Chapter Text
Just as they had expected, it was a bit early for dinner to be ready. While Lurch was busy with their meal in the kitchen, Ophelia had called them in for plates of hors d'oeuvres- or something of the sort. Unfortunately, the sad spread left little hope for what was to come. Morticia was once again reminded why her sister did not often cook at home. The tiny plate placed in front of her held a white, squishy mass slathered in some sort of a tan, vaguely chunky spread. If ‘bland’ was a color, she was quite sure mixing it all together would create exactly that shade. She glanced over at Gomez. He seemed to regret sitting down.
“Lovely, Ophelia.” Hester praised her daughter- notably without tasting a single bite. “What’s the recipe?”
Morticia stared down at her plate. “ That’s certainly a polite way to ask what she’s trying to make us eat,” she thought to herself.
“It’s quite simple, really,” Ophelia replied, beaming. “Just chickpeas, rice, and water! No additives, no seasonings necessary! Very natural!”
The entire table seemed to hesitate. The leafy, bitter salad she had prepared for lunch was at least edible- her mother and Mrs. Addams seemed to almost enjoy it. But this was much less appealing. The deep groans Lurch emitted while tending to a concoction over the stove made it clear that Ophelia’s dinner recipe was no better. Gomez faked a smile as the chipper blonde woman pressed bits of mushy food to his lips, trying his best not to disappoint her with his hesitancy to swallow them. Morticia left the food untouched. She had no such energy to placate her sister. Her mind was clouded by the complexity of their situation, and her mother staring her down like a hawk only made matters worse. Hester and Eudora had been watching things from the sidelines the entire evening, whispering amongst themselves about the happy couple. Mrs. Addams seemed quite satisfied, but whenever Hester had the chance, she locked her youngest daughter in an icy stare. Her eyes spoke clearer than words ever could.
" Do not ruin this for your sister."
Morticia quickly averted her gaze, opting to stare down the soggy, unseasoned rice Ophelia had prepared. Her dear sister had blind enthusiasm for all tasks, never caring to look back on her mistakes until things came crashing down around her. Surely her intention was to impress Gomez- to prove that she would be an ideal wife by cooking, by cleaning, by never leaving his side. A part of her almost wished that it was working. However heartbreaking it would be, it would surely make Morticia’s next few decisions easier. She prodded at the sad excuse for a hors d'oeuvre with a spoon, questioning it, combing through it for an answer. She found nothing.
Many seemed to think that Morticia was the most impossible Frump to read. If anyone truly cared to listen to her, however, they would hear her feelings quite plainly. Her mother was much more stern, insistent to avoid too much talk of feelings, but she at least had the decency to present herself as a closed book. Ophelia was harder to read by far. She was an open book with joyful gibberish scrawled across the pages. As close as the two sisters were, a part of Morticia knew there were things Ophelia thought about that she would never hear spoken plainly. She spoke in riddles, in poetry. As the shape of a girl molded solely by the dramatics of her mother's favorite Shakespeare plays, it was no wonder she was Hester's favorite daughter.
Morticia looked up. There was that commanding gaze again.
"Do not ruin this for your sister."
But it was already ruined. How could she help it? It was all so forced. She refused to be a scapegoat for any soiled plans; the marriage would have collapsed even if Gomez had never laid eyes on her. It wasn't her fault at all.
She hoped her sister would believe her.
Dinner went by quite quickly-- it was some sort of cloudy, flavorless broth that went down just a bit thicker than water. Morticia watched as Gomez sputtered on his spoonfuls, unable to catch his breath as Ophelia fed him as much as she pleased. The moment she turned away to chatter to her mother, Gomez held the bowl under the table in hopes that Kitty would lap it up. The lion made no such attempt.
"Oh, Gomez! You’re ahead of me! Is it time to do our dishes together already?" Ophelia had turned around in her seat with her head cocked, staring at the bowl in his hands.
"No!" he cried, and he cringed at the desperation in his voice. "I- I mean, you see, it would… it would be rude of me to make you do any dishes, even if I were to help. You did them after lunch already!" He tilted his bowl towards Kitty under the table once more as he spoke. No luck. The strange broth dribbled out onto the floor, and the lion cub huffed with distaste, slinking away. Morticia tried not to stare at the wet tracks he left behind.
"But I love the water!” Ophelia insisted. “I don't mind!"
"No, no, I'll do them myself! You had the decency to make us a… a lovely meal,” Gomez told her, placing his now empty bowl onto the table. He seemed resigned to mop up the soup later. “The least I can do is the dishes. Alone."
Ophelia grinned, leaning to grip him in a tight embrace. "Oh, my darling Gomez! So chivalrous!"
