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Wednesday Addams did not do dates.
Dates were for people who believed in compatibility quizzes, heart-shaped objects, and the false promise of mutual understanding. Dates implied intention, vulnerability, and potential happiness. All three repulsed her on principle. Which was why, standing beside a practically-vibrating Enid who clutched a zoo brochure, Wednesday decided this was not a date. It was a field study. An experiment. An expedition into bleak captivity—human and otherwise. The fact Enid had called it a date four times (and then, after Wednesday’s glare, three more times in a whisper) was a regrettable yet irrelevant detail.
Most of the student body fled the academy at the whiff of weekend freedom, scattering around Jericho and beyond. The grounds were unnervingly quiet without the usual background hum of adolescent despair and poorly concealed trauma. This, at least, Wednesday appreciated. Fewer witnesses. Fewer interruptions. Fewer people to observe her engaging in… voluntary social interaction.
“Okay,” Enid chirped, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Before we get on the bus, let’s just agree this is gonna be fun.”
Wednesday slowly shifted toward her. “I prefer not to make promises I cannot keep.”
Enid’s smile tilted into something fond. “You say that like you’re incapable of enjoyment. Don’t lie—you liked the Poe Cup.”
“I liked watching our opponents nearly drown,” Wednesday corrected. “It was an uplifting experience.”
“Exactly!” Enid thrust the brochure toward her, whacking Wednesday’s chest with a horrendously cartoon penguin. “So just… transfer that energy to animals. Observe them. Judge them. Figure out which ones you would unleash upon your enemies. Enrichment!”
Unfortunately, that was a compelling angle. Wednesday had already made a preliminary list. Lions for spectacle bloodsport, of course. Wolves for poetic irony. Hyenas for soundtrack alone. But she couldn’t admit any of it without encouraging Enid, whose enthusiasm already teetered on explosive.
She opted for raising a brow. “If this devolves into forced merriment, I reserve the right to abandon you in the reptile house.”
Enid clasped her hands over her chest. “You’re already planning to go to the reptile house with me? That’s a win.”
“I said I would abandon you there, not accompany you.”
“Tomato, to-mah-to,” Enid sang, pivoting as the small charter bus rolled through the trees. She trotted ahead, then stopped, and spun back with a grin. “Come on, Wends. The next bus isn’t for another hour, and I don’t wanna waste our whole date—uh, field trip—standing in the cold.”
Wednesday watched how Enid bit the inside of her cheek. It should have been satisfying to see Enid flustered by Wednesday’s enforcement. Instead, it was… complicated.
“It’s forty seven degrees. Hardly lethal.”
“Well, yeah. But my hair will go flat, and that’s basically the same thing.” Enid stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Please? I’ve been dropping hints about this for weeks. And I’ve already gotten in touch with a billboard marketing guy, so…”
Wednesday had noticed the hints, yes. The casual mention of penguins. The target ads for zoo memberships appearing on Enid’s phone and “accidentally” left in Wednesday’s line of sight. How Enid’s eyes slid toward her when a documentary in Biology mentioned animals that mated for life. It was equal parts transparent and endearing, like watching a golden retriever in a tutu attempt espionage.
“I agreed to this outing,” Wednesday reminded her as they approached the bus. “Your campaign of emotional blackmail can cease.”
“That wasn’t emotional blackmail!” Enid frowned, trailing up the steps. “Emotional blackmail would be, like, ‘If you don’t come to the zoo with me, I’ll move out and never bake you cookies again.’” She paused. “Which, for the record, I would never do. You’re scary when you’re alone in that room for too long.”
Wednesday selected a seat near the middle, where the view would be adequate for dreams of escape. Enid collapsed beside her, knees bumping Wednesday’s, shoulders brushing.
“This is gonna be great,” Enid said, twisting to peer through the window as the bus lurched into motion. “They have red pandas, and otters, and a reptile house, obviously, and—oh!—a new penguin exhibit. They’re supposed to be, like, the stars of the whole place.”
“A tragic indictment of modern entertainment,” Wednesday muttered. “Humans will pay money to watch creatures trapped in imitation habitats and call it education. If they wished for accuracy, they would simply install glass walls around their own homes.”
Enid huffed a laugh, softer than usual. “You know you’re not actually trapped here, right?”
