Chapter Text
The palace was too quiet.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet—no birdsong drifting through open windows, no soft murmur of life behind the walls. This quiet felt deliberate. Pressed into the stone. Like the building itself had decided that noise was unnecessary and had removed it entirely.
Enid Sinclair tried not to fidget.
She failed.
Her fingers tapped lightly against the handle of her case—just once, then again, then she forced them still. Professional. She was here to be professional.
This was a royal commission.
A royal commission.
She adjusted her grip and glanced down the long corridor stretching ahead of her. Dark stone, tall ceilings, narrow windows that let in thin strips of grey light. It was beautiful, in a cold, dramatic sort of way.
Also deeply intimidating.
“Miss Sinclair.”
Enid straightened immediately.
The attendant—tall, severe, and dressed entirely in black—stood a few steps ahead, watching her with the same expression one might use for something mildly unpredictable.
“Yes! Hi. That’s me.”
He gave a single, curt nod.
“You will be fitting His Majesty and the young prince today. Her Majesty and the princess tomorrow.”
“Right. Yes. Schedule. I love schedules.”
A pause.
Then, because silence pressed in too quickly—
“I mean, not like love love, but like—professionally appreciate—”
“This way,” the attendant interrupted.
“Yep. Great. Following.”
Enid followed.
Her boots echoed softly against the stone floor, the sound seeming louder than it should have been. She tried to match her steps to his—quiet, measured—but her pace had a tendency to speed up when she was nervous.
Which she wasn’t.
Not really.
Okay, maybe a little.
This was important.
A royal outing meant public visibility. Visibility meant scrutiny. Scrutiny meant every stitch, every seam, every line of fabric would be noticed.
And she had been chosen.
Enid Sinclair.
From a small workshop with paint-stained floors and mismatched shelves and sunlight that actually came through the windows properly.
Now she was here.
In a palace that looked like it had never seen sunlight in its life.
“This is the fitting chamber,” the attendant said, stopping before a set of tall double doors.
Enid nodded quickly.
“Perfect. Love a chamber. Very fitting for fittings.”
He did not react.
Of course he didn’t.
He opened the doors.
“His Majesty will see you now.”
Enid took a breath.
Professional.
Composed.
Normal.
She stepped inside.
And immediately lost all sense of normal.
King Gomez Addams stood at the center of the room like he had been waiting for a performance cue.
Which, in a way, he probably had.
He turned as she entered, his expression lighting up with immediate, unrestrained enthusiasm.
“Ah! The tailor!”
Enid blinked.
“Yes! Hi. That’s—me.”
“Magnificent!” he declared, striding toward her with the kind of energy that made it very clear this man did not walk anywhere when he could stride. “Welcome! Welcome! We have been anticipating your arrival.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Enid said, smiling despite herself. “I’m—really excited to be here.”
“And we are excited to be made devastating.”
Enid paused.
“…Devastating?”
Gomez grinned.
“Absolutely. One must inspire awe. Fear. Envy. Possibly all three simultaneously.”
“That’s—uh—that’s a strong goal.”
“Only the best goals are worth pursuing!”
Enid decided, very quickly, that she liked him.
He was a lot.
But he was a fun lot.
“And you will help me achieve this,” he continued, gesturing dramatically to his current attire—a perfectly good suit that probably did not need dramatic improvement, but Enid suspected that was not the point.
“I will do my absolute best,” she said.
“I expect nothing less!”
“Great. No pressure.”
“Pressure is essential!” Gomez said cheerfully.
Enid laughed, the sound bouncing lightly off the high ceilings.
Okay.
This was fine.
She could do this.
“Shall we begin?” she asked, already reaching for her measuring tape.
“By all means!”
He threw his arms out wide.
Enid blinked.
“Maybe just—slightly less dramatic,” she said. “I need you to stand still.”
“Ah. Stillness. A challenge.”
“I believe in you.”
“Excellent!”
He held the pose.
For approximately three seconds.
Then—
“Do you think a sharper taper at the waist would enhance the effect?” he asked, shifting slightly.
“Yes—but please don’t move—”
“Or perhaps a more structured shoulder?”
“That too—but—please—”
“What of the sleeves? They must suggest elegance with a hint of danger.”
“I can absolutely do dangerous sleeves, but I need you to—stand—still—”
Gomez beamed.
“This is delightful!”
Enid bit back a laugh.
It was chaotic.
It was slightly exhausting.
But it was also—
Kind of fun.