Within a few minutes, the table was cleared, the dishes piled up by the sink, and Gomez placed himself firmly behind them, using them as a broth-soaked porcelain fortress. The poor sap had Lurch standing beside him like a bodyguard, seemingly grateful that his work had once again been cut in half. Morticia delivered her dirty dishes last, and Gomez gave her a pained smile as she placed her bowl at the top of the stack.
"How long do you think I can draw this out for?" he asked, gathering a thick soapy lather on a single spoon.
"Just do them at your own pace," Morticia replied. "I'm going to have a quick word with her. I don’t think I’ll need too much stalling."
"I will," Gomez stated with a grimace. "Matter of fact, I think I may stay here for a year or two."
"Don't be ridiculous. I'd miss you."
His beautiful brown eyes reflected emotion like the sun at even the slightest kind word from her. It was almost too much for her fragile heart to take. She placed a hand upon his shoulder, fingertips resting feather-soft there as if he would turn to dust if she was not gentle.
"We'll work this out. I'm sure of it."
Gomez nodded, a grateful smile on his face. "Thank you."
"Gomez?" Ophelia's voice rang out so loudly from the other room that it startled them both. "Are you sure you don't need my help?"
"Nonsense! You- you should rest, take the good chair!" He turned to the butler. “Lurch, would you please make sure Ophelia sits in the good chair, and stays there?”
Lurch groaned softly, nodding as he shambled his way out the door.
Morticia let out a soft sigh. "I should go to her. I don’t know if we'll have another chance to talk before our mothers rush an officiant in here."
Gomez smiled sadly, though his eyes were still full of light. "I suppose you should. Don't be long. I'll miss you.”
Just as instructed, Lurch had placed Ophelia into the good chair- the one that was so good, it had been in the Addams family household for generations, even now that the seat was fully collapsed and near impossible to get out of.
“Ah! Hello, dear sister!” Ophelia said as she struggled to sit up straight. “Won’t you come and lounge with me?"
“I think I’ll stand, thank you,” Morticia replied with a polite smile.
“Suit yourself!” Ophelia replied cheerily. She kicked her legs in another attempt to sit up, but to no avail.
Morticia turned around and gave the living room a quick once-over. Every other chair was empty. It seemed that they were alone. "Where are mother and Mrs. Addams?"
"Oh! They just left for a little post-dinner stroll!" Ophelia had finally given up on struggling against the chair. “Is fair Gomez doing well all by himself with the dishes?”
Morticia gave her a curt nod. “Yes, I’m sure he can manage.”
“I suppose! But soon he won’t have to struggle alone, soon he’ll have a wife to help him with every dish! Oh, I’m so excited, aren’t you? Finally, I’ll be truly married! I’ll be so happy!”
Morticia pressed her lips together into a firm, tight line. “Yes, I… I would like to see you happy.” She hesitated for a moment, eyes on Ophelia’s white shoes. “Can I ask you something?”
“Yes, yes, ask away!”
“Do you love him?”
Ophelia looked a bit startled. “Come again?”
“Are you in love with him?” Morticia pressed.
“Well, I’m marrying him, aren’t I?”
Morticia frowned. She was dodging the question. “Yes, and I know how long you’ve wanted this, but…” she tapped her red nails on the side of her hand, a very subtle nervous tick. “He doesn’t seem to be your type, Ophelia.”
“Whatever do you mean? He is a man, after all, and he’s been promised to me! It’s fate!”
Morticia shook her head slightly. “What is it that you like about him?”
Ophelia was silent for a moment, then smiled. “He’s rich, polite, he has land to plant a garden, he’s fairly well groomed, and quite easy to flip!” she stated with a confident nod.
“Ophelia, please be serious!” Morticia cried. “If you want to be married, it should be with the right man. It should be for love! As your sister, I’m just afraid you’re rushing into something that you’ll grow to resent.”
“Grow to resent?” Ophelia began to struggle with the chair again, and finally managed to prop herself up so that her feet touched the ground. She let out a huff of irritation. “Morticia, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you don’t want me to be married at all. These things do take time, you know. I mean, the marriage is arranged, for God’s sake, and we’ve only just met, love will grow like weeds soon enough! It’s destiny, surely, and we’ll have the chance to connect more later- maybe during the honeymoon!”
“I just want you to be happy,” Morticia told her sister. “Truly happy.” Yes, it was true that she was smitten with Gomez. She could admit that much to herself now. But this was far more serious than anything she yearned for. This was a family matter. She cared deeply for Ophelia, and would not stand to see her heart broken by a man who did not love her. She pictured their marriage, stiff and forced, with Ophelia desperately trying to say the right words, any words that would produce an outpouring of affection from the miserable man. What would she do if the thing she wanted most in life doomed her to heartbreak even while it was within her grasp?