“Geographically, no. Institutionally, yes. Socially…” Wednesday shrugged. “I am still compiling evidence.”
Enid leaned back against the seat, studying her with what felt uncomfortably like X-ray vision. “Well, for today, you’re trapped with me. And a bunch of animals who are going to love you. Or fear you. One of those.”
“Fear is a form of respect,” Wednesday replied. “Love is merely prolonged delusion.”
Enid turned her gaze back toward the window, but the curve of her lips betrayed a smile. “You say the most romantic things sometimes.”
The bus ride proved mercifully short.
Wednesday spent most of it listing potential experiments, should the opportunity arise: whether the animals reacted differently to outcasts than normies, whether they could sense the darkness in one’s soul, whether the penguins would respond to a lecture on the futile nature of monogamy. Enid mostly talked—about the online reviews, about the time her pack visited a wildlife sanctuary and her brothers were banned for fighting wolves, about the ethical debates around animal conservation that she apparently researched for Wednesday as a pre-emptive defense of their outing.
“I know you’re going to say zoos are evil,” Enid said when they pulled into the gravel lot. “And like, yeah, some of them are super sketchy, but this one does actual conservation work. They rehabilitate animals that can’t go back into the wild. And raise money for endangered species. And they even have a whole campaign about creating ‘enriching activities’ instead of just… gawking.” She hesitated, then added with a small, lopsided grin, “I thought you might appreciate the enrichment angle.”
Wednesday considered this as the bus hissed to a stop. She could respect the desire to preserve predators, even if it means restricting freedom. Humans had been caging the wild for centuries; at least this interaction feigned nobility. “If any employee uses the phrase ‘fuzzy friend,’ I will unleash a lawsuit and a swarm of Eugene’s bees.”
“That feels disproportionate,” Enid replied, slipping into the aisle. “But also very on brand for you, so I’ll allow it.”
They disembarked into the zoo’s entrance plaza, where a modest trickle of families and tourists shuffled toward the ticket booths. A banner overhead proclaimed some seasonal event involving pumpkins and “spooky fun,” which made Wednesday briefly contemplate litigation on grounds of false advertising. If terror could be marketed, it should at least be authentic. Her gaze flicked to the map posted near the gate, charting out looping pathways and exhibits like the veins of some subdued beast.
Enid drifted closer to her, eyes wide as she took in the overview. “Okay, so we could go clockwise and start with the big predators,” she said, pointing at the enclosures marked with stylized silhouettes of lions, tigers, and wolves. “Or we could go counterclockwise and do the penguins and aquatic stuff first. Or we could just wander and see where the universe takes us.”
“The universe is indifferent. It will not care if we begin with apex predators or emotionally unstable birds.”
“Aren’t we all emotionally unstable birds, when you think about it?” Enid mused. Then she shook herself, brightening. “Predators first, right? Ease you into it?”
“Predators always.” Wednesday gave a single nod. “Everything else is pathetic.”
They passed through the turnstiles after a perfunctory ticket check, Enid bouncing on her heels again once they were inside. She paused long enough to snag a pamphlet from a stand and shove a second one into Wednesday’s hands, clearly afraid Wednesday might decide to escape if left unattended for more than three seconds. The path ahead branched off toward the lion exhibit, marked by a faded sign featuring an overly friendly illustration of the king of beasts.
“I can’t believe you’re actually here,” Enid said suddenly, voice replaced by an earnest awe. “Like, I kept asking, and you kept giving me that look that says ‘I’d rather be waterboarded,’ and now you’re actually walking toward a family-friendly attraction with me. This is growth.”
Wednesday kept her eyes on the path, though she was acutely aware of Enid’s warmth at her side, the way their arms brushed with each step. “Consider it an investment in research. I am studying human-animal behavioral parallels and the existential tragedy of captivity. You happened to be the loudest volunteer.”
Enid’s lips parted, a delighted little breath caught between laugh and gasp. “You remembered my exact pitch.”
“It was difficult to forget when repeated fourteen times.”
“Well, you kept pretending not to hear me. So...”
Wednesday didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, she adjusted her pace so that their strides aligned perfectly.
They reached the lion overlook, a low railing guarding the edge of a broad viewing platform. Below, the enclosure spread out in a curated approximation of wilderness. Wednesday’s eyes tracked the movement of tawny shapes among rocks and sparse trees, evaluating their gait, their alertness, the dull sheen of boredom settled over their once-regal forms.
