Enid Sinclair Addams hummed happily as she padded around their home, a cheery burst of color against the dark wood and cobwebs that Wednesday insisted on keeping. Their life together had always been a curious blend of sunshine and shadows, of glitter and gloom, but Enid would not trade it for anything.

She had just finished frosting cupcakes, pink with sprinkles of course, when she noticed the house was a little too quiet. Wednesday’s quiet was expected. Amelia’s quiet was not.

“Amelia?” Enid called, wiping her hands on a towel. “Sweetheart, where’s Mama?”

No answer. Enid poked her head into the hallway, blonde curls bouncing. That’s when Amelia appeared, all dark braids streaked with golden highlights, a living mosaic of both her mothers. Her gray eyes carried Wednesday’s piercing calm, but her small smirk was pure mischief.

Enid crouched down. “There you are, pumpkin. Have you seen Mama?”

“Yes,” Amelia said, her tone perfectly even. “I’m killing.”

Enid blinked, then gave a nervous little laugh. “You’re… what now?”

Amelia tilted her head in the way that was so Wednesday it sometimes startled Enid. “Killing. In the library. Mama said I needed practice.”

Enid’s heart lurched. “Practice what?”

Before Amelia could answer, Wednesday stepped into the hall, expression as unreadable as ever, a thin book tucked under her arm. “Relax, Enid. She’s killing metaphorically. I was teaching her how to dismantle an opponent in debate. She’s a natural.”

Amelia straightened proudly, and for a moment Wednesday’s lips curved in what might almost be a smile.