Ophelia, who had escaped the clutches of the good chair, stood with an air of indignance.
“I will be happy when I am married,” she insisted. “It’s fate that brought me to Gomez, and the arrangement is all part of it. I know it.”
“But Ophelia-”
”Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper!”
And just like that, there was no budging her. Morticia could always tell when Ophelia was determined to have the last word in an argument, because that word, like any paired with it, fell promptly into iambic pentameter. When she invoked the Bard, that was the end of it.
“Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,” Ophelia repeated.
“Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee,
And for thy maintenance commits his body
To painful labor both by sea and land,
To watch the night in storms, the day in cold,
Whilst thou liest warm at home, secure and safe;
And craves no other tribute at thy hands
But love, fair looks and true obedience;
Too little payment for so great a debt.”
She turned her nose up at her sister, spun on her heels, and strode down the hall.
There it was. That flawless recitation that captivated their mother. The words were never her own, and her actions felt that way as well. Though Ophelia seemed to experience every moment of life with the passion of a thousand suns, every rose and thorn, much of it was acting. Morticia only knew that much because of her sister's daisies-- there was once a time when they would wilt while Ophelia could not-- but now they were just as impossible to read as the girl they grew upon.
Perhaps the blonde had finally developed a stronger handle on her own magic. How fitting that the only reason she had dedicated herself to it was to discover another way of hiding in plain sight. Morticia glanced down the hallway where her sister had disappeared, and she paused. Or perhaps she was mistaken. The woman had long since fled, but she had left a trail of petals in her wake.
Dearest Repelli,
My arrival in France has brought me nothing but misery. We have only just moved into the dormitory a week ago, and I can already tell that the work of a squire is never done. Ever. Tomorrow I have to buy spellcasting equipment, and I can't even try it out myself. I am so tired that I can hardly keep my eyes open to write to you, but I am supposed to wait for my sister to come home from her last class, so I can't rest yet. She was meant to be home thirty-five minutes ago. She never did pay attention during her French lessons with Mother, and this building is quite far across the campus. I can only assume she has misread the street signs and she is lost. I am lucky that I have the sense to use a map, but I wish she had taken it.
The school is in a city called Toulouse, and it’s quite close to Spain. Sometimes I think about crossing the border to see if I can find where you lived when you were six. I won’t, of course-- I’m not allowed to go that far, but I do think about it sometimes. I’m sure you’re not allowed to leave Camp Custer, either, and I’m sure you have it much worse than me. I hope you are surviving despite it all. Remember that I will always be here to send you letters if you feel lonely without your brother. I miss you more than I can say. When I am very lonely, I close my eyes and pretend we are in the cemetery together again. It's all that brings me peace. Once all this is over, I’d like to go back there again. We don’t have to play house if you think we’ve gotten too old for it, but there’s something about that place, and about you, that I cannot get anywhere else. Even if we don’t play house, it’s still like home. I miss the way we leaned against the headstones together to watch the sun set. I miss the way we could see all of the stars, and I miss our long talks. I even miss your cigar smoke. Please write back to me as soon as you are able, I need to be sure that you are okay. We will see each other again soon, I am sure of it.
Much love from your best friend,
Hippolyta
"Who's Repelli?"
Laertes jumped, whipping his head around to see Ophelia peering over his shoulder in the dark.
"Don't you ever do that again, you scared me half to death!" Before she could get another look, he folded the paper and slid it underneath his pillow. "He's nobody. I'm writing a story, that's all."
"You ought to give that character a better name," Ophelia mused. "Like Romeo!"
"His name is fine."
"Or Hamlet!"
Laertes shook his head, emerging from his spot on the lower bunk bed. "Why are you back so late?"
Ophelia laughed. "Don't sound so concerned, silly silly!" She gave Laertes a gentle tap on the nose.
He hated when she did that.
"I was chatting with a classmate! A fellow witch, if you will! A kindred spirit!" She began to untangle her two blonde braids. "She's from America too, isn't that such a grand coincidence? She was the only girl in the whole room I could speak more than four words to, the rest of them just talk so quickly! All I could say to them was parle doucement s'il te plaît, over and over again, parle doucement s'il te plaît! Oh, but listen, listen to this, do you know what she told me?"
She did not wait for Laertes to answer.
"She doesn't intend to be a real witch at all! She wants to be a singer! There's the rub!"
Laertes blinked. Why anyone would refuse a life of witchcraft was beyond him. He would give anything to study what those girls studied. "Can't she just go home to study music?"