She moved around him, measuring quickly when she could, adjusting when necessary, dodging the occasional dramatic gesture.
“Tighter,” Gomez insisted at one point, watching her pin the fabric. “I must look devastating.”
“You already look very devastating,” Enid said automatically.
“More.”
“…More devastating.”
“Exactly.”
Enid shook her head, smiling as she noted the adjustment.
“More devastating it is.”
By the time she finished, her notes were filled, her hands slightly sore, and her composure just a little frayed.
“Perfect!” Gomez declared. “A triumph already!”
“We haven’t even finished the suit yet.”
“And yet I feel triumphant.”
“That’s a good sign.”
“Indeed!”
The door opened again.
“Prince Pugsley for fitting,” the attendant announced.
Enid turned.
And immediately understood that this was going to be a very different experience.
Prince Pugsley Addams walked in with the energy of someone who had already decided he did not want to be here.
“This is boring,” he said.
“You haven’t even started yet,” Enid pointed out.
“I can tell.”
Gomez laughed.
“Ah, youth!”
Enid crouched slightly, measuring tape ready.
“Okay, Prince Pugsley, I just need you to stand still for a few minutes—”
He moved.
Immediately.
Not even subtly.
Just—stepped to the side.
Enid blinked.
“…Okay. That’s fine. We can work with that. Maybe just—stand here—”
He spun slightly, looking at something across the room.
“This is still boring.”
“It’ll be less boring if I don’t accidentally measure your elbow as your waist.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because you keep moving!”
Gomez laughed again.
Enid sighed, but she was smiling.
“Alright,” she said, gently steering Pugsley back into place. “Just—one second. I promise I’ll be quick.”
“Fine.”
He stood still.
For approximately two seconds.
Then—
“What happens if the suit doesn’t fit?”
“Then I fix it.”
“What if it explodes?”
“…It won’t explode.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I am very confident in my non-exploding tailoring skills.”
“Hm.”
Enid managed to get a measurement.
Progress.
Slow, chaotic progress.
It took longer than it should have.
Much longer.
But eventually—
Done.
She stepped back, exhaling.
“Okay. That’s everything.”
“Excellent!” Gomez said. “You have survived the trial.”
“Barely.”
Pugsley shrugged.
“Told you it was boring.”
Enid laughed.
“Yeah. You did.”
She gathered her notes, her tools, her composure.
Day one.
Complete.
“Same time tomorrow,” the attendant said.
Enid nodded.
“Same time tomorrow.”
Tomorrow.
Her Majesty.
The princess.
Enid’s stomach did a small, unnecessary flip.
She ignored it.
Because she was a professional.
And professionals did not get nervous about meeting princesses.
______________________________________________________________________________________
The next morning, the palace felt even quieter.
Or maybe Enid just noticed it more.
She walked the same corridors, her steps a little more careful, her grip on her case a little tighter.
Today was different.
Today mattered in a different way.
She stopped outside the fitting chamber.
Took a breath.
Professional.
Normal.
She opened the door.
And everything changed.
Queen Morticia Addams stood near the window, composed and elegant, like she had stepped out of one of the portraits lining the halls.
And beside her—
Princess Wednesday Addams.
Enid’s thoughts stopped.
Completely.
She had expected something imposing.
Something distant.
Something cold.
She had not expected—
This.
Wednesday stood perfectly still.
Black dress, clean lines, no unnecessary detail. Her posture was flawless, her expression unreadable.
And her eyes—
Her eyes were on Enid.
Sharp.
Focused.
Unwavering.
Enid forgot how to exist.
“Oh,” she said.
Out loud.
Again.
Morticia’s lips curved slightly.
“Oh?” she echoed.
Enid snapped back to herself.
“Sorry! I—hi—hello—good morning—”
Stop talking.
Stop talking.
“It’s an honor, Your Majesty,” she finished, somehow.
Morticia inclined her head.
“We look forward to your work, Miss Sinclair.”
“Yes. Absolutely. Work is—great.”
Why.
Why am I like this.
“Shall we begin?” Morticia asked.
“Yes. Please. Beginning is good.”
Morticia stepped forward first.
Good.
Safe.
Enid could do this.
She measured quickly, efficiently, focusing on her work.
Professional.
Steady.
Normal.
And then—
“Princess.”
Morticia stepped aside.
Wednesday moved forward.
And suddenly—
Enid was very aware of everything.
The distance between them.
The silence.
