He was resentful of the light which slipped into the bedroom, violating the drapes, creeping through the chinks to climb up on to their bed. They were lying at the bottom and the pillows were scattered around the room. He noted absently that the wax from the candles they had lit had dripped down the front of the bedside table and made a puddle of scarlet wax on the floor. She lay fully across his body, the weak morning sun glittering across her marble skin. He winced as he moved and the silk felt like sand against his tender back. Resisting a groan, he placed a listless kiss on her shoulder.

"Gomez," she muttered, "The drapes."

He helped her slide off of him, pulled the sheets over her body, and swung his legs over the side. He kicked a shackle out of the way and for a moment felt woeful over the mess in their marital bedroom. He'd have to tidy it later, with her help, since Morticia would never let Lurch tidy a mess of such intimate proportions. Never once had they asked their butler to get wax out of their bed sheets, yet here they were pretending that he didn't do it anyway. He pulled the heavy velvet closed and ran back to the bed, desperate not to break the peace of their morning. He would have liked nothing more than to remain wrapped in this world, and in this bed, forever. His curiosity, however, got the better of him.

"Do you think the Beinekes are still here?"

He asked this absently, pulling her to rest back over him again.

"Gomez? Why are we speaking? We should be sleeping my love."

"I'm awake," he answered.

"I know," she wiggled against him, "I can feel that you're most certainly awake."

"You can?"

He was almost embarrassed by his feigned ignorance but he smiled in his typical caddish way and claimed her mouth for a kiss of apology. She yielded to him but grew tired in his arms. His wife was languid by nature and depriving her of sleep was never a particularly clever move. He pulled back and smiled at her.

"I hope they are still here. Pass me a pillow, please?" She moved from him, turning on her side as he scooped one from the top of the bed, "I would like us to part on good terms. They are, after all, going to be family."

He nodded in agreement, though he'd never thought of it in that manner.

"Yes, I suppose so," he continued, "The house is quiet. I assume they aren't yet awake."

"That is because it is very early," she said as she tilted up her chin regally, her mouth forming an exasperated pout.

"I am sensing you're not entirely satisfied with being awake at this time," he laughed, running his fingers over her hair.

"Gomez," she pulled his wrist towards her, where he had forgotten to remove his watch the night before, and looked pointedly at the instrument, "We only went to sleep a few hours ago."

"Shall I go and tell them that the lady of the house is not a morning person, and because of post-midnight activities has had little sleep, and they should not expect her till after noon?"

"Heavens, no," she mocked indignation, "I can't imagine the scandal that would invite."

"Can't you? I certainly can," he smiled, "We should make the most then, surely, of our time together."

He ran his hands over her back and down onto the skin at the back of her thighs.

"No," she was already becoming drowsy, "No we should sleep."

"Tish…"

"Gomez?"

He realised his attempts were futile and so he kissed her shoulder, "I am going to shower. Sleep, darling. I shall wake you when I am finished."

She didn't even reply.

He watched her from the door of the bathroom for a moment, watching as she twisted and crawled over to his side of the bed, seeking the warmth he had left there. He was unabashedly admiring her as she wrapped the silk sheets around her body and pushed her leg out so she was curled around them. For a woman that was essentially sedentary outwith the confines of the marital bed, she never went to sleep and woke up in the same position.

It occurred to him, as he lathered up his shaving cream with the ancient brush he'd had since he was five, that marriage was a series of little revelations. The little revelation, the first time he'd actually slept beside her, that she moved about as she slept. The revelation that she liked to bathe for hours, sometimes making them late. The revelation that she didn't like speaking much before her morning tea or that she ate only enough to keep her on her feet. The revelation, much more profound, that he would never escape her grasp. He thought he should share his musings on marriage with his daughter, when next he had the chance.

The thought made him smile madly as he began sharpening his razor.

-0-

Wednesday had woken early, rifled through her drawer for black pants and a shirt, then headed outside to the graveyard while Lucas crept back to his assigned guest room. The house was quiet as she walked through it; only glancing at the opposite wing and the vague outline of her parents' room door.