"Oh, but her mother would be crushed!" Ophelia insisted. "No, no, she must stay here and push through! How sad that she shan't be as lucky as I! I'm having a wonderful time, and those spellbooks are all I'll ever need! You know what they say, a beggar's book outweighs a noble's blood!"
Ophelia twirled around the room, humming some off-key tune. Laertes sighed. She didn't seem to care how long she had kept him up waiting to assure she was safe. He slipped back into bed, choosing to ignore her until something tickled the side of his cheek. He brushed it off only to discover that it was a little white petal. Laertes let out an irritated huff, flicking it into the garbage can beside the headboard. It felt as if ever since they had arrived he had been cleaning daisy petals from the floor. Perhaps the change in weather had shocked the delicate plants, or perhaps she was simply moving around more, but regardless, he was beginning to take notice when he had to sweep up a pile of them each and every day.
"Ophelia."
No answer, only humming. The little petals were littered around her like snow.
"Ophelia, your daisies."
"There's nothing the matter with my daisies!"
Laertes' brow furrowed. She had taken to saying this far too often lately, and the more insistently she said it, the more he began to believe that something far more serious was going on. "But there is. Look at all the petals. And just yesterday I saw them wilting."
"There's nothing the matter!" she repeated, slipping into her nightgown.
"There is."
"Laertes," Ophelia snapped. There was a fire in her blue eyes that reminded Laertes of their mother. "Stop bothering me. I'm fine. Just go to bed, you sound exhausted."
Stiff with irritation, he finally acquiesced. "Alright."
"Thank you, dear brother." With that, she began to twirl again, holding up the skirt of her nightgown as more petals fluttered to the floor.
Weeks passed, then months. Ophelia began to come home from class later every night. Laertes passed the time by writing letters to his dear friend, but his heart sank further each day when he received no response. Surely she had sent something, and it had just gotten lost in the mail. Surely she hadn't forgotten about him. Regardless of the reason, Laertes had never felt more alone.
To fill the hole in his heart, he began to pass the time in a different way. Ophelia's spellbooks would often lay untouched in their dormitory room, and though a squire like himself had no ability to perform magic, he saw no harm in a little light reading. She had explicitly warned him not to touch them. He was sure it didn't matter so long as he wasn't caught. The books were completely in French- perhaps another reason why his sister had not been using them. By now she had picked up a bit more of the language from the people around her, but it seemed that she couldn't have cared less for the lessons her mother had offered. Laertes managed to retain bits and pieces when he eavesdropped from the hallway, and he joyfully built upon his knowledge every day. The words were lovely, and he would whisper them to himself when he was alone, lithe fingers brushing over the pages as if they were his religious texts.
"Les sorcières… ont une énergie magique divine qui peut… qui peut être contrôlée et… projetée à travers des potions et des incantations."
French slid so naturally over his tongue regardless of his poor pronunciation. He was determined to learn. Of course, his learning was often cut short when his sister arrived home, and he would scramble to return her books to the little white shelf as soon as he heard her footsteps. If she ever noticed a book in the wrong place, she never seemed to mention it. His secret was safe for now.
Though it was not his choice to travel to Toulouse, Laertes found himself growing more comfortable with his daily routine at about three months in. He even found a few scraps of joy in his squire errands after a while. They were exhausting, of course, but when he wasn’t hauling caldrons full of ingredients up the dormitory stairs like a pack mule, it felt nice to get out and see the city. Most of the shops that stocked magical supplies were located in a much older part of town, with terra-cotta brick buildings that had not been altered in style since the sixteen-hundreds. La Ville Rose, the people called it– The Pink City. Laertes wouldn’t quite call the buildings pink, exactly. They were more of a pale, rusty orange in his eyes, but he supposed The Rusty City wouldn’t receive much love from the locals. Why that was, he had no idea. Rust was a perfectly lovely color.
The street he had grown most accustomed to had three main shops on the corner. One was Desjardins’, the one-stop herb and plant store that sold almost every potion ingredient imaginable. Laertes took quite a liking to this shop. Even on days when he had no herbs to buy, he would come inside to admire the venus flytraps and the pitcher plants. Monsieur Desjardins did not recognize Laertes by name, which provided some sense of relief, of safety, even. Instead, he was referred to exclusively as “the daisy-headed witch’s squire”. The old shopkeep had only seen Ophelia once or twice, but he was very eager to send Laertes home with samples of a fertilizing hair conditioner after each purchase, begging him to report back on the health of the flowers in her scalp.