Enid, predictably, leaned forward, elbows braced on the rail. “They’re so majestic,” she whispered, as if the animals could hear her over the chatter of nearby visitors. “I mean, it sucks that they’re stuck here, but… look at them.”
“I am, indeed,” Wednesday said. “I am also mentally compiling a list of people I would feed to them.”
Enid’s smile widened, eyes still fixed on the lions. “Let me guess. Weems’ ghost, that barista who spells your name with a ‘V,’ and whoever decided to assign you group projects.”
“The barista is spared by necessity of caffeine,” Wednesday corrected. “Everyone else remains on the menu.”
For a moment, they stood in companionable silence, each absorbed in their own interpretation of the view. The landscape hummed with distant conversation, an occasional childish squeal, the low rumble of something large shifting its weight in the enclosure below. Wednesday watched one of the lions pace along the perimeter, muscles coiled, gaze tracking invisible boundaries it could never cross. She understood the restless tension in its steps, the way it tested the limits it already knew were there, just in case they had weakened overnight.
She felt, rather than saw, Enid move closer. A brush of knuckles against her own, light enough to dismiss as accidental if she wanted to maintain plausible deniability. Instead, Wednesday allowed it.
Then Enid’s fingers threaded through hers.
The act was simple. Quiet. As if this were the most natural conclusion in the world—that Wednesday Addams, who did not do dates and did not do handholding and did not do any of the nauseating rituals of adolescent romance, would stand at the edge of a lion enclosure and let a werewolf interlace their fingers.
Instinct told Wednesday to catalog the experience. Enid’s palm was warm, her grip firm though not possessive. Her thumb rested in the valley between Wednesday’s knuckles. But none of these observations explained why Wednesday’s pulse accelerated, or why the invisible cage around her ribs, for a fleeting moment, expanded.
“You know,” Enid said softly, “if you were an animal here, you’d totally be in the predator section. No question.”
“I would escape,” Wednesday replied, steadying her voice. “On the first night.”
Enid squeezed her hand, just once. “Yeah. But I think you’d visit the penguins before you left.”
“I would visit their enclosure to unlock it. Someone should experience freedom. It might as well be the birds.”
Enid turned her head, eyes bright and molten in the muted daylight. “Wow. So you’re saying, in this metaphor, you break into my enclosure and set me free?”
“In this metaphor, you broke into mine first.” Only when the words were in the air did she realize how they sounded. She exhaled, controlled, and added, “Your incessant presence is hardly regulation.”
For a second, Enid went quiet. Then, Wednesday felt her turn and gently bump their shoulders. “Guess we’re both bad at following the rules,” she murmured, and Wednesday decided, for the sake of her own sanity, not to examine the tightening in her chest.
Enid bit back a smile and tugged on their joined hands, guiding Wednesday to the next area.
The wolf enclosure sprawled in layered terraces of rock and scrub, the animals pacing or curled in wary rest. Enid’s posture changed as they approached, shoulders straightening, something older and fiercer glinting through the pastel. Her fingers flexed around Wednesday’s, like some part of her wanted to test the distance between herself and the wildness beyond the barrier.
“They look bored,” Wednesday observed, watching a gray wolf circle, pause, then circle again. “Restless. Under-stimulated. Much like our peers during algebra, but with sharper teeth.”
“Yeah,” Enid murmured. “They’re… different from the ones in the wild. Less danger, less freedom. More… structure.” She swallowed, then pasted on an easy smile to disguise the shadowy cloud passing through her sunlit eyes. “Kinda like Nevermore, I guess.”
“Nevermore is a school, not a prison,” Wednesday said. Then, quieter, she added, “Prisons have better food.”
That earned her a huff of laughter, but Enid stayed fixed on the wolves. The animals slowed near the viewing glass; a dark-furred female stared out, meeting Enid’s gaze. Wednesday watched, aware she was witnessing something wordless and intimate and not entirely human. For a moment she could almost see two worlds pressed together, thin pane between them: fur and flesh, instinct and expectation, bared fangs and ones hidden behind smiles.
Enid blinked, pulling herself back with visible effort and clearing her throat. “Okay,” she declared, “before I spiral into an identity crisis, I vote we go look at something that cannot eat us. Like otters. Or flamingos. Or—”
She stopped so abruptly that Wednesday nearly collided with her.