At the furthest end of the graveyard, beside the crypt in which she'd once fallen asleep, was an archery board that her father had put there. Arrow after arrow arced perfectly through the air and landed neatly in the red circle in the centre as she unleashed her frustrations. It was therapeutic in its success as each found their target and for a while she lost herself in the satisfaction of it all. In the cold light of day it was difficult to ignore the things she still had to do; say sorry to her mother and acknowledge her mistake, face her difficulties. Punish both of her brothers for their evident prank at dinner. She must, she scolded herself, have been so overwhelmed as to have not seen what they were preparing. Their prank was puerile and childish and she chided herself for not having stopped it. She strode forward and pulled the arrows from the board, putting them back into the quiver across her back. Then she slumped down beside the crypt, where she was hidden from view in her favourite spot. She had spent so much time here that she knew the ground intimately. Here she had first discovered the joys of Faust and realised her passion for weaponry. Now she came here to ponder over her choices and often seemed to find an answer amongst the tombstones.

"I thought I might find you here."

She looked up. Her mother stood over her, though not too near for discomfort. She was strikingly beautiful in a way Wednesday thought she would never achieve. Perhaps, if it had not been for her confidence and strength, she would have been simply pretty. Instead her power made her fiercely, frightening beautiful. Wednesday did not at all question her mother's confidence. It was not fake or unbelievable. She was the ultimate example of self-confidence and, at times, Wednesday envied her ability to be so sure of herself. Most of the time though she wanted to be just like her. There was no way she would ever be so sure of herself though and this was a frustration in itself.

Her mother had never expected anything of her though in this respect, just to be who she was.

"I am sorry," she said quietly and she was apologising for more than her behaviour of the last twenty-four hours.

"I know," her mother offered her hand, "Walk with me."

She realised then that it had been a long time since she had walked with her mother. When she was younger they had done it a lot but, as everything did as she had grown older, it had worn away. Her mother would bundle her in the little woollen coat and hat in the winter months and she would wait with a keen wonder as she watched her mother pull on her cloak. When she was a tiny child her mother would lodge her in her hip and hold her as they walked but as she grew she would walk along side. She wondered if this was what all little girls meant when they thought of their mothers as princesses or heroes – it was these occasions on which she thought of her mother as a character from fiction. This woman who had been distant and there all at once as she pulled on her cloak and smiled at her and kissed her little hands had held Wednesday enraptured. Wednesday's anticipation as a child did not come from walking through all of the gardens she had known since the day and hour she was born (they looked, they smelled, they were the same) but to hear her mother's rhapsodical recount of the types of plants, or the ancestors who lay in the frozen ground, or her very own version of a fairy-tale. She would never ask her mother what they might discuss; instead she would wait with excitement and never be disappointed when her mother spun a web of wonder.

They then would sit behind the crypt and Morticia would tell her she was a miracle, a wonderful, dark miracle that was the product of something extraordinary. She had never once doubted it.

Now she looked upon the woman who had spun those tales of reality as if they were works of fiction and she looked tired. While still beautiful, under those layers of makeup and perfection there was a hurt that she had never known. She thought back to the night before and what she had nearly done to her parents. Her parents who loved her with an intensity which was palpable. Her parents who loved each other selfishly and without reservation.

She stood up and took her mother's hand which she offered. She felt tiny, innocent again. She wanted to be bundled in a coat and told stories of great love affairs and tragic deaths.

"You're a precious and dark miracle," her mother said quietly, "I thought I had convinced you."

She dipped her head, feeling hot tears spring to her eyes, "I am really sorry."

"I know," her mother whispered, touching her cheek softly, "And I forgive you. All I have ever wanted is your happiness."

Despite what she had witnessed last night and the fact that she knew it was unlikely, she panicked suddenly about her parents' marriage.

"Please," she had to drive the sorrow from her voice, "Don't ever leave my father. It wasn't his fault."

Her mother gave that little laugh, the one like metal against tinkling crystal. The one which told those around her she found it absurdly amusing. The one which reminded everyone of her privileged, eccentric childhood.

"Wednesday," her mother lifted her chin with her fingers, "What do you think of me, truly?"

The problem with that question was that she didn't really know.

"He was worried," she whispered instead, "He was frightened."

"And do you think, Wednesday, that I was not?"

Her mother took her hand and wrapped it around her arm, so they were linked. She looked at her mother's profile, patrician against the grey sky of the morning, and saw agony in the lines of her face.

"No," she answered, "I suppose not."

Her mother kept on walking, propelling them forward, "Your father and I have been very lucky. Never once have we been at the point of breaking, not even last night. Wednesday, do you know how much I love you?"