Beside Desjardins’ was Antoinette’s Boutique, a perfectly ordinary women's clothing store. In theory, it was an intelligent business strategy to place a boutique in the middle of a hub for witches, but since the squires did most of the shopping in this area, it seems that not many of the dresses sold. Those that did, he noted, were not the ones he expected– they were all garishly bright, full of ruffles and stripes and polka dots that seemed to be arranged at random. No dress in that shop was anything that a witch ought to be wearing… except for one. Each time he walked past, Laertes noticed one particular dress in the window collecting dust, and it sat on that mannequin untouched every day for three months straight. It was a simple dress, straight and black with a white pointed collar, long white-tipped sleeves to match, and tiny white buttons all the way down. It was the perfect dress for a young witch, he thought– the perfect shade of black, straightforward and classic in design, and truly lovely. He could not understand why nobody wanted it. "If I were a witch," he thought to himself, "I would wear dresses like that all the time, with long black stockings and shiny black shoes."
He had an entire elaborate fantasy about that dress, and it all played out within the time that it took to pass the window each day. He imagined himself slipping into it as he was dying, letting the fabric hold him and lull him into a deep sleep. As he rested, he would be born again as a witch, and everything he once was would be absorbed by the deep black cloth of the dress, from the collar down to the skirt. Whispers would spread through the city about the young witch who had her own death stored between fibers of cloth- "Sa robe avec sa mort dans le tissu." And of course, she would have no need to ever part with the dress again. It would be a part of her. Mademoiselle Mort dans le Tissu would be well known throughout the city, and well revered, too. Perhaps her new friends would call her Morticia for short, and Anjelica- no, Repelli, her darling Repelli would be there too, smiling like the sun as always. “What a lovely dress! Suits you, just like I always said it would.” They would sit with the other witches, sip tea together, and all have a sensible chuckle about the fact that she was once a squire.
Laertes never went inside, but that window caught his eye each and every time he passed it. He wondered what would happen to his little ritual once that dress was gone.
Next to the boutique, there was a small bookstore. It was not as impressive as its competition a few blocks over, but that was why Laertes preferred it. Less people, less interruptions. He would often spend hours inside, surrounded by bags of herbs and other such potion ingredients, poring over spell books before purchasing them for Ophelia's studies. Out of all he had learned, a few facts about the nature of witchcraft stuck out to him. The first was that witchcraft drew from magic that stemmed from the four elements. Witches drew from an innate energy within themselves, intertwined it with the energy of each of these elements, and when the two forces met properly, a reaction would occur. This is what would create a spell. Potions seemed to work similarly, but the number of ingredients that could be added to a cauldron resulted in a larger, or more prolonged reaction. It was almost scientific, and this fascinated him completely! Ophelia seemed to have an innate connection with earth magic since birth, and the daisies on her head were perfect proof. This, of course, was something Laertes had been told for years, but it was nice to truly understand why it all happened. What he did not understand was why so many had told him he could not possibly hold this connection himself.
This confusion sprang from the second fact about the nature of witchcraft. It seemed that it was only a traditionally matrilineal practice due to the expectation that men would be busy working, and thus they would have no time for studying spells. Laertes thought that this seemed a bit unfair, but upon asking a few of his fellow squires in the courtyard what they thought of it, he realized none of them cared. They all enjoyed the traditional roles set out for them, jumping at the chance to drag a heavy sack of ritualistic bones across campus for their sisters. It was a chance to show off their strength, apparently, and a mark of extreme honor. But what use was that when there was strength in magic? Wasn't there incredible power in urging a plant to grow more quickly, or in brewing a miniature stormcloud?
The third fact about witchcraft answered this for him: the teenage boys had no interest in the strength that magic could bring because of the rituals that were necessary to hone it. As much as studying spells was a component of learning proper magic, the traditional honing of magical energy had very feminine associations. Much of it was done through various dance rituals in long flowing skirts, channeling each spark of power through the rippling fabric, or through hair, brushing and braiding each strand til it was thrumming with magic, the longer the better. These rituals, though they could be performed by anyone, were now so strongly tied to womanhood that many seemed to assume magic was as well. Thus, the vicious cycle continued- witchcraft became matrilineal, because all of the men were working, but even if they were free to practice, they would not engage in the rituals, which were feminine, because witchcraft became matrilineal, because all of the men were working. It drove Laertes to the brink of madness when he thought about it. What was so wrong with putting on a beautiful dress and growing out your hair? Why was such a simple thing keeping these men from practicing magic? He did not have those same reservations, he would do absolutely anything to learn with all of those girls. Why couldn’t he just become a witch? Why didn’t every squire want to in the same way he did? One day he asked Patricia, the owner of the bookstore. Perhaps she had an answer. And she did, but it was painfully simple.
"C'est parce que les hommes sont des hommes, et les femmes sont des femmes."
Because men are men, and women are women.
That was that. They were all content with the roles they had been given, and so they kept them that way.
