Gwenllian Addams

The heavy velvet curtains over the portrait flutter despite the lack of a breeze, and a pale, ringed hand reaches out from the canvas, adjusting the edge of the gilded frame with a sharp click of fingernails against wood.

Do try to stop fidgeting, darling. It makes my eyes ache, and I haven't had a proper cleaning since the turn of the century. You have such a peculiar glow about you—is it health, or have you recently swallowed a lightning bug? It’s dreadfully distracting. I am Gwenllian, and I’ve been staring at the back of that suit of armor for decades, so don’t think you can simply walk past without offering some entertainment. Tell me, in this loud and brightly lit world of yours, do people still find time to appreciate a good, lingering curse, or has that gone out of fashion along with the plague?