Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

One moment people had been crowded around the stage, built only a few days prior and strung with roughly cut bunting made by the local children, reserved cheers and polite applause echoing in the late spring air. The sense of community pulled all together, brightened the already brilliant day into one that would surely remain clear in the minds of all for some time to come. The smiling faces of young and old, all brought together for the greater good; to help those less fortunate than they, to honour those lost, to bask in His glory.

The beaming expressions of the orphans whose parents had been lost in, and to, the mines in the north, were a joy to see. Finally gifted a spark of hope in their otherwise dismal short lives. Other children dressed in their best, lined up obediently and standing proud, attendees of the local school awarded prizes for their devotion. Others there too, those still struggling and many still healing, the few survivors of the Massacre brought there to recover. A ceremony included to bless the souls passed on and to pray for those remaining, a familiar and frequent occurrence ever since that tragic day.

The breeze stirred, sweet and floral, a gentle caress over the colourful tulips planted with care along the curling path towards the chapel.

Yes, it was sure to be a day long remembered. Though perhaps not for the reasons they all once believed. For that moment, like so many, was to be short-lived.

The sudden great sweeping of the wind, bruising and cutting in its strength. The bunting torn loose at one end, whipping through the air, the alms basket slipped from someone’s grasp, the contents scattering.

The sun blinked out.

A great roar. A fierce rumbling as if the ground itself was cracking open – the Time Dragon at last waking from its slumber to reduce the world to ashes.

Screaming, shouting, the stampeding of footsteps on cobblestone and flattened grass as the congregation broke, running in all directions. The great storm stealing the footing of the smallest and frailest, sending them sprawling, the ground littered with their bodies. Some helped; dragged them along or slung them over shoulders. Most did not spare a glance back. They threw themselves into houses and beneath any solid structure they could find. Prayed for salvation. The wailing of children and adults alike filling the air until it became stiflingly, claustrophobic. A clamour that could not be answered. Drowned out by the tearing and ripping of their world. An almighty crashing that barely reached their deafened ears.

Rubble and debris rained down uncaring of where it fell and what it hit, painting the sun-baked ground with greys and browns and whites.

Chaos.

Amongst it all, the sound of a confused, young voice called for help, lost beneath the weight of everything else.

The immediate stillness that followed was suffocating.

In whole, the death of the Eminence had been sudden. It was something Glinda still had yet to fully comprehend even as she stood there alone amongst the roses. Worse still on her arrival, greeted by black cloth hanging from the windows and the single balcony of Colwen Grounds, the fabric shifting limply in a feeble breeze.

The news had reached them with the same abruptness as a Munchkinland rainstorm. The rushed journey there a blurred memory. The public procession, which surely some would accuse of being an unnecessary expense, much the same.

The actual interment was a rather private affair, with only those in positions of true importance and those closest to Nessa attending – which were expectantly few. Glinda recognised some of those there in passing, a number standing in pairs or so, even as such, she remained on her own for the most part, as was typical of such sombre Unionist affairs. As was the social norm. The drone of the minster’s voice merging with the rustle of someone shuffling their feet, a cough, the ever-present birdsong a sign of the world ever living. Ever moving.

She bowed her head, repeated the prayers that meant little to her with all the care she had. Trying to put all her feeling into something that felt empty. Offering what she wanted desperately to in the only way, and in the only words, available to her. Her ever-heavy heart only sinking deeper. A life so tragically cut short... how could one truly celebrate that? Not that dear Nessie would appreciate Lurlinist sentiment. Not that it was safe to.

The reception that followed would be where the rest of the dignitaries and the like would pay their respects, and unlike distant memories, she was doubtful she would navigate it with all of the skill expected of her.

With careful dabs of the handkerchief pinched between her fingers to her eyes, and one last look to the upturned earth, the scent of it uncharacteristically harsh in her noses, she slipped away leaving only the minister and the gravedigger remaining. Her heart caught in its ever-tightening vice.

She made her way through the rows of roses, untouched by the fierce storm that took place only a short distance away. The bushes vibrant and precisely pruned, treated well so far by the weather that year, the pops of red present in a great multitude. The bees buzzed around happily, oblivious in their work. She paused for a moment, as if to take in their familiar delicate aroma. Her brow crinkled and, with only slight hesitation, she brushed a finger across a satiny petal, flinched back at a spark like the stab of a thorn.

Fingers frozen, a breath away, she swallowed and stared. She touched it again, surer, as if rubbing thumb and finger against a delicate fabric. Waited. Stilled. Reached out with her deeper senses.

Nothing.

Imagination made overactive and thoughts warped by rumours and murmurs she knew better than to believe in.

The petal fell gently from her fingertips.

She pressed on, in search of a familiar greying figure.

She did not fully understand the pull she felt, an innate desire to seek one with which she was now shouldering pain. She was not arrogant enough to believe that their sorrow was matched in its intensity. She knew this, and she knew loss.

Guilt, too. For her grief now, for dear Nessa, was not as great as the grief she had felt all those years ago. She cared for Nessie, deeply so. They had become like sisters in their mutual abandonment, though she feared they had drifted apart more than she realised in recent years. A fault, in part, of the distance and difficulty of travel to and within the Free State, becoming only more of a challenge with time.

Her connection with her Ama, on the other hand, had only strengthened during their time apart. A connection that would never have broken and only grew stronger with age. No matter the depth of connection, or the reality of it, losing a family member struck hard. To lose a child, she could not imagine.

It was funny, in that queer inexplicable way, that it was only once parted in this life that you fully realise your regrets. Consider what you have missed. Mourned that lost time you have never before been aware of. And now there was no turning back the clock to right it. What was gone, was gone. The chance in this life over. Only heartache and anguish remaining for what may have once been.

In a secluded corner, in the cool shadow of the manor, she found him alone and still. In the distance, guests filtered into the rose garden, the sound of