“Oh my God,” Enid breathed.
Wednesday followed her gaze and immediately understood the source of her horror. Off the main path, ensconced between a cotton-candy stand and an informational display about conservation efforts, was a kiosk of atrocities: animal-themed headbands. Rows of them, bristling from rotating stands—soft ears and felt beaks and ridiculous tufts of faux fur.
“No.”
“Yes,” Enid countered, dragging her closer. “This is essential enrichment.”
Wednesday flared her nostrils. “If you make me wear a panda on my head, I will destroy a bloodline. Preferably your mother’s.”
Enid’s smile sharpened. “So you’ll wear it?”
“That is not what I said.”
Enid released her hand to snatch up a headband with a tiny penguin perched in the center, beak slightly crooked, flippers mid-waddle. “Okay, obviously this one is mine.” She jammed it onto her head, turning back to Wednesday. “How do I look?”
“Like an advertisement for lobotomies,” Wednesday muttered. “And an insult to aviation.”
“Translation: adorable.” Enid spun to the other rack, rifling through options. “They have foxes, red pandas, bears, hyenas—oh! They even have snakes. Wait. This feels like a sign.”
She held up a black headband crowned with a stylized serpent—its body coiled into a loose figure-eight, head resting at the center. It was still cutesy by Wednesday’s standards, but considerably less offensive than the pair of googly-eyed giraffes to its left.
Wednesday pressed her lips together. “Do not attempt to bribe me with reptiles.”
Enid squinted at her, then brightened even more, which should have been physiologically impossible. “Okay, here’s the deal. You wear this for the penguin exhibit, I buy you a limited-edition zoo sticker with a vulture on it that says ‘Scavengers Do It Better.’”
Wednesday blinked. “Why would such a sticker exist?”
“Because the world is a beautiful and terrible place,” Enid answered, utterly serious. “Come on, Wends. It’s not like anyone from school is here to see you. This can be… our thing.”
Our thing.
The phrase lodged in Wednesday’s throat. She performed a quick cost-benefit analysis: temporary humiliation versus the warmth unfurling in her stomach when Enid’s eyes grew soft and hopeful like that. She despised that the latter had started to outweigh the former in equations that involved Enid Sinclair.
She plucked the snake headband from Enid’s fingers. “If anyone photographs me,” she warned, “I will track them down and use their bones as enrichment toys for the hyenas.”
Enid made a strangled noise. “Noted. No photos, only mental snapshots. But you have to actually wear it. On your head. Where headbands live.”
“Clarifying the intended use of an object is unnecessary,” Wednesday said, but she still lifted the band and settled it atop her hair. The plastic arms bit into her skull; a small black crown. She could feel Enid staring and absolutely refused to meet her gaze.
“Oh my God,” Enid repeated, softer this time. “You’re… you’re so cute I think my heart just turned into confetti.”
“If you explode, I am not cleaning it up.”
Enid simply laced their fingers together again and tugged her back onto the main path. “Come on. Penguins are this way.”
The air grew cooler as they approached the aquatic exhibits, the scent of damp stone and treated water threading through the crisp bite of autumn. The pathways funneled toward a broad, sunken amphitheater facing an enormous glass wall that formed one side of the penguin habitat. Fake cliffs rose around it, streaked with white and gray, small caves tucked into their bases. A sign proclaimed: PENGUIN POINT — Keeper Talk at 1:00 PM! A digital clock beneath it informed them they were three minutes early.
A modest crowd had already gathered—families with strollers, couples clutching paper cups of hot chocolate, an older woman in a knitted hat shaped like a seal. Children pressed sticky hands to the glass as sleek black-and-white bodies torpedoed past underwater, bubbles bursting in their wake.
Wednesday stopped a few paces back, unwilling to join the crush at the front. Her gaze swept the exhibit: the unnatural blue of the pool, the carefully placed rocks, the strategically arranged “nesting areas” like shrines to captivity. On the surface, several penguins stood in clusters, some preening, some staring outward with inscrutable eyes. One waddled confidently, a small rock clamped in its beak.
“Look at them,” Enid cooed, pulling Wednesday a little closer. “They’re like tiny, judgmental butlers in tuxedos.”