Wednesday squirmed with discomfort.

"Yes," she was glad she knew the answer to this, "Yes I know."

"Your happiness is all that matters to me. And if you are happy with Lucas, then I will delight in your marriage."

"I am sorry I was so selfish."

"When it comes to love we are all selfish," her mother answered, "If anyone knows that, if anyone has no right to comment on the coming together of two people, it is me. I think what hurt most was that you did not credit me with that viewpoint. Don't forget what I have done and what I live with every day."

Wednesday stopped for a moment beside her grandparent's grave, shocked by her mother's admission. Then she thought suddenly of the contrast in her father's upbringing in comparison to her own childhood. Her mother had told her the Addams story; their arranged, unhappy marriage, their 2 sons, one young and aimless and charming, another having fled after having his heart broken by his younger brother's infidelities, their untimely deaths. She said, once when Wednesday was small enough to forget anything that was not profound, that she had always felt sorry for her husband and his ruined childhood. He had been left in this big house with no parents or siblings to love and that was why he loved their children with an insane intensity. He had witnessed a marriage of convenience and wished for the extraordinary. She told the story like it was hers too, not like it belonged to the family into which she had married. In a lot of ways, Morticia was what made them Addamses. She knew every story, every nuance, she knew every moral and fable. She was the orchestrator of grand pieces without making a sound.

"Wednesday, I understand why you did what you did," she said, "I understand it more than most. Perhaps that is why I was so angry. Your father pointed it out to me last night and I could do nothing but agree. Whether your reason was valid or not, you were afraid. I wasn't angry at you for keeping it from me but angry at what it would do to you. Keeping secrets is so damaging, even to protect your love. It is something both your father and I know."

She had never, until she was older, considered what her parents had really done. Then when she realised she had always imagined it as romantic. She later realised she was the product of a scandalous affair, supressed only by the fact that and Addams married a Frump anyway and people had fickle minds and were easily led to forgiveness. Her aunt never visited and when she did she brought a current of iciness to their home. Not once had she thought her mother might be ashamed of the fact, or aware of it. She had always imagined they had been quite brazen about it.

"Do you regret it?"

She knew her mother would know what she meant.

She shook her head almost instantly, "No. I fell in love with his passion, his love of life. How could you turn away from that when you are me? No. I do not regret your father but the way in which I hid it. Had I had more conviction, it would not have dragged out as it did. I learned then never to be afraid of what you love. In the end it was more painful to acknowledge and I hurt others whom I loved."

She felt privy to an insight she had never known existed. Never once had she thought her mother might hold guilt like this as she walked about haughtily, glided through parties and life as if it were the easiest thing she had ever done.

"Your father makes me alive. When you are me that is a spectacular feat in itself."

"Mother, I don't think I realised…"

Language, as it so often did, failed her.

"What? That I was so dependant?"

Wednesday smirked a little at her words, which were dripping with irreverence. Her mother cocked an eye brow. For a flash, Wednesday had saw something she would never see again in her mother; vulnerability.

"Yes, I suppose so," she dipped her head, avoiding her mother's eyes.

"When I first met your father I wanted him, I did not need him," her mother continued, "Do you know how startling it is to realise your position has changed drastically?"

"Yes," Wednesday answered honestly, "Yes. I think that's what frightens me. I really love him."

"There's no point in being frightened," her mother advised, "It will happen. Whether or not you want it to. Just wait until you have children. That is when you will understand true fear."

Wednesday didn't doubt her.

"I love you mother," she whispered, stopping again.

She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around the woman who had given her life. She felt like a child again, safe and full of expectation. She was not disappointed as her mother embraced her.

"If you only knew how we loved you," her mother whispered into her hair.

"I do," she said quietly, "Will you tell me one of your stories?"

Her mother smiled a little, "Which one?"

"You choose," she tilted her head to rest it on her mother's velvet clad shoulder.

"Let me tell you about you and your future…"

Wednesday couldn't wait to hear it. The spinner of her tale, the custodian of her past and the guide in her future allowed her to become lost in possibilities. She allowed herself to be swept away.

-0-

Gomez watched them both from their bedroom window, having finished clearing the mess left behind from a night of passion. He had asked Lurch for new sheets and the butler, obliging as always, had helped him make the bed before he had left him to ponder in the peace and silence.

