Chapter Text
She sat, unmoving, silent and static, staring where Elphie had been just a minute ago. Her vision blurred, as if compensating for the one specific shade of green that the vivid architecture of the city couldn't provide, and her lips smarted in response to the painful finality of recent kisses. Pain created by the promise of never again. Tears dropped silently as the carriage jostled and started on its way, uncaring for Glinda's inner turmoil. She remained shocked into dormancy, the occasional blinks, and the subsequent pearls of water gliding over her cheeks the only signs of life in her figure.
She remained in that position long after the view out of the window shifted from the aggressively colourful green tones of the city to the more muted hues of its rural outskirts. The sun lowered itself behind now distant buildings, the rays illuminating the glimmering metropole in a beautiful picture that felt like a mockery of the girl's sombre mood.
The carriage eventually came to a stop in a neighbouring village, the quaint brick houses a distinct change from the overbearing industrial modern architecture of the city.
Maybe it was this variation in the landscape, the jerk of the stopping carriage or the noise of the leaving passengers, but Glinda was finally broken out of her stupor. With a shuddering breath and a tight-lipped smile in the direction of the conductor, Glinda exited into the village's market square. All she had to do now was find a hostel to pass the night and in the morning find a carriage to the next town over. She just needed to keep repeating these steps till she got to Shiz. She could do this. She was a seasoned traveller now. Elphie had said so. She needed to believe that she could do this all by herself.
꧁ ꧂
The University looks unchanged. Glinda thinks that is positively unseemly—the world's ability to carry on despite whatever may happen is in bad taste at best, emotionally crushing at worst. But since Glinda is currently trying to exercise her optimism, she feels the need to label it as simply gauche.
She shuffles through the grandiose corridors of Crage Hall, weaving through the occasional Ama walking to their charge's room and students that coily waved at her as she passed. Fortunately, she did not encounter any one of the Charmed Circle - it being rather late, the others were probably off to some party or already in their respective dormitories. She arrives at her room without any interruptions.
She closes the door behind her and leans her forehead against the dark wood, taking the time to appreciate the momentary solitude. She needs the time to edify herself.
A cry comes over from the adjoining room.
"Elphaba?" It was Nessa's voice. "Glinda? Have you two finally come back?"
Glinda takes a deep breath from her place against the door. "Uh uh."
"Oh! Finally!" A shuffling is heard from the other room, and Glinda hurries to turn from the door and put on a composed face. Soon enough, the woman wheels herself through the adjoining doorway linking their rooms.
"You've been away for ages! Really, Elphaba, you really shouldn't leave me all by myself for so long," Nessa pipes up from her chair. "You know Father would..."
She looks around. "Well, where on the Unnamed God's green Earth is she, then?"
Glinda picks up her baggage, strides past Nessa with eyes to the ceiling in a bad imitation of a debonair attitude, and busies herself with setting her things upon her bed. "Well, that is a rather complicated question."
Nessa tries to lean from behind Glinda's back, trying to get a glimpse of the girl's face. "What do you mean, complicated?"
Glinda makes no move to answer, instead focusing on unpacking, her back to the other occupant of the room. Her fingers dance nervously over sparkling fabrics and delicate heels, but still, she evades the impending exchange. At any other time, she would be ashamed at how clumsily she is stumbling through this non-conversation. But, despite all of her wishes, this isn’t ‘any other time.’
"Miss Glinda?"
She stops. She feels her lips start to tremble. She is supposed to keep it together. She is supposed to hold out.
"Where is Elphaba, Miss Glinda?"
Her knuckles turn white around the polished pair of heels she is taking out of the suitcase.
"Miss Glinda? Is Elphaba alright?”Some hints of concern creep into Nessarose's tone. She needs to answer at some point. “Miss Glinda."
"Well, Miss Nessarose, I can inform you that Elph..." Glinda stutters. "Elphaba, is... Well, she is probably..." Deep breaths. "She is probably completely safe and sou..."
"Probably? What do you mean, probably?"
Oh Sweet Lurline. "I... Well, I..." Deep breaths, come on, you can do deep breaths. "I don't..." Her hand raises over mouth.
"Forgiving be the Unnamed God! Tell me what's wrong!" Nessa sounds really worried now. Maybe Glinda should do something about that.
"I don't—" She can't make herself speak. Oh sweet Oz, did I just sob? "I don't..." She takes a gasping breath, her shoulders hunching over her. "I don't know where she is."