“They look like undertakers,” Wednesday said. “Small ones, tasked with burying the mass casualties of poor life choices.”
Enid giggled, then leaned in so their shoulders touched again. “I knew you’d like them.”
A zookeeper in a branded fleece stepped up to a microphone on a small platform near the glass. She wore a name tag that read CLAIRE and an expression of unwavering cheer that made Wednesday suspicious.
“Hi, everyone,” Claire called, her voice amplified over the low murmur. “Welcome to Penguin Point! We’re going to talk a little bit about our colony today, and then we’ll have time for questions. Sound good?”
Several children shrieked affirmative noises.
“As you can see,” Claire continued, gesturing toward the rocks and water, “we have a mixed group here—mostly gentoo penguins, with a few chinstraps as well. Penguins are fascinating birds. They can’t fly, but they’re incredible swimmers; some species can dive hundreds of meters deep. They’re also very social and form complex relationships within their colonies.”
Wednesday, despite herself, felt her mind begin to file the new information. Social. Complex. Efficient killers in water, ridiculous on land.
Acceptable.
“One thing people are always interested in,” Claire said, “is penguin relationships. Many penguin species are what we call socially monogamous—meaning they often pair up with one partner for a breeding season, and sometimes for many seasons in a row. Some even mate for life.”
There was a collective “awww” from the crowd, as predictable as it was nauseating. Enid made a tiny, helpless noise that fell between a sigh and a squeak.
Wednesday kept her face impassive, though something inside her recoiled. “Monogamy is a bleak prison constructed by nature,” she murmured. “A cage disguised as devotion.”
Enid’s shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. “Wow. Okay. So… you’re saying you’d prefer multiple girlfriends?” she whispered back, eyes glancing sideways, mouth tilted up.
“Girlfriends” caught Wednesday’s attention like a hook.
Plural. Hypothetical. Theoretically safe because it was couched in mockery, and yet the image it conjured—herself surrounded by faceless bodies, noise and color blurring into an indistinct mass—was less appealing than the one already next to her, warm and infuriatingly specific.
“I am saying,” she answered crisply, “that I prefer no one at all. Emotional dependency is a liability. It compromises judgment. It invites pain.”
Enid’s smile faltered for a second, a candle flickering in wind. “Right,” she said softly. Then, with obvious effort, she brightened again. “Good thing you’re immune to that, huh?”
Wednesday’s gaze drifted back to the glass, to the penguin that had been carrying a rock. It had reached a shallow depression on the faux shoreline, where another penguin waited, head cocked. The first bird deposited the stone with meticulous care into a growing pile, then nudged it until it was positioned just so. The second penguin leaned in, pressing their beaks together in a brief, delicate tap that looked suspiciously like a kiss.
Claire seized the moment. “You might notice some of our penguins carrying pebbles around. Many species use pebbles to build their nests. Sometimes, a penguin will offer a pebble to another as part of courtship. It’s like bringing someone a gift—‘Hey, I think you’re pretty great, here’s this perfect rock I found.’”
Another wave of “awww” rolled through the gathered humans. Wednesday’s fingers curled reflexively around Enid’s where they still laced together.
“They’re literally rock-shopping for each other,” Enid gasped. “That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard. I want a pebble marriage.”
“The legal system would struggle to recognize that union,” Wednesday replied, but the sharpness in her voice dulled. Her eyes remained fixed on the nesting pair.
The giver penguin shuffled away, only to return moments later with another stone, inspecting the pile to weigh structural integrity against aesthetic appeal.
It should have been ridiculous. It was ridiculous. And yet something about the care in the bird’s movements, the single-minded determination to assemble a home out of something as mundane as scattered debris, snagged at her. A life built on found objects. On choices made in a confined world. On saying, “this one is mine,” in a sea of almost identical others.
“As you might also know,” Claire went on, “penguin pairs aren’t always male-female. We have documented same-sex pairs in many species, and they can be just as devoted and successful at raising chicks. In fact…” She pointed toward the far left of the exhibit, where a slightly elevated rocky nook sat partially shielded by a faux boulder. “We have a bonded female-female pair here. That’s Marmalade and Basil—Basil is the one with the smaller white eye stripe. They’ve been together for three seasons now, and they’re very protective of their nest.”