He loved watching them together. He loved to watch his children with their mother. It was an exhibition of something different in his wife. She would become animated; her smile would be unmeasured and proud as she spoke with them. She would be fantastical and realistic all in the one breath when she turned her attentions to them. To witness her was to witness a transformation forged in sheer, unadulterated love.

To think he had nearly broken that made his stomach churn. Her forgiveness had been full and wholesome but to come away from this dreadful night without having thought about the possibility of never having her again would have been foolish.

His wife and daughter's arms were looped and they smiled at each other, on occasion even sharing a quiet laugh, as they walked slowly through the graveyard. He knew Wednesday thought she was nothing like her mother but they were so similar it was hard to imagine he had been anything to do with her at all. Her smiles and her laughs were rare. Her confidence, if it wasn't already, would one day be absolute.

Sometimes he found himself watching the four of them, his children and his wife, and realising that watching them was the best part of it. He would sit back in his chair and be unabashedly proud of what they had made together as they debated over the virtues of different poisons or quizzed each other on historical disasters.

"I am looking for mother," the voice behind him, tugging at his trousers, said.

He turned round and looked at the child. After the two older children they had decided it was enough – not out of choice, but necessity – so he had been a delightful, if somewhat, unexpected surprise. He remembered not only the Halloween night on which she confirmed it, but that morning when she first shared her suspicions with him.

They had been lying in bed, her head on his chest, and his arms around her. The months before, following Fester's return, had been difficult and fraught. He had known he should get up and begin working but it was too pleasant to possibly leave her. She had slid her body up so they came face to face and she looked panicked.

"Gomez," she was unusually blunt, "I think I'm pregnant."

He remembered his joy and her terror quite succinctly, the feeling of waves crashing over them both. They had been silent then and he hadn't left her side all day while they prepared for Halloween. When he had looked over after lunch and, as she sat knitting, he knew she had come to terms with whatever it was. He'd never asked her why she was afraid, nor did he need to. Being a mother was a massive responsibility and one he wasn't sure they'd envisioned three times over. Yet they did it because not to do it was criminal, the rewards were too much to give into the terrors.

He had never thought the child would be as wonderful as the little boy in front of him. Then again, he had never thought his children would be as wonderful as they were. He never thought Pugsley would be as inventive or as deadly, he'd never imagined Wednesday would be so clever and astute, he had never thought Pubert would be as charming or bright.

They just were.

At times though, they had to be chastised.

"I know what you, and Puglsey, did to Mrs Beineke."

Pubert toed the floor with his brogues, then looked up, "It was Pugs' idea. He said Wednesday wouldn't play with me anymore…he convinced me. Then I saw her in that stupid pink dress…"

Despite his complete faith in his son's story, and despite how rude what they had done was, he couldn't help being proud.

"I am sorry," the child said.

"You will have to apologise to Mr and Mrs Beineke and your sister," he said, "Do you understand why?"

"Yes," he nodded, "It was rude."

"And your mother too," he said softly, "She hates bad manners."

Tears welled in the little eyes and he pulled him to his side, hugging him there for a moment.

"Come on," Gomez hoisted the boy up, letting him put his small feet on the chair under the window.

"There's mother there," Pubert said happily, his tears dissolving.

"Let's not disturb them right now," he whispered, running his hands over his son's head.

"Okay," the little boy pressed his cheek to his father's as they watched the people below.

"What's your favourite thing about mother?"

He laughed at the boy's question. Had Pubert been much older, and one of his friends rather than his son, and the mood had been jovial, the answer would have been very different. Instead he was as honest as you had to be with a child.

"Her capacity for love," he answered, "And how much she loves me."

The little boy just giggled, "I think I like her smile best."

"Good answer little pup," he hoisted the boy onto his back, "Have you had breakfast?"

"No," the child answered, "Can we slide down the bannister?"

"Of course," he laughed, "It wouldn't be Sunday if we didn't do that at least once!"

At the top of the stairs he stopped with his hand on the bannister, pausing with his child.

"What do you think of me taking mother away for a few weeks? You wouldn't mind that, would you?"

The child gripped his neck tighter.

"No. Where will you take her?"

"I was thinking Paris," he climbed onto the bannister, "What do you think? Ready for a collision? Remember to apologise."

"I am!"

The squeal of delight was worth the crash at the bottom of the stairs.

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