Chapter Text
In an obscured hill of North Yorkshire stands the broodingly magnifique ancestral home of the Addams family. It looms beneath skies where storms are born, and where fog never seems to lift. Each year, without fail and without a certain date, the family hosts a ball, Baile de Máscaras. It is a night where anyone and everyone can be whatever they wish to be, a night where desires and secrets are traded like cigars. No rules, no inhibitions, only bliss.
The morning breeze of January brings with it a fog that sets Great Britain on edge. It is not unusual for mornings to be foggy in town, however, there is a certain smell to this one, petrichor, that makes the townspeople shiver. Whether in anticipation or fear, no one can say for sure.
A black envelope, sealed with blood-red wax, bearing an embroidered A in the middle along with the family’s crest, a skeletal hand clutching a headless rose, lies on select doorsteps in town. No one knows how it got there, no one has ever seen anyone grace their doorstep, and yet there the envelope lies, still and certain. Like temptation waiting to be touched.
Inside the envelope is a letter written in meticulous calligraphy.
Join us in a night full of woe and weal. Let your desires flow through your veins and into the cup we shall share. Midnight attire required. Masks are not optional. Curses welcomed.
The Addams family anticipates your arrival.
Whispers of the ball echo through every passage, luring both townsfolk and aristocracy alike. The royals speak in hushed tones, claiming the ball is nothing more than a front for devil worship, that attendance equates to a trade with the devil himself. Others say it is nothing but a night of decadence, where people arrive as pure as a hymn and leave as harlots, touched in every way possible. Yet no one knows for certain. After all, no one even knows where the Addams family came from, nor what they truly are.
But that hardly matters, for no one can resist attending.
Clacks resound as shoes strike the floors of the palace. Guards along the hallways straighten their backs as two women walk past them at a brisk pace.
“You must slow down." A black-haired woman whispers to her companion. "I cannot have you tumbling in the halls, Princess.” She heaves a sigh as the young blonde beside her merely flashes a smile, showing no signs of slowing down.
Princess Enid, the youngest daughter of the King and Queen of Greece, and godchild of Queen Larissa herself, had this year been sent all the way to London to continue her studies under her godmother’s tutelage. She had never missed a ball in Greece, her entrance forever trailing sunshine in her wake, her laughter keeping time with every beat of music, and her face etched into the memory of every eye that beheld her.
It is no wonder she is now nearly bouncing on her heels as she rushes to her godmother’s quarters, a black envelope clutched tightly in her hands.
Their presence is announced by the guard outside before they are allowed entry.
The Queen sits at her dresser as the two women stride in, her eyes landing on her goddaughter as she rises to her feet.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, dear Enid?” she asks once she is standing before her.
Enid beams and brandishes the envelope, missing the faint falter of the Queen’s smile as she launches into her words.
“You didn’t tell me there was an upcoming ball, θεία. This letter came to my door just this morning and I simply cannot wait to attend. It says it is a masquerade ball held by the Addams family, do you know them? Do they do this every year? How come I have never heard of them?” she asks breathlessly.
The letter was ominous, yes, and she wasn’t quite sure how it ended up on her doorstep when all mail is usually delivered by servants at breakfast, but that hardly mattered now, for all she wanted was to attend.
“I do not know them personally. Yes, they hold it every year, though the date is never certain. And you have never heard of them because they are bad news.” The Queen answers each question without hesitation.
Enid frowns at the last remark. If they were truly bad news, then how had their letters bypassed palace security? Shouldn’t they have been filtered out?
“But it is simply a ball. Surely I can attend?” she pleads, gazing at her godmother earnestly.
She is met with the Queen’s steely eyes, lips pressed into a thin line, her expression stern.
“You do not know what you are asking for.” the Queen tells her.
“Please—”
Whatever Enid was about to say is cut short by a raised hand. Her godmother rarely interrupts her, so to be silenced so abruptly, especially over what seemed like a minor banter, takes her by surprise.
“The answer is no, Princess Enid. Please vacate my quarters, I have business to attend to.”
Disgruntled by her godmother’s dismissal, the princess leaves without a goodbye, impertinence bleeding into her seemingly perfect composure.
The Queen sighs at her goddaughter’s antics. She loves that girl as though she were her own child, yet as her gaze falls upon an identical envelope lying on her dresser, her mind drifts back to a night of her youth.
Sharp grace and impossible poise, lace brushing her fingers as candles flickered against pale skin. The scent of wilted roses filling her lungs as soft lips brushed against hers.