The way Wednesday’s gaze did not waver.
“Proceed,” Wednesday said.
Enid nodded quickly.
“Yes. Proceeding.”
She stepped closer.
Close enough to work.
Close enough to panic.
This is fine. I am normal. I am measuring a princess. I am not in love after one glance.
“Arms slightly out, please,” she said.
Wednesday complied instantly.
Perfectly.
Still.
Too still.
Enid swallowed.
She reached forward, looping the measuring tape around Wednesday’s shoulders.
Her fingers brushed fabric.
Warmth beneath.
Wednesday did not react.
Not even slightly.
Enid’s hands trembled.
Just a little.
She tightened the tape.
“Shoulders are—good,” she said.
Brilliant.
Professional.
Wednesday’s gaze remained fixed on her face.
Enid looked down quickly.
Next measurement.
Focus.
“Waist,” she said.
She wrapped the tape around Wednesday’s waist, acutely aware of the proximity, the silence, the stillness.
No reaction.
None.
“Your hands are shaking,” Wednesday said.
Enid froze.
“I—no—they’re not—”
“They are.”
“…A little.”
“Why?”
Enid stared at the measuring tape.
“Because this is important,” she said.
“In what way?”
“If I mess it up, your dress won’t fit.”
A pause.
“…Acceptable.”
Enid exhaled.
Okay.
Okay.
She could do this.
Probably.
She finished the measurements, stepping back quickly.
Distance.
Good.
“Is that all?” Wednesday asked.
“Yes,” Enid said.
Wednesday lowered her arms.
But didn’t leave.
Didn’t look away.
“You avoid eye contact,” Wednesday said.
Enid blinked.
“I—do not—”
“You do.”
“…Sometimes.”
“You speak more rapidly in my presence.”
“…That is not—entirely inaccurate.”
“You are inefficient.”
Enid stared at her.
Then—
“I’m just Like This,” she said.
“I doubt that.”
Enid laughed nervously.
“Yeah. That’s fair.”
A pause.
Then—
“Why?” Wednesday asked.
“Why what?”
“Why are you like this?”
Enid blinked.
“I—don’t know. I just am.”
Wednesday studied her.
Closely.
“…Interesting.”
Enid smiled, just a little.
“Yeah,” she said. “You are.”
Wednesday did not respond immediately.
But she didn’t look away either.
And for some reason—
That felt like the beginning of something.
_______________________________________________________________________________________
The next morning, Enid woke up with a plan.
This was already a mistake.
She knew it the moment she sat up too quickly, hit her elbow on the side table, and immediately whispered, “Okay, great start,” into the empty room.
A plan meant expectations.
Expectations meant failure.
But still—she had one.
Because yesterday had been—
A lot.
Princess Wednesday Addams had stood there like a statue carved from something darker than stone, watching her like Enid was a puzzle that needed solving. She hadn’t flinched, hadn’t reacted, hadn’t even blinked in any noticeable way while Enid had been trying very hard to act like her hands weren’t shaking.
And then she had pointed it out.
Your hands are shaking.
Enid groaned, dropping back onto the bed and pressing her face into the pillow.
“Cool,” she mumbled. “Love that for me. Love being perceived.”
She rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling.
Okay.
New strategy.
New approach.
She lifted a hand, counting off on her fingers.
“Talk less,” she said.
That was key.
The rambling had to stop.
Professional. Efficient. Quiet.
“Be professional.”
Also important.
She was professional. She just needed to… emphasize it more. With less talking. And fewer accidental compliments.
“Do not ramble.”
Critical.
Absolutely critical.
She nodded once, firmly.
“Yes. Good. This is good. I can do this.”
A pause.
“…Probably.”
She sat up again, slower this time.
“Okay,” she said to herself. “We are going to walk into that room, measure a princess, and not fall apart.”
Another pause.
“…Or at least not visibly fall apart.”
Good enough.
The palace corridors were still quiet.
Still looming.
Still a little too dramatic for Enid’s liking.
But this time, she walked them with purpose.
Plan in mind.
Goal clear.
She reached the fitting chamber doors, took a breath, and straightened her posture.
Cool.
She was going to be cool.
She opened the door.
And immediately forgot how to be a person again.
Queen Morticia Addams stood near the center of the room, composed and elegant, as if she had always been there and always would be.
And beside her—
Wednesday.
Still.
Silent.
Watching.
Enid’s brain helpfully supplied: oh no she’s even prettier today.
This was not helpful.
