands, "Because you do! You love your family, there's no way you really feel like this."

She felt rage stirring in her gut.

"You don't know anything about me," she hissed, his shocked face only driving her on.

"What?"

His hurt was evident yet she was spewing forth her anger. She felt like a cornered animal and, having done wrong, she just wanted to push on further with her wrongdoing until it seemed like a catastrophe. So this was a self-immolation, a way to intensify her pain.

They stood staring at each other and as they listened they could hear his parents arguing from the house beyond.

"Listen, listen to what we've done," he cried, "Just listen!"

"It's their fault we're like this," she answered, "It's their fault we couldn't tell them in the first place."

"No," he answered, and his tone was icy, "That is your fault."

She loved Lucas to the point where it was almost unbelievable. She loved his smile and his laugh and his fascination with dead bodies. She loved him for his honesty but at this moment, she hated him for it too.

There was no way she could tell him he was right. There was no way that she could accept this stupid pink dress and her childish actions and her trenching of her parents' marriage as her fault.

"Fine," she said quietly, "If it's my fault…you won't want me."

"I didn't say that," he cried, "I love you!"

She didn't turn to speak to him again and instead she sped up to escape from him. She was surprised to realise she was far more flight than fight this evening. She ran, cross bow tied over her chest, to the first place where she felt she would be able to get her head together. She found herself at the clearing, on the east side of the estate, where she had played with her father when she was little and first learned to throw a knife. When she was small he had lashed heavy ropes to an ancient branch and made a swing for her and it still hung there, unused. Never once had they discussed taking it down; not because it was of any use to anyone now but because it was a symbol of a quickly diminishing part of their life.

White shafts of moonlight made violent slashes across the darkness of the clearing, striping the grass white and green. A shadow, quickly emerging as the man who had raised her, was swaying absently on the swing. The smell of bitter tobacco floated towards her, swirling from the orange glow of the cigar hanging from his mouth and glinting like a firefly.

"Hello darling."

She wanted him to sound more annoyed but he was inanely pleasant. Pleasant and kind without any expectation carried in his words. Obviously this made her feel worse than she wanted to.

"Hello daddy," she whispered, but her voice carried across the space between them.

"You haven't called me that in a long time," he laughed quietly.

"You are my daddy," she answered, a little defensively.

She slipped down the trunk of the tree, curling her legs up to her chin as she sat on the damp grass at his feet.

"We've really done it this time," she said.

His laugh was more like a bark, "You can say that again."

"I am sorry-"

"I know," he shook his head, then patted the top of hers, "I know that. I made the decision to go along with this and, well, look what's happened. I could have said no to you but I didn't. It's nothing to do with you…not really."

"You're too forgiving," she answered.

"A criticism?"

"No, an observation."

He was silent for a moment, though he continued to tilt his feet up and down to make the swing sway and she watched his brogues as they moved hypnotically. She remembered him as the hero of her childhood, ebony haired and tanned skin, bouncing and back flipping his way around the clearing much to her amusements. Then he took her upon his knee and punted the swing toward the heavens, laughing just as loudly and merrily as her. The recollection was disconnected; the Wednesday of that memory, happy and carefree, was not the Wednesday she had grown up with. Her father was the only one who seemed to create the childishness of that memory in her. Once, at one of their lavish parties and before she was banished to her bed, he has scooped her into his arms and danced her round and round the ballroom and she felt like she would fly. He had always been so much fun, so full of love, so utterly grateful for everything she was.

She stood up and, leaving her crossbow at the base of the tree and motioning him to move over, squeezed herself into the small space at his side. It was a tight fit but they managed when he wrapped his arm around her shoulder and she tilted her head to rest it there. She breathed in the familiar scent of tobacco and fresh silk, of his aftershave just under it all. Regardless of how foolish or cruel she had been she felt completely safe just here.

"How are you and-"

"He's left," she interrupted, her voice cracking just a little, "It is over."

He wrapped his arm more tightly around her, "That makes me incredibly sad."

The sincerity in his voice was palpable.

"It does?"

"You loved him," he answered, kissing her temple, "And he loved you. When two people who love each other cannot be together that is so very sad. Trust me, I know."

"You are so selfless," she turned her face and pressed it into his chest, embarrassment overwhelming her.

"No I am not," he muttered, "No. I couldn't be angrier, more furious that a boy wants to steal you. I couldn't be happier you've found love. I couldn't feel less selfishly conflicted if I tried. I am a crucible of contradictory emotions."

"But you wanted it for me. You wanted me to be happy," she sighed.

"Yes," he smiled, kissing her forehead, "Yes and I don't want it for you. I'm happy and sad. It's a father's prerogative to be happy and sad for his daughter, I believe."

She felt emotion bubbling in her then, like hot white mercury in the pit of her stomach, and she turned her face away.

"It is alright," he soothed, "I promise you."

"What if she doesn't forgive us?" She whispered her question as if it were a terrible secret.

"She will."

She knew when her father was lying. She didn't have the heart to really share this observation though and she knew that to voice it was unfair. They simply sat as he took soothing pulls on his cigar and rocked them both back and forth.

In front of them a figure had appeared in the clearing, hair messy and eyes frantic. She turned her face into her father's chest and groaned. Facing Lucas right now was amongst the least of the things she wanted to do.

"Lucas," her father said into the distance, "Come here."

"Father, please…" she whispered.

While she refused to show here face she felt him shake his head.

"Lucas, I don't know if you've met my daughter Wednesday. She's the best thing that will ever happen to you," he prized her hand from where she had balled it in his shirt, "Please, don't mess it up."

"Sir I-"

"Don't," her father stood up, "Let's ensure you survive tonight."

Lucas laughed awkwardly, then stepped towards her. She finally looked at him. His eyes were red and wild looking and, dishevelled and covered in dust, he looked handsome. She smiled despite herself as he opened his arms and she left the swing and fell into them.

She wasn't sure when her father had slipped away but by the time they had shared and broken and remade and reiterated their promises, he was gone.

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