And what a disappointment that was.
Five months in, and Laertes felt as if he was only going through the motions every day of his life. His shopping routine began to lose any scraps of joy he had found in it before. Desjardins recognized him by name now– as a matter of fact, every shopkeeper did– and it was nails on a chalkboard. Laertes, Laertes, Laertes. They commented on what a big, strong man he was becoming, how deep his voice was getting, the hairs on his upper lip that he desperately tried to pluck. He couldn't stand it. Where was his dear friend, his cemetery companion who knew to avoid his name at all costs? Would she ever write to him again?
No, being outside was torturous, but being inside of the dormitory was far worse. Ophelia seemed to show up at random, coming home from class when she wasn't meant to, cluttering the floor with petals, and then disappearing until very late at night. She answered questions about her schedule cryptically, in vague Shakesperian quotes that sometimes fit, and were sometimes nonsense. When Laertes pressed her to answer honestly, she would drop the joyful facade and they would get into horrible fights.
"Why won't you leave me be, you nosy little rat?!" Ophelia snapped one day. Laertes had asked where she had been that night, and it seemed that was the very last straw. Her eyes were encircled by dark bags, her hair was a mess, and her poor daisies seemed to only be half alive.
"I only ask because I care about you!" Laertes insisted
"You don't! You only care about my studies! I'm sure you don't notice that I'm a person at all!"
Laertes threw his hands into the air. "I'm your squire! It's my job! I've been arbitrarily assigned to assure that you're growing into a proper witch, but I know nothing about your studies, and whatever you're doing is hurting you! You're always out at night, you're losing sleep, your daisies are falling out-"
"To hell with the daisies!"
"Ophelia, they're a part of you! Haven't you learned anything to heal them?!"
"Leave me be!"
"Haven't your professors noticed?!"
"They haven't!"
"But why?!"
"Because I'm not attending class! I haven't attended for months! I’ve been hiding, I don't care for any of it, and there's no good reason to go!"
A flurry of daisy petals fell to the floor. The flowers wilted, completely bare on top of her head, and Ophelia stared daggers at her brother. In that moment, Laertes felt a fury that he knew was unfair. Ophelia was clearly suffering- from what, he did not quite understand- but through his own suffering, he could only hear one thing. She wasn't attending class. All that she was handed, all of the support and knowledge of witches past… she had completely rejected it. Their mother raised her to be a witch while he was forced to watch from the sidelines, she was dressed in flowing gowns, told what a lovely, powerful young woman she was becoming– hell, she was so powerful already that life which only sprung from the earth grew upon her scalp, and she looked upon this power, this beauty, this privilege , as if it was nothing. His voice trembled when he began to speak again.
"Why," he asked, "would you be so careless? Why would you throw away the chance to be something that I would die to become?"
"You don't understand," Ophelia snapped.
Laertes bit back the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes. "Neither do you."
And so he was driven out again, out into the world where he stuck out like a sore thumb. Laertes took deep, ragged breaths, pushing past crowds of people, ducking his head in hopes that no one would see him cry. He had to be somewhere else- anywhere else. He pushed his way inside of Desjardins' on instinct, making a beeline to the back of the shop. Perhaps the venus flytraps would soothe his envy, his burning rage and heartbreak. But there were no flytraps. No pitcher plants. Only a large pot with dry soil, and a strange, viney plant that looked as if it was long dead.
"Ah, désolé, monsieur Laertes. Nous aurons plus de plantes carnivores demain." Desjardins had noticed the lanky teen tucked away in the corner. Laertes wished he hadn't. The apology for being out of his favorite carnivorous plants was completely lost on him. There could be a thousand more flytraps delivered tomorrow, and it would not matter. He had no sense of tomorrow in this current moment.
"Qu'est-ce que ç'est?" he asked softly, thin fingers on the rim of the pathetic viney plant's pot. He had to know the name of this horrible thing, and why it was here if it was already yellow and shriveled up. Perhaps the enormous plant had taken nutrients from the others with some sort of magical force, and that was why there were no smaller plants left. Perhaps it had burnt itself out and starved to death.
"Ficus craterostoma," Desjardins replied. He seemed to have a habit of referring to plants by their Latin names– as if that was somehow more accurate. "It is, eh, how do you say it in English… African strangler fig."
Laertes wiped tears from the corners of his eyes to get a better look at it. If this was any sort of fig tree, it didn't look the way fig trees were meant to. It was lanky and twisted, covered in dry vines that seemed almost tentacle-like in nature. The top bud-like formation of leaves seemed at risk of falling off. It bore no fruit, and no flowers.
It reminded Laertes of himself.