The crowd shifted, people craning their necks to see. Wednesday snapped to the indicated spot. Two penguins stood close together in the nook, their bodies nearly touching. Between them, nestled in a hollow, was a pile of carefully arranged pebbles. One bird—Marmalade, presumably—stood slightly forward, chest out, head angled. The other hovered just behind, preening Marmalade’s shoulder with absent-minded devotion.
Something in Wednesday went very, very, very quiet.
They were in captivity.
They were trapped.
They existed within an artificial landscape, their entire universe bounded by rock and glass and the whims of humans with clipboards. And yet within those constraints, they had chosen. Each other. A nest. A vigil over a meaningless pile of stones that, by mutual agreement, had become priceless.
“At least they chose their confinement,” Wednesday said, the words escaping before she could sanitize them.
Enid’s head turned sharply. “What?”
Wednesday forced her gaze away from the nook. “Unlike most creatures here, whose interactions are curated by diets and fence heights, those two decided the terms of their sentence. They selected their cellmate.” Her mouth twisted. “There is a certain… integrity in that.”
Enid watched her with that unbearable tenderness again, one that made Wednesday feel stripped down to bone. But there was no teasing, no stupid quip loaded on her tongue. She simply shifted closer, their shoulders and hips aligning, and carefully threaded their fingers together once more.
The noise of the crowd receded, blurred into a distant hum. Wednesday became acutely aware of the points of contact between them—the warmth of Enid’s palm, the slight tremor in her fingers, the soft brush of pinky against pinky as Enid subtly tightened her grip. For once, the gesture didn’t feel like an intrusion. It felt… like an answer to a question she hadn’t realized she’d asked.
Claire wrapped up the talk with some statistics about conservation, threats to penguin habitats, and how the zoo was participating in breeding programs. The crowd began to disperse, people drifting toward the gift shop or the nearby seals. A small child insisted loudly that they, too, needed a pebble to give to Mommy, and Wednesday watched, bemused, as the parent tried to explain that rocks from the zoo’s landscaping were not souvenirs.
Enid stayed rooted to the spot for a moment longer, eyes lingering on Marmalade and Basil’s nook. “Three seasons,” she murmured. “That’s a long time.”
“In human terms, yes. In cosmic terms, a blink. In my parents’ terms, barely enough time to plan one murder, let alone several.”
Enid huffed, but her expression remained thoughtful. “Do you think they ever… regret it?” she asked quietly. “Picking each other. Coming back, year after year.”
Wednesday’s first instinct was to answer with some nihilistic aphorism about regret being inevitable, attachment being a prelude to loss, all things ending in dissolution and decay. The words queued up. Then she looked back at the penguins’ nook. Marmalade shifted, subtly angling her body more fully between the nest and the rest of the exhibit. Basil reached forward to straighten a slightly crooked pebble, then leaned in to press her beak briefly against Marmalade’s neck.
“I suspect,” Wednesday said slowly, “that if they did, they would not keep returning to the same pile of rocks.”
Enid’s breath subtly hitched. Her thumb began to trace small, distracted circles against the back of Wednesday’s hand.
It was intolerable.
It was grounding.
“Come on,” Enid said eventually. “Give the ladies some privacy. You still owe me a trip to the reptile house.”
“I do not owe you anything,” Wednesday protested. “However, I am willing to tolerate venomous creatures in exchange for distance from the smell of fish and human sentimentality.”
Enid smiled, relief flickering across her features, penetrating the prior clouds. “I’ll take it,” she said, and gently steered them away from Penguin Point.
The path to the reptile house wound through a quieter part of the zoo. The muffled roar of the lions faded behind them, replaced by the whisper of wind through bare branches and the occasional caw of a crow perched in trees. Fallen leaves scraped along the pavement, gathering in drifts that crunched beneath their boots.
“Do you ever think,” Enid mused, apparently unable to let silence sit for more than thirty seconds, “about what animal you’d be if you weren’t… you?”
“I would be me in a different skin,” Wednesday replied. “Though I suppose a raven has certain thematic advantages.”
“Obviously,” Enid agreed. “You’d be the goth icon of the bird world. Very on-brand. But like… would you be a bird?”
“A snake,” Wednesday answered immediately. “Efficient. Misunderstood. Frequently maligned by religious propaganda.”