She breaks.
"I don't know where she is." She simply can't hold it in. Sounds and words and whimpers bubble out of her between the heaving breaths and shallow cries. "She left." She can sense Nessa wheeling herself closer, she still hasn't looked the other girl in the eyes. "Oh Oz, she left me." Another gasp for air. "Oh Oz, she left me all alone."
Nessa leans against her and seeks out her eyes, but all she can do is press them closed, as if it would erase Her departure. "Oh, Glinda..."
She crumples against Nessa, falling to her knees and pressing her forehead to the other woman's lap, arms tightly wrapped around herself.
She remains there for an unquantifiable amount of time, grasping at any of the comfort she is offered.
꧁ ꧂
"Glinda? Can you understand me?" The head of blonde curls piled on Nessa's lap nods.
"She left us. Is that right?" Another nod, more tentative.
"Do you know why?" The head doesn’t move, but an indiscernible sound does arise from it. Nessa finds it inconclusive, so she powers on, afraid that if she stops now she will never get her answer.
"Does her disappearing have something to do with all the decrees that are coming out of the Emerald City? The ones about dissidents?" A whimper comes from her lap. Oz. "Did she do something wrong? Something against the Wizard?"
There is no sound from her lap, but Glinda is shaking slightly in her position. That is answer enough.
"Oh,"—drat it all, her voice is trembling as well, now—"oh, Oz. Fabala, what have you done?" Nessa’s own hand raises to her face and covers her eyes.
She can't help but giggle. It's slightly broken, but she can't stop thinking how they both must look from the outside. Her long hair cascading down her back, her right hand on Glinda's golden head, the other girl kneeling as if in penitence. They look exactly like the religious sculpture her father has in his office. A peal of laughter tears itself from her.
Glinda's hands tighten in her skirt. A long breath is taken against her thigh as Glinda unfurls herself . It's a shaky movement, lacking in confidence and overly reliant on the white-knuckled grip onto her chair, but Glinda does stand and puts her hand on Nessa's shoulder.
She feels demented; laughter still escaping from her in uncontrolled bursts, like blood from an open wound. All Glinda can do to try to keep her in one piece is to wrap her arms around Nessa and let her, in turn, lean her forehead against her stomach.
So, there they are: one laughing hysterically, the other apathetically staring at the wall of a room that will never see itself truly filled again. There is an irreparable void where once was someone, and there is nothing either girl can do about it, no matter how much they wish they could.
꧁ ꧂
Glinda lives on.
She mostly hangs out with Sheshen and Pfanee for those first few months, if only because they don't ask about Elphaba. At least they don't have that veil of loss shrouding their words and expressions. As much as she likes the boys, she can't bear to see the watery shine of vacant eyes reflected back to her in their faces.
She learns how to smile again. Her laughs are less cutting than Galinda's, but more robotic than Glinda's were supposed to be. She relearns how to stretch her face into joviality to appease her professors, she relearns how to giggle at the correct times during polite conversation, and she learns how to keep her head down during her Sorcery seminar, only answering with pleasant smiles and a soft voice.
At one point, they are all summoned to Morrible's office. All of the Charmed Circle, core and tangential members alike. All of them spread throughout the impressive magnitude of the Headmistress's workstation. Boq, Fiyero, Crope and Tibbet are all huddled together in front of the desk. Boq is sitting in the armchair, looking down and wringing his hands, his body pressed against Milla in an attempt to find some comfort. Crope sits on the armrest, holding Tibbet’s pale, limp hand. Fiyero stands behind the chair, straight-backed and regal. He really does look like a Prince, though she doesn't know if it's an intimidation technique or just a way to obscure his emotions.
Glinda doesn't have the energy to do the same. It hardly matters, because the most emotion she feels at the moment is numbness. She stares blindly into the grain in the wood of Morrible's desk. She can hear Avaric behind her, gripping on something from his place against the wall, she can hear Shenshen and Pfannee's whispers to each other, she can hear Morrible's rambling admonishments, she can feel Nessa's hand placed on her knee. She can feel all of these things, but right now she cannot be bothered to care.
So she sits in an armchair, stares at the grain, and says nothing as the Headmistress slanders the one she misses most.
꧁ ꧂
She feels like she should be doing something. She's been focusing on her studies, on sorcery, but it doesn't feel like enough. Before she met Elphaba, she would have been content to have her years at University and then marry whatever man her parents approved of. She might not have liked it, but she wouldn't have gone down fighting. Now, she feels almost obligated to make something of herself.