This was, in fact, the opposite of helpful.
“Good morning, Miss Sinclair,” Morticia said, her voice smooth and calm.
“Good morning!” Enid said.
Too fast.
Too bright.
Abort.
“Good morning,” she repeated, quieter. Slower. “Your Majesty.”
Better.
Slightly.
Morticia’s gaze lingered on her for just a second too long, something knowing in it.
Enid chose to ignore that.
Because acknowledging it would make it real.
And she was not equipped to deal with that.
“Shall we continue?” Morticia asked.
“Yes. Absolutely.”
Enid set down her case, opening it with practiced movements. Familiar. Grounding.
Tools out.
Measuring tape.
Pins.
Focus.
“Who would you like to start with?” she asked, aiming for calm professionalism.
Morticia’s gaze flicked—briefly—to Wednesday.
“Wednesday,” she said.
Of course.
Of course it was Wednesday.
Enid nodded.
“Great. Perfect. Wonderful.”
She immediately regretted all three of those words.
Wednesday stepped forward.
Silent.
Precise.
Still.
Enid’s plan activated.
Talk less.
Be professional.
Do not ramble.
She could do that.
She would do that.
“Arms slightly out,” Enid said.
Short.
Efficient.
Perfect.
Wednesday complied instantly.
Enid stepped closer.
And immediately forgot every part of her plan.
Because this was happening again.
The closeness.
The stillness.
The way Wednesday’s gaze didn’t waver even for a second.
Enid reached up, looping the measuring tape around Wednesday’s shoulders.
Her fingers brushed fabric.
Warmth.
No reaction.
None.
Enid’s heart did something unhelpful.
“Your posture is—really nice,” she said.
No.
No, no, no.
Abort.
“I mean—good. It’s good. Structurally. For—fitting.”
She closed her eyes briefly.
Why.
Why did she say that.
Wednesday’s voice cut through her internal spiral.
“…Noted.”
Enid opened her eyes.
Wednesday was still watching her.
Expression unchanged.
Voice unchanged.
Everything unchanged.
Except—
There was something there.
Something small.
Something almost—
Interest.
Enid looked down quickly.
Next measurement.
Focus.
“Waist,” she said.
She wrapped the tape around Wednesday’s waist, trying very hard to focus on numbers and not on the fact that she was once again standing entirely too close to someone who seemed completely unaffected by her presence.
Meanwhile, Enid was very affected.
This was unfair.
“You are speaking less,” Wednesday said.
Enid froze.
“I—am?”
“Yes.”
“…I’m trying to be professional.”
“You were not professional before?”
“No! I was! I just—also talked a lot.”
“That is inefficient.”
Enid huffed a quiet laugh.
“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that.”
Wednesday tilted her head slightly.
“You are attempting to correct it.”
“…Yes.”
“Why?”
Enid hesitated.
Because you make me nervous.
She did not say that.
Instead—
“Because I want to do a good job,” she said.
A pause.
“…Acceptable,” Wednesday said.
Enid let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
Okay.
Okay.
This was going—
She dropped a pin.
It hit the floor with a tiny, traitorous clink.
Enid stared at it.
Of course.
Of course she did.
“Great,” she muttered under her breath, crouching quickly to pick it up. “Fantastic. Love that.”
When she stood again, Wednesday was still watching her.
Of course she was.
Of course.
Enid forced a smile.
“Everything’s fine,” she said.
“…It appears otherwise,” Wednesday replied.
Enid laughed.
Nervously.
Too loudly.
Too much.
“Yeah, well, appearances can be deceiving!”
Silence.
Then—
“…Noted.”
Enid pressed her lips together.
Stop talking.
Stop talking.
Stop—
“Wrists,” she said quickly.
She reached for Wednesday’s hand, gently taking her wrist to measure.
Still.
Cool.
Unmoving.
Enid adjusted the tape, her fingers brushing lightly against skin.
Nothing.
No reaction.
“How do you do that?” Enid blurted.
Wednesday blinked once.
“Do what?”
“Just—not react. At all. Like—you don’t flinch or anything.”
“It is unnecessary.”
“…Right. Of course it is.”
A pause.
Then—
“Most people react,” Enid added.
“I am not most people.”
“…Yeah,” Enid said softly. “I noticed.”
Silence settled again.
But this time, it felt different.
Less heavy.
Less suffocating.
Enid finished the measurement, stepping back slightly.
And then—
Morticia spoke.