Enid snickered. “Okay, that’s fair. I’d probably be… I don’t know. A golden retriever? A wolf with glitter? Something that sheds everywhere and loves aggressively.”
“You are already those things,” Wednesday pointed out. “Adding fur would be redundant.”
“Wow,” Enid said, a pleased flush on her cheeks. “Keep talking like that and someone might think you like me.”
They reached the reptile house, a low building half-sunk into a landscaped mound. A carved stone sign out front proclaimed Reptile & Amphibian Pavilion, which Wednesday mentally renamed “Sanctuary.” The doors whooshed open, exhaling a breath of humid, faintly earthy air that immediately fogged the edges of the glass.
Inside, the lighting dipped. Rows of terrariums glowed along the walls, each a self-contained world of moss and stone and hidden menace.
“This is your happy place,” Enid observed, voice instinctively dropping. She let their hands fall apart as she stepped closer to a tank displaying a coiled python, her eyes wide. “Wow. They’re kind of beautiful, actually.”
“Of course they are.” Wednesday nodded. “They kill with patience. With restraint. They wait until the moment is perfect, then strike. No unnecessary theatrics.”
“Unlike you,” Enid muttered, but it lacked any real bite. She watched Wednesday observe the animals, her expression softening further. “You’re really into this, huh?”
“Yes,” Wednesday said simply. “They are honest. They do not pretend. A snake never claims to be your friend.”
Enid scanned her face, frowning. “That sounds… lonely.”
“Loneliness is merely the absence of noise,” Wednesday replied. “It is vastly preferable to clamor.”
They made a slow circuit of the pavilion, pausing at particularly interesting specimens—a chameleon that regarded them with swiveling eyes, a cluster of poisonous frogs that looked like spilled paint drops brought to life. Eventually, they found themselves near a corner where the path widened around a large, central terrarium occupied by a languid iguana basking under a heat lamp. A bench sat just beyond, half-turned toward the glass, inviting loitering.
Enid flopped down onto it with a sigh, patting the space next to her. “Okay. Five-minute break before you start plotting how to smuggle a snake back to the dorms.”
“I would never do something so obvious,” Wednesday protested, but she sat.
For the first time since they’d entered, Enid seemed genuinely nervous. She fidgeted with the hem of her sweater, twisting the fabric between her fingers. Her gaze skittered away from Wednesday’s face, focusing instead on some middle distance where an informational placard about reptile molting lived.
Wednesday watched her with mounting suspicion. “You’re twitching,” she observed. “Are you about to confess to a crime?”
“Not unless you count emotional vulnerability,” Enid said, attempting a joke that wobbled on its feet. She inhaled deeply, then exhaled, visibly bracing herself. “Okay. So…. um.” She reached into the pocket of her jacket, fingers rummaging. When they emerged, they were curled around something small and dark
She opened her palm to reveal a smooth, oval stone, deep black with faint veins of gray. Wednesday recognized it immediately: the landscaping gravel from Penguin Point.
“I know it’s not an actual penguin pebble,” Enid added quickly, anticipating censure. “Like, it’s not one of the special ones they use to build nests, and I definitely did not steal it from Marmalade and Basil, because I’m not a monster. It was just… on the path, all lonely, and I thought…” She faltered, biting her lip. “I thought you might… like it. Or at least tolerate its existence in your vicinity.”
Wednesday stared at the stone.
It was ridiculous—a piece of decorative rock, mass-ordered from some quarry catalog and dumped around the exhibits to make humans feel better about concrete. It held no inherent meaning. Which meant, then, that its value was entirely derived from intent.
Enid shifted, misinterpreting her silence. “You can totally say no,” she blurted. “I just—after the keeper talk, and seeing the penguins, and the whole pebble thing, I… I wanted you to have something. From today. In case you ever… I don’t know. In case you ever wanted to remember that you voluntarily spent time with me and didn’t hate every single second of it.” She laughed weakly. “Wow, that sounded pathetic out loud.”
Wednesday’s chest ached in ways she couldn’t articulate. She reached out slowly, hand hovering over Enid’s, then closed around the pebble, careful not to touch skin more than necessary. It was cool against her palm, unremarkable in weight and texture.
And yet.
“You violated zoo property rules,” Wednesday said finally, because if she didn’t speak, she might do something far worse—like feel. “I’m obligated to be impressed.”