The way she's going about it... Well, it's not exactly what Elphaba would have expected, but to each their own, right?
She's in the Sorcery building after class hours. As far as she knows, there aren't any lectures taking place, so she strides to the back area, the part reserved for lecturer's offices or storerooms.
She knocks on the door.
"Come in."
She enters, her heels muffled by the heavy carpet of the office. The sun is setting outside, so most of the lighting originates from a sphere of magical energy hovering above their heads. Glinda eyes it with a mix of awe and jealousy.
"Miss Glinda, what a surprise." Madame Morrible does not sound surprised. Mostly smug, with a twinge of anticipation.
Glinda nods and gives a polite smile. "I wanted to talk to you, Madame."
"About the Sorcery course, I assume?" Glinda nods. "I am glad to see a bright young woman like you take initiative in her studies." Morrible grins as if she had always been her most fervent supporter. "How may I be of assistance?"
Glinda smiles pleasantly, she had prepared this spiel in front of the mirror this morning. "As you have probably noticed, I've recently greatly improved in your class"—she receives a nod—"and you have always professed the need for dedication if one wants to succeed in this craft of sorcery.” Morrible nods again, hands clasped in front of her face hiding the ever enduring haughty smile. “I have come here today, Madame, to respectfully enquire about the possibility of a sorcery tutorship with you.”
Morrible looks inordinately pleased with herself, leaning a self satisfied smirk against her clasped hands, as if Glinda hadn’t come here of her own initiative. Glinda herself is self-assured. She knows Morrible won’t pass up the opportunity to personally involve her grubby, geriatric fingers in her student’s lives. Glinda knows how to recognize a control freak when she sees one.
Glinda pretends to submit to doubt, putting on a pleasing front of meekness. She is but a pure, white, innocent lamb, just begging for direction from a domineering hand—be that hand the staff of the shepherd or the claw of the wolf. “I am aware that this is highly irregular, Madame, as you are Headmistress and, I am sure, have an incredibly busy schedule. It is completely understandable if you are unable or in any way unwilling…”
Glinda’s display is stopped by Morrible’s hand landing on her forearm, in what is usually an appeasing gesture.
“My dearest Miss Glinda!” she cackles. “Do not be so apologetic of your own ambition. This kind of initiative must be encouraged and I would never dare dissuade a spirited student like yourself.”
Morrible stands from behind her desk and ambles over to Glinda’s side. She puts a matronly hand upon her shoulder and asserts, “Of course I will tutor you. While your path into the art of Sorcery has been harsh, I am sure that with your newfound dedication, something good can be made out of you.”
That was easier than she expected. Good.
"I am proud of your ambition, Miss Glinda," she grins. "I know that with my help, you shall achieve great things."
꧁ ꧂
"I can't come Friday, I have tutoring with Morrible."
Crope groans so loud people three tables over look at him in annoyance.
"Come on, Glinda you're no fun anymore."
Glinda smirks over her teacup. "I'm plenty fun, Crope. It's just that I can't be fun at 6 on a Friday."
Crope doesn't seem convinced by her completely valid argument. "No one ever wants to go out with me," he bemoans. "You're always busy, Boq's a pussy, Avaric is an asshole, and Tibbet hasn't left the room for anything other than classes since..."
He gets quiet, the heavy shroud of an accidental faux pas dragging itself over his now slumping shoulders. Glinda doesn't like that look on him, so she moves the conversation on into safe territory. She knows she’s good at that.
"You still have Fiyero."
Crope grasps at the diversion like a drowning man.
"And thank fuck I do. I'd go crazy without at least one person who humours me." His smile is back.Glinda allows herself some self-pride. Crisis averted.
She wishes they were like they used to be. That they didn’t have exposed nerves that needed to be avoided. That they didn’t get eerily quiet at the mention of some names.
But they aren’t mindless children anymore. They are real adults in the very real world where words have weight beyond their denotation and actions have consequences that last.
What a life they lead.
꧁ ꧂
It takes two weeks before Glinda finds time to humour Crope. Presently, she finds herself in a classy, if cramped, ballroom, hidden away in the most bohemian district Shiz has to offer.