“You may take your time, Miss Sinclair.”
Enid blinked.
“I—oh. Thank you, Your Majesty, but I’m—almost done—”
“There is no rush,” Morticia said smoothly.
Her gaze flicked between them.
Not missing anything.
Noting everything.
Enid had the sudden, distinct feeling that she was being observed in a way that went far beyond simple politeness.
Like Morticia was watching a performance.
Or maybe—
A development.
“Right,” Enid said. “Okay. I’ll just—double check a few things.”
Why did I say that.
She didn’t need to double check anything.
Everything was already written down.
But now—
Now she had to.
Because the Queen had said to take her time.
And Enid was not about to argue with the Queen.
So she stepped closer again.
Re-measuring something that did not need re-measuring.
Very normal.
Very professional.
Morticia watched.
Quietly.
Knowingly.
After a moment, she moved.
Graceful.
Effortless.
“To the next room,” she said. “I will review the fabrics.”
And just like that—
She left.
Enid blinked.
Wait.
What.
She turned slightly, watching the door close behind her.
Then—
Slowly—
She turned back.
Wednesday was still there.
Of course she was.
Still.
Silent.
Watching.
And now—
They were alone.
“Oh,” Enid said.
Again.
She needed to stop saying that.
“You appear surprised,” Wednesday observed.
“I—am. A little.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re—alone.”
“…Yes.”
Enid laughed softly.
“Right. Yes. That’s—obvious.”
Silence.
Not uncomfortable.
Just—
Present.
Enid shifted slightly.
Okay.
This was fine.
She could handle this.
Probably.
Wednesday spoke.
“Why did you choose this profession?”
Enid froze.
That—
That was new.
That was not a one-word observation.
That was not a brief critique.
That was a question.
An actual question.
Directed at her.
“Oh,” Enid said.
Internally: say something normal.
“I—um—well—”
She failed immediately.
Because once she started—
She couldn’t stop.
“I just—always liked it, I guess? Not just making clothes, but—what they do, you know? Like—how they make people feel. How they can change how someone sees themselves. Or how other people see them.”
She gestured slightly with her hands, words picking up speed despite her earlier plan.
“Like—fabric isn’t just fabric. It’s texture, it’s movement, it’s expression. You can take the same person and put them in two different outfits and they’ll feel like two completely different versions of themselves.”
Wednesday did not interrupt.
Did not react.
But she was listening.
Completely.
Enid kept going.
“Clothes can be armor, or they can be comfort, or they can be—like—this statement, you know? Something that says this is who I am without having to explain it.”
She paused.
Breathing slightly faster.
“…And I just think that’s really cool.”
Silence.
Enid blinked.
“Oh my god,” she whispered. “I did it again.”
“Did what?” Wednesday asked.
“Rambled.”
“Yes.”
“…Right.”
A pause.
Then—
“Continue.”
Enid stared at her.
“…What?”
“You have more to say.”
It wasn’t a question.
It was a statement.
Enid’s brain short-circuited.
“I—uh—well—I mean—sometimes it’s also about comfort, like making sure things actually fit right, because that changes everything too, and—”
She stopped.
Wait.
Wednesday had asked her to continue.
Wednesday—
Wanted her to continue.
Enid’s heart did something very unhelpful.
“Oh,” she said again, softer this time.
Wednesday tilted her head slightly.
“You are reacting.”
“I—yeah. A little.”
“Why?”
Enid hesitated.
Then—
“Because you’re listening,” she said.
A pause.
“I was listening before.”
“Not like this.”
Silence.
Wednesday considered that.
“…Clarify.”
Enid smiled slightly.
“You’re asking questions now.”
Another pause.
Then—
Wednesday asked another one.
“What do you think clothing communicates about me?”
Enid forgot how to breathe.
That—
That was not a small question.
That was not a casual question.
That was—
Important.
And suddenly, it clicked.
Wednesday wasn’t quiet because she had nothing to say.
She was quiet because she only spoke when something mattered.
And right now—
This mattered.
Enid swallowed.
Looked at her.
Really looked at her.
Black fabric.
Sharp lines.
Perfect stillness.
Control.
Distance.
And something underneath.
Something quieter.
Something hidden.
“…It says you don’t want to be misunderstood,” Enid said softly.
Silence.
Real silence this time.
Not empty.
Not heavy.
Just—
Still.
Wednesday’s gaze didn’t waver.
“…Continue,” she said.
And Enid realized—
This was only the beginning.