"Je vais essayer de le faire revivre," Desjardins muttered, picking up the plant to carry to the back of the store. "C'est très cher."
No matter how expensive he claimed it was, or his attempts to revive it, Laertes felt that there was no coming back from the state that plant was in. He slipped out of the store when Desjardins turned his back. He could feel the tears welling up in his eyes again.
As he rushed out the door, his heart ached. "If I was a witch, maybe I could bring that plant back," he thought bitterly to himself. "If I was a witch… if I was only a witch…"
Suddenly, he found himself stopped in front of Antoinette’s Boutique, where a large yellow sign caught his eye. Today had been a wreck so far, but this was truly the nail in the coffin.
The store was closing.
The sign sat behind the window, plain as day, and it covered the spot where his beloved dress once rested. But, he realized, it was silly to call it his. He never owned it. He never had the chance to.
Laertes caught sight of his pathetic form in the reflection of the glass, tears streaking down his pale, bony face and wetting the collar of his shirt. What use was there in crying over a dress that was never his? What sort of young man was he to grow so deeply attached to it? But he couldn't stop. He thought about the outline of the dress around his trembling body, as if it would hold him together, as if it would fix him. As if he truly could store his own death in the fabric.
"If I was only a witch, I could have bought that dress."
And suddenly, something clicked. Ophelia blatantly refused to be a witch, and this made him burn with envy. But the magic was not all that he wanted. He was not simply upset with his sister for dismissing her own powers, but he was jealous of what she would always have despite that. Whether she was a witch or not, she could always wear dresses, she would be called beautiful, she would be viewed as her mother's daughter. She could play the mother during any game of house. She had permission to take up the mantle of witchcraft, permission to be whatever sort of girl she wanted.
Laertes did not just want to be a witch. Laertes wanted, more than anything, to be recognized as a woman.
A woman.
Hands trembling, the lanky teen swallowed back a sob and pushed open the door to the boutique. Perhaps it was possible. Perhaps it was not too late.
For once, it was not Ophelia who came home late. She had been in the dormitory, presumably for hours, with her head in her hands at her desk. It was dark in their room, and neither of the two teenagers could see much of anything. Ophelia only realized she was no longer alone when the floorboards groaned underneath a hesitant step.
"Leave me be," she croaked.
"Ophelia."
"I don't want to talk to you."
"Ophelia, please. I'm sorry."
"You're not."
"I am. I… I was jealous. I want what you have."
"You shouldn't," Ophelia muttered. There was a bitterness in her voice that she never had before. "Mother expects so much of me… she wants me to be the same type of woman that she is, and I want to like this place, I really do… but I can't be a witch, not like this."
"But you can. I know you can. You've had powers manifesting for years."
"But they come and go as they please!" Ophelia cried. "You weren’t there! You weren’t in those classes watching me like everyone else was! The professors worked me to the bone that first month, and I just couldn't conjure anything when they asked, and- and it was embarrassing! I've had to hide from them in the woods, or by the creek, sometimes until nightfall every single day to keep my daisies from dying from the stress! And they always find me, they always do, and they try to bring me back to class, and I can’t stay, I can’t pay attention, I’m just so tired! The only other girl who understood how I felt about this place was able to run away for good!" She buried her face in her hands, stifling a sob. "Do you know how wonderful it would be to just run away? I can't pay attention to the books, I can't stand the classes, the rigidity… I want to live life at my own pace!” Her voice broke. Her breathing was ragged. “Mother should know that I'm a woman of the primrose path, surely she knows that much about me… and… and maybe I'll learn to control my magic eventually… but maybe I won't. But if mother finds out that I haven't been attending my classes… what would she say if her only daughter had rejected the family tradition?"
"Well. You can tell her that she has another daughter who will take it up for you."
Ophelia raised her head, sniffling weakly. "What?" She wiped her tears away, and scrambled to turn on the lamp on her desk.
The wall-hanging mirror beside her blonde sister was enough to make the raven-haired girl weep. After rushing home, she could finally see herself. The little boutique had the dress after all, and now it was hers, entirely hers. She stood there, skirt and collar slightly ruffled, black stockings and all, with the big ugly strangler plant from Desjardins' at her side. Except, in this light, it did not seem so ugly anymore, nor did it seem fully dead. Perhaps there was hope.
It reminded her of herself, and so she could not leave it behind to die.
"Laertes…?" Ophelia seemed to be at a loss for words.
"I don't want to be Laertes," the girl said softly, placing the plant on the floor. "I want to be your sister.” Her voice caught in her throat. “I’ve… wanted to be your sister for a very long time.” She swallowed, holding her head a bit higher at the admission. “I'll take your classes, I'll be a good witch, I promise. I'll carry on the family tradition. You can do whatever you'd like. Let mother put the blame on me if I fail, I don't care… just so long as I get to be her daughter, and as long as I get to be your sister."