Enid’s eyes widened. “So… you’ll keep it?”
Wednesday considered lying. That would be safer. Cleaner. But the thought of letting the stone slip from her hand and clatter uselessly to the bench made her stomach twist. Instead, she slid it into the pocket of her coat. “Yes. I will… keep it.”
Enid’s smile bloomed so fast it was almost alarming. “Okay.” She looked down at her lap, shoulders trembling with the effort not to burst into an exuberant sound. When she glanced up again, her eyes grew shiny. “I’m really glad you came today, Wednesday. Even if you’re morally opposed to fun.”
“It wasn’t…” Wednesday started, then paused, grasping for a phrase that would not betray her completely. “It wasn’t entirely loathsome.”
Enid laughed, a small, wet hiccup of a sound. “High praise. I’ll take it.”
“You’re less irritating,” Wednesday added, eyes flicking back to the iguana, hoping it might offer support, “in the company of flightless birds.”
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” Enid mock-gasped. “I’m going to embroider it on a pillow.”
“If you embroider my words on a pillow, I will burn it,” Wednesday said, then hesitated. “But I will wait until you finish. Destruction is more meaningful after effort.”
Enid stared at her for a long moment, then seemed to decide she would physically explode if she didn’t move. She lurched forward and wrapped Wednesday in a quick, impulsive hug. Wednesday’s body stiffened, every instinct screaming at the sudden contact. And yet, beneath that panic, there was a strange calm, as if some piece of her had been expecting this.
Before she could decide whether to allow it or set something on fire in retaliation, Enid pulled back, cheeks flushed. “Sorry,” she said, though she didn’t seem apologetic at all. “I just—this has been… nice. In a Wednesday kind of way.”
“I am unfamiliar with that classification,” Wednesday replied, voice strained. “But I will… agree.”
They left the reptile house as the afternoon began to lean toward evening, the overcast sky deepening by degrees. The zoo’s paths had thinned further, many visitors already retreating to cars and buses. Wednesday and Enid made one last, lingering pass by Penguin Point. Marmalade and Basil were still at their nest, still together, still guarding their tiny kingdom of stones.
On the bus ride back to Nevermore, Enid’s head nodded against Wednesday’s shoulder halfway through, exhaustion finally claiming her after hours of overstimulation. Her penguin headband slipped askew, the bird listing to one side. Wednesday considered nudging her upright, then dismissed the idea. Instead, she sat perfectly still and let Enid rest against her, the snake headband still coiled above her own skull.
Her hand eventually drifted to her pocket, confirming the stone’s existence. She closed her fingers around it and refused to let go until the bus pulled up in front of the academy gates.
The walk back to Ophelia Hall was quieter than usual. Students who had stayed behind for the weekend trickled across the quad, but no one was close enough to overhear, and Wednesday was obscurely grateful. The fewer eyes on her, the better.
Enid shifted from foot to foot as they paused outside their dorm room door. “So,” she began, fingers worrying the edge of her sleeve. “Thanks again. For… the field study. And for letting me drag you through, like, fifteen gift shops without murdering anyone.”
“Temptation was present,” Wednesday said. “But manageable.”
Enid smiled. “Still. It meant a lot. Getting to go with you. See you… you know. Not actively hating everything.”
Wednesday’s hand moved before she consciously decided to let it. She reached up, gently catching a stray lock of Enid’s hair that had escaped the headband. Its color shimmered in the low light—gold washed with the faintest tint of pink from her streaks. Carefully, as if handling something both fragile and volatile, Wednesday brushed the strand back behind Enid’s ear.
Enid froze.
Her breath stopped.
Her eyes widened, pupils blown.
Wednesday leaned in enough so that Enid could hear her, and only her. “If I were a penguin,” she murmured, “I’d guard your pebble with my life.”
She didn’t wait for the inevitable squeal, or the meltdown, or whatever catastrophic display of joy Enid was primed to unleash. Instead, she closed her hand around the door handle, turned it, and slipped inside their room with the finality of a vanishing act.
Behind her, just before the door shut, she heard it—a soft, choked sound that might have been Enid saying her name, or laughing, or collapsing. Wednesday allowed a single, private smile where no one could see, her fingers brushing the outline of the pebble through her pocket.
Captivity, she realized, might be tolerable after all—so long as she chose the right cellmate.