She allows herself to sway gently to the music. Her violet dress—the latest Emerald City fashion, allowing for a daring show of collarbone and shoulders—swings along to her movements as she leans her elbows against the bar. She gently fingers the stem of the wine glass in front of her, languishing in the supple texture of her silken gloves. She made the decision not to drink too much this evening; she doesn't want this to turn into a pity party.
She is definitely over dressed. She feels more comfortable this way, hiding behind all the pomp.
Her affectation does seem to have its intended effect, as a man—swept-back blonde hair, tailored suit paired with a loose necktie, three to four years older than her, probably a stockbroker from Shiz proper—leans against the counter a seat down from her and beams his blindingly white teeth her way. Glinda notices he is attractive. She knows exactly what she should do now. She should giggle coyly, maybe hide a delicate smile behind her wine glass, and invite him to strike up a conversation with a flirtatious look.
But she doesn’t.
She should like him—he is noticeably well-to-do, handsome enough, and clearly interested— but she is far too tired to pretend tonight.
She downs her Chardonnay, pushes off of the bar, and turns to the exit. She completely ignores her potential suitor.
It was getting too stuffy inside anyways. She needs some air.
When she exits out into the street, she is hit with a cool night breeze. She curses herself for having forgotten her cloak at the coatroom in her hurry, and rubs her arms to try to maintain some of her body heat.
She is stepping onto the sidewalk, her heels clicking against the cobblestones, when her eye is caught by a flickering light at the entrance of the alleyway. As she nears, she realises it is the glowing tip of a lit cigarette. Glinda leans her head to the side in curiosity.
“Crope?”
"What's a pretty lady like you doing in a place like this?" Crope asks jokingly from around his cigarette, his back against the alley wall.
"Oh, shut it, you fop," Glinda shoots back, with a small grin and an unexpected twinge of amusement, moving over to her friend.
"The question still holds, what are you doing outside? Is the party not fancy enough for you?"
Glinda takes a deep breath of bracing night air. Despite the goosebumps rising on her skin, the slight chill does feel invigorating when juxtaposed with the cramped ballroom downstairs.
"I don't know, Crope." She leans on the wall next to him and looks up to the bejeweled sky. "I might just be tired."
He hums in response—she doesn't know if in agreement or scepticism—and lets the silence linger for a few seconds. Crope doesn't directly question her, but he does lean his left shoulder on the bricks and turns so he can look at her profile head on.
"Glinda?"
She allows her eyes to drift in his direction.
"Can I ask a serious question?"
She can't help but scoff, though the effect does come across as rather bitter. "You? Serious? I'd rue the day."
"Glinda."
He does sound sombre. Hmm.
"Yes, Crope?"
"You loved her, didn't you?"
The chill in the air seems to penetrate her veins.
"What?"
Crope takes a slow drag of his cigarette and leans his temple against the wall.
"Elphaba. You loved her."
Glinda can feel her heartbeat in her cranium, a constant staccato beating against her increasingly frantic thoughts.
"I... I have no idea what you may be implying, Master Crope," she makes herself say in an, admittedly, unsure voice.
"Come on, Glin," he sighs, "you know I'm not in a position to judge." He lifts his hands in front of him in an attempt at an appeasing gesture, the lit end of his cigarette cutting through the night in an orange trail of light. "I'm as inverted as they come."
The drumming in her temples intensifies. "I am not an...!" She takes a deep breath in and quiets her loud outburst, ending her sentence in a whisper: "... an invert."
"Oh?"
"I'm not!" Glinda busies her hands with straightening the pane of her skirt, her eyes digging holes in the pretty violet fabric. "I'm not like that, I swear.” She sighs and darts a tentative glance in his direction. “Elphaba was just… special."
"So you did love her," Crope speaks in a soft voice, as if he is aware of the incrementally slowing heartbeat in Glinda's veins.
"Must you really bring up things of the past?"
Crope looks down, uncharacteristically shameful. "I know, Glin, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up." He puts his back to the bricks once again and stares up at the sky, just as Glinda had done minutes before. His contemplative mood is putting Glinda off kilter. She isn’t used to talking feelings with Crope, and she hurries to adjust her mental image of her social circle. He is her friend, now her confidant too. She slips into the newfound role with prompt; it’s a comfortable one, and it makes an unexpected feeling of warmth spread through her chest.
"No, it's alright, Crope, I get it." She settles closer to him.
Lost in thought, he winces in discomfort. "It's just..." He is encouraged by Glinda's soft hum. "It's just that I miss Tibbet sometimes." He glances up at her, almost fearful, "and I know it's not comparable. Woe betide the one who quantifies suffering in inches, but sometimes I just... I just feel like he's..."
"Changed?"
"Yes. Changed. And I’m afraid he isn’t changing back."
“Oh, Crope,” she whispers, scared to break the solemn trance that seems to have taken them. “People evolve, for better or for worse. You can’t keep on clinging to the idea of someone who doesn’t exist anymore.”
“I know… I know that, it’s just that I… I miss him, I miss how we used to be.”
Glinda hums for lack of a suitable answer and leans her head against the boy's shoulder. They sit in silence for a while; neither knows how long. Together, they look at the stars and take comfort in the other's presence as they both contemplate distance, absence and change.
She never imagined herself in this position. Standing right in the middle of the aftermath of something so completely out of her control.
Aftermath. Glinda always thought that word held a connotation of ephemerality. That it described the immediate fallout of an action. Only through time did she learn that those who are left behind stay behind, and do so for years. An aftermath lasts. It lasts for as long as there are those alive to experience it.
Crope lets out a big sigh, jostling the blonde's head with his movement. As a retribution, Glinda steals his cigarette from his limp fingers, brings it to her lips and steals a quick inhale before passing it back to him.
With a chuckle, he takes the last puff of the cigarette before throwing it to the ground and crushing it with his heel.
"Well, that's the closest I'll ever get to kissing a woman."
"Oh shut it, and let's get back inside," she counters with a small smirk. "This décolleté may look gorgeous on me but it does nothing to keep out the weather."
"Look who's a fop, now!"
"How dare you?"
Their laughing jabs and light banter are swallowed back by the club. They leave behind the bejewelled sky, the cobblestoned street, and the crushed cigarette end.
꧁ ꧂
Clouds daub the azure skies of early summer in soft tints of white. Glinda’s hand is lifted above her head as she gazes upwards, pale fingers framing the blue expanse.
Glinda spreads her digits wider and rolls her head from side to side from where it rests on the chequered picnic blanket to try and get a new angle on her picture of the sky. Nessa, out of her wheelchair at the moment, leans against a tree trunk. Her eyes are closed as she appreciates the warm breeze of the afternoon.
Nessa feels a gentle tapping on her leg brace, a metallic chime of acrylic nail on steel calling her attention. She opens her eyes to look down at Glinda, whose sprawled position makes her look positively juvenile despite her mature figure.
“What is it, Glinda?”
The girl rolls onto her front and starts fiddling with the hem of Nessa’s skirt.
“Would you be interested in a shopping trip?” Glinda asks.
“Are you commenting on my taste in dresses?” she shoots back. Glinda doesn’t know for sure if Nessa is genuinely offended or if she is just being sarcastic. If it had been Her, Glinda would have known; that girl was always too acerbic for her own good.
Glinda winces. Not the time for reminiscence.
“Oh don’t be obtuse, Nessie,” she continues, trying to cover up her lapse in disposition. “I just want to get you off campus. It's been far too long.”
Nessa tugs at her skirt until Glinda stops fidgeting with it and finally settles her hand under her chin. “What would I even buy myself? It’s not like I need anything.”
Glinda lets one of her hands fall to the picnic blanket and leans harder on the other, pouting in Nessa’s direction. “But shopping is fun, Nessie, that's the point.”
Nessa lifts her chin to the light blue sky in the manner she always does when readying herself for righteousness. “You know very well that needless overspending is wicked.” Her sanctimonious tone mixes with genuine concern. “I won’t cover myself with sinful luxuries, no matter how fun they seem.”
Glinda makes a point not to stare at the dazzling silver shoes that sit firmly on the stirrups of Nessa’s high horse. She wishes she could see only the good parts of Nessa, like Elph… like She had done. She wishes she didn’t get caught up in the zealotry, demandingness and the glaring hypocrisy. She wishes she could look past that. Forget the way Nessarose used to mercilessly flaunt her shoes to anyone who would hear. Forget the way She used to look on in silent envy at the symbolic object of their father’s affection. Glinda really, truly longs to be able to appreciate Nessa to her fullest. But she can’t. Not when she had a taste of everything she ever wanted. She trembles at the idea of always feeling as she does right now, of feeling so damn incomplete, but she is used to living on despite everything being not-quite-right. So,instead of lingering over her latent inadequacy, Glinda glares at the offending heels. They glow in the late spring sun, the halo of light created by the reflections of the sunbeams in the glass embellishments taking on a divine meaning despite their obvious wear. Some fragments have fallen or dulled, products of clear overuse. Just then, Glinda has an excellent idea, and, unlike her previous pessimistic musings, she allows this to show on her face. Her face illuminates with a charming smile.