The room was completely silent for a moment, a pause that felt like an eternity. Ophelia rose from her chair, advancing towards her sibling to get a better look.
"I can do magic," the girl insisted, as if she needed to brace herself, to defend her position. "I've been studying it for months on my own, I know that I have it in me. Please, I'll show you." She knelt down and pressed her lithe fingers to the base of the viney plant. "Please," she begged, and she was not sure at first if she was speaking to the plant, or her sister, or herself. In theory, she knew all of this was possible. In theory, she could be a woman, and a witch, but this was her first time trying all of it at once, and she feared one wrong move would send her dreams crashing down around her. She murmured softly to the plant in French, in the language of the magic textbooks she spent hours poring over in secret.
"S'il te plait… still te plait, grandit pour moi, s'il te plait…"
It was a subtle change, the sort of thing someone could miss if they blinked, but after a few moments, the plant grew a bit greener. It seemed as if it was propelled by pure willpower, to resume life after death. The vines twitched, fading from brown to yellow to pale, fragile green, and the plant's stem stood a bit taller in its pot. As soon as it had started, it stopped again. It wasn't much, but it was certainly enough.
Ophelia stared down at the plant in awe. "I think… maybe we can make this work."
"Really? Can we?" The young girl felt her heart racing under the collar of her brand new dress.
Ophelia nodded. "I suppose I don't really know how, exactly, but I think we can. And we'll both get what we want. It can’t hurt to try." She reached out to smooth the collar of the black dress down. "I guess I have always wanted a sister. Good thing I had one all along."
A sister. She was her sister! The girl felt as if she had been born again after all, and just like her bewitched African strangler, she stood a little taller.
"Thank you," she breathed.
Ophelia wrapped her in a tight embrace. "Thank you," she replied, and the two girls let relief wash over them. This could work.
"Would you call me Morticia?" she murmured. "Morticia Hippolyta Frump?"
Ophelia chuckled, pulling away from the hug for a moment. "Well! That’s a long name. You really have thought about this for a while."
Morticia smiled. "I suppose so."
"Well, if that's what you've decided on, that's what I'll call you."
"Thank you, Ophelia."
"But this will only work if you let me take you shopping! That dress is so dreary, Morticia, honestly."
Morticia laughed. "Maybe to you. But I don't think so. Black is such a happy color."
It may have been the weight being lifted from Ophelia's shoulders, or it may have been Morticia's long, pale fingers resting on the back of her head as they embraced once more, but in that moment, Ophelia's daisies began to slowly grow again.
Morticia picked up a few of the delicate daisy petals in her hands, gazing at them sadly. The flowers often told the truth before Ophelia’s words ever could. She suddenly worried that this time she had taken things a step too far. Perhaps this was not her business. Perhaps Ophelia was right, and she and Gomez would learn to love each other. Perhaps this was all a projection of her own selfish desires.
"Miss Frump," came a low grunt behind her. Morticia jumped slightly, spinning around to see the Addams family butler coming towards the hallway with a large broom. He gave her a curt nod.
"Ah. Hello there… Lurch, was it?"
He gave her a curt nod.
"I… I'm very sorry about all of this." She gestured to the mess her sister had left on the floor.
Lurch shrugged, and began to coax the little white petals into little white piles. "Not your fault."
"Yes, well, if I had a head full of flowers, I believe I would be shedding petals too," Morticia admitted.
Lurch let out a low groan at the mere thought of it.
"I have to warn you, this may not be the end of all your sweeping," Morticia informed the butler. "My sister won't say so, but I think she's very upset. I'm just not certain if I'm the cause, or if it's about…" she trailed off, not quite wanting to specify 'her unsuitable marriage.'
Lurch replied with a thoughtful hum. "Give her time," he muttered, and he bent down slowly to put the dustbin against the floor.
"I know that's really the only option, but I just… I worry that I won't have enough. When we were younger, she–" Morticia stopped, shaking her head. "I'm sorry, I really shouldn't be bothering you with this. You're only trying to do your job."
Lurch stood slowly from where he was crouched on the floor, and he placed a massive hand on Morticia's shoulder. For the sheer size of him, he was surprisingly delicate. "Give her time," he repeated.
Morticia looked up at him, searching his face. “...all right.” She nodded slowly. There was something calm within the butler’s sunken eyes that made it seem as if he knew something she did not. He didn’t say much, but he was sharp. He was observant. If he felt that all Ophelia needed was time, perhaps he was right.
“All right,” she said again, and she swallowed her anxieties down as best she could. “I will.”