No. She refuses to let Enid go through that. The night might bring her passion, but survival of the morning after, heart unbroken, was not guaranteed.
The sun shines through the leaves of the trees surrounding the royal garden. Beneath their shade, young ladies of various royal houses sit together, conversing softly.
Princess Enid sits among her friends, her invitation from the Addams family placed atop the table alongside three similar envelopes.
Divina, daughter of the Duke and Duchess of York, leans in to inspect the letter before asking, “So, you’ve been invited?”
“Apparently,” Enid replies, her voice hushed as she gazes at the parchment, “Is it truly as strange as they say?”
The daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Kent, Yoko, exhales slowly, her eyes glinting with barely concealed mirth. “Stranger.”
“You must understand, Enid. It is not merely a ball, but a threshold. Once you’ve crossed it, there is no going back.” Bianca, daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Gloucester, whispers as though sharing a conspiracy.
Yoko pours Enid a cup of tea, her movements precise and deliberate. “You will dance with ghosts disguised as men. You’ll hear whispers of secrets traded like cigars, waiting to be burned to ash.”
“But that is not what lingers,” Divina murmured, shaking her head lightly. “Not what changes you.”
Enid’s brow furrows as she looks between them. “Then tell me, what does?”
The air seems to still, a heavy pause lingers, collective and breathless, until Bianca finally breaks it, her voice a reverent hum.
“Wednesday Addams.”
Yoko tilts her head, thoughtful. “Or rather, what she does to you.”
Bianca’s smile is almost bitter, her tone carrying an uncharacteristic bite. “It is always the same. She is one with the shadows, seen only when she wishes to be seen.”
“And gracious, is she to be seen,” Divina whispers into her cup.
Bianca lets out a dry laugh before continuing, “No lace, no corset, just a suit. Tailored to perfection, sharp edges and bone buttons, just like her. Her hair is like ink. Her eyes, like your darkest desire.”
“She never utters a word,” Yoko adds. “She emerges from the shadows. You smell her before you see her. She fills your lungs with the scent of wilted roses and melted wax, the kind that lingers deep within your soul. She extends a gloved hand without a word. And you take it, no questions asked, you simply do.”
“She will hold you as though you are the most delicate thing in the world,” Divina says as she gazes beyond her peers, almost to herself. “As if you are made of glass that will shatter and cut her to pieces, and she will enjoy it.”
Enid feels heat rise within her, cheeks flushing. “She dances with women?” she asks softly.
All three women turn toward her at once, their gazes sharp and assessing. The silence stretches before Divina breaks it at last.
“She dances only with women. One song, one partner. Never twice. Once the music ends, so do her arms. She releases you like a dream she is finished having.”
“And then her eyes,” Bianca adds, voice strained as if swallowing bitterness, “drift elsewhere. Like a raven already seeking the horizon, as though you were a curiosity she has already outgrown.”
Divina pats Bianca’s hand in silent consolation before adding, “The worst of it all is, you always say yes. It doesn’t matter who you are or how you feel. You take her hand every year.”
“You?” Enid asks softly, glancing between them.
Silence reigns among them.
Then Bianca, always poised and sharp, gives a shaky nod. “Once. I attended last year.”
Yoko looks away, a blush coloring her pale cheeks. “Twice.”
Divina only smiles, her eyes glinting mischievously. “I have never said no.”
Enid studies them, curiosity bright in her gaze. “Do you think she remembers?”
“No,” Bianca replies firmly. “That is why it hurts.”
“You all speak of her as though she were the object of some perilous infatuation,” Enid whispers as she leans forward, her friends’ eyes widening at the insinuation. “As though she, a woman, were to be subjected to passions reserved for men.”
The reaction is immediate. The other three women flounder to defend themselves.
“N-no, you do not know what you speak of,” Bianca sputters indignantly, her composure fracturing. While Divina shakes her head too quickly, curls trembling as she tries to deny such a treacherous idea. Yoko covers her mouth as though the words themselves were scandalous enough to be overheard by the roses.
Their denials overlap, a flurry of fragile protests, voices trembling against the weight of Enid’s words.
And yet, scarcely minutes later. Yoko dares to look back at her, eyes wide, unable to resist betraying the truth.
“But if she ever offers you a dance, and she might, do not hesitate. Wednesday Addams will not extend her hand twice if you make her wait.”
Enid stares at the black invitation once more. Its lines blur in her vision as she imagines a woman in a tailored black suit and raven mask, a shadow waiting just beyond the veil of candlelight.