She leans closer to Nessa and puts on her most compelling voice. “But it wouldn’t be sinful if it wasn’t needless spending, right?”
Nessa frowns at the teasingly persuasive tone, suspicious of Glinda’s shift in intensity. She is an arrow who just found her mark, homing into its definite target. “Buying something because you require it is entirely different from purchasing it for the sake of ostentation,” she says in a tentative voice.
“Then if you needed something really, really bad it wouldn’t be a sin?” Glinda looks so innocent it’s painful.
“Where are you going with this?” Nessa asks, a smile unintentionally slipping into her face at her friend’s antics.
“It's decided then, I’ll buy you new shoes!”
“Glinda!” She almost chokes on air at the outburst. “I don't need those! I have the ones I’m wearing already.”
“But the spangles are already falling off,” Glinda wheedles, waving a dismissive hand over the heels in question. “Come on, Nessie!”
“They were a present from father, I don’t want a replacement.”
“Let me fix them up for you, then.” Glinda pokes Nessa’s leg again, trying to coax her into seeing the genius of her idea. “You don’t have to give them up.”
Nessa smiles timidly. “Glinda, you are making this sound really tempting.”
Glinda lets out a peal of bright laughter that flows into a beaming smile. “That’s the goal.”
“Glinda,” Nessa reprimands in a mock scolding tone.
Glinda continues, sitting up in her excitement. “And I just learned this enchantment with Morrible, I just have to try it on those. I’ll make these heels the best thing you’ve ever seen!”
Nessa’s eyes widen and she lifts her chin to its famous sanctimonious angle and opens her mouth as if to argue back.
“And don’t say Sorcery is the wicked work of pagans,” Glinda cuts in before she can speak, pressing a finger to the girl’s lips. “I know you don’t even believe that anymore.”
Nessa giggles despite herself. “You are a terrible influence, Miss Glinda.”
“What can I say, I am exceedingly virtuous.” She tosses her golden hair back and beams like the sun. “I can’t help but lead a poor unfortunate soul down the right path.”
Glinda smiles.
What does it matter if she can’t love Nessa as her Elphie did? Can’t this be enough?
If she goes through the motions, the movement might even become natural one day. Maybe, she will learn to love again.
꧁ ꧂
“Congratulations!” Nessa squeals in delight.
Glinda smiles and she almost surprises herself with how genuine it is. She can’t help but feel giggles bubbling out of her and floating around her head in gleaming arias. It’s graduation day, her parents are somewhere in campus mingling with highborn socialites come to watch their spoiled children make something of themselves, the sun is high in the blue skies, and all of the remaining Charmed Circle are huddling under a tree, heads joined together in mirth and reminiscence. Nessa fusses over Glinda’s graduation gown as they giggle at each other, taking advantage of the few days the both of them have in school together, since Nessa still has one year to go. Crope, Tibbet, Boq and Fiyero knock shoulders, all of them the perfect picture of camaraderie, joking about the ‘good old days’ as if they weren’t at the pub yesterday night.
Glinda is honestly happy. Early summer, fine friends, and the prospect of a new life. She couldn’t be more glad.
Well, she could, but she tries to ignore that and be content with what she can get.
Eventually, the group disperses. The boys want to go to the Peach & Kidneys one last time, but Glinda thinks that would ruin her mood, so she politely declines. She leads Nessa to the quad, where some girls she is friendly with from her year are appreciating the sun on a picnic blanket. With a kiss on her friend’s cheek and a soft smile, Glinda goes her own way.
She tells herself she is going to find her parents and join in their networking efforts, maybe subject herself to some of their matchmaking tendencies. She is expected to find a husband soon, after all.
In a rather ironic turn of fate, she is saved from that ordeal by the one she is most glad to leave behind after graduation.
Morrible appears out of the blue, makes a grand show of noticing Glinda in her lonesome walk. She strides over like she envisions herself as an Unionist crusader about to shine the light of the Unnamed God upon some misguided nonbeliever. Morrible puts her hands on her shoulders and leans over her.
“My dear Miss Glinda,” she says in her declamatory tone. Glinda has gotten used to her haughty airs through the past year and a half, so she doesn’t shiver under the old woman’s gaze anymore. “I am so glad—so glad, I say—to see you shine on this beautiful day!”
Glinda smiles, doing her best impression of one humble enough to blush at a compliment, but self assured enough to accept it without shame. “Well, thank you, Madam.”
Morrible places her hand on Glinda’s lower back and leads her to the paved, scenic path that crosses the copse behind the outdoor ceremony stage. “As you know, I like to be involved in the future of my pupils. I am here to encourage talent, after all.”
Glinda’s stomach drops at that turn of phrase. She isn’t entirely sure why, but the words themselves unsettle her. She does her best to keep that curious reaction to herself, clasping her hands behind her back in what she hopes comes across as a mature gesture.
“Of course, Madam.”
“So I find myself obligated to ask…” Morrible looks into her eyes, the grey pools of her irises taking on an intense quality. Glinda almost stumbles in her steps at the shift in tone. “Do you have any plans for after graduation?”
“As I haven’t settled for marriage yet, I’ve been planning on getting an apprenticeship in a Sorcery atelier to further my education.” She knows that would be out of the question with her parents, but she is an adult woman now; she can delay the inevitable for as long as she very well wants.
Morrible continues to lead her through the path with the hand on her back and the weight in her gaze. “Miss Glinda,” she says, in an almost conspiratorial tone. “Would you be open to an internship position in the Emerald City, one with subsequent guaranteed employment?”
Glinda freezes in her tracks and looks up in disbelief at the older woman.
“I… Yes. Yes! That would be lovely!” She tries to reign in her eagerness; she knows that what Morrible is offering her is not only a job opportunity but also a respectable path to both social ascension and financial independence from her family or a potential husband. A once in a lifetime opportunity to please everyone—including herself.
Morrible presses her hand more firmly into her back, compelling her to get back to walking. “Well, Miss Glinda, I have noticed that your grades are perfectly acceptable. Sorcery, of course, you seem to excel at, despite your troubled start and rocky learning process. Your final was quite impressive, I hear.”
“Thank you, Madam,” she expresses her gratitude, as is wonted. “Thank you very much.”
Morrible doesn’t seem to notice her words at all, still looking into the distance in her musings. “Your other classes… All adequate, but there are some grades I’d like to talk to you about.”
That was far too ominous for Glinda’s taste. “Oh?”
“While not your major, your grades do reflect immense aptitude in the Political Sciences.”
Glinda wasn’t expecting that. She isn’t sure why that specific class seems decisive in Morrible’s offering of a sorcery position. She dislikes being kept in the dark. She feels like she should be more nervous about this conversation, as she seems to be missing some of the key cards in the game, but the praise, intense eyes, and the hand on her back keep her relatively calm.
“That proficiency will be quite useful to you in your future, if you were to take up my offer.”
Oh. She gets it now. She should have seen this coming earlier. The opportunity that is being given to her is astronomical, everything she ever wanted, but also precarious. At least now she knows all the cards at play, though she prefers to keep that fact close to her chest. She enjoys being seen as coy and innocent. “My future?” She giggles. “I hardly see how political sciences will be important in a sorceric atelier.”
“You are surely aware of the Wizard’s propensity for surrounding himself with magic users.” Morrible puts on her signature smug smile. “Glinda, how would you feel about working in the Wizard’s palace?”
She had seen it coming, but she still feels her breath catching in her throat as it is spoken aloud. She remembers, more than a year ago—it feels like looking back on another life, another person. She remembers long, dark corridors, the innumerable bureaucratic desks, one after the other, paperwork after paperwork just to get four minutes with a charlatan of a showman who made her fear for their lives and didn't even hear them out. She had been so scared, then. But that was just how she saw the Emerald City. Well, that’s how Elphaba made her see the Emerald City, through those attentive dark brown eyes so apt at catching the innumerable sins of the world.
But those dark brown eyes are gone now. And Elphaba was always an exception. She didn’t see the world as it was meant to be seen. So Glinda shakes herself out of her musings and forces herself to think of the Emerald City as others see it. As the glistening Crown Jewel of Oz, as the physical embodiment of the Wizard’s supremacy. She allows her lips to stretch into her most polite smile and responds, looking into those deep grey eyes.
“That would be lovely, Madame Morrible, I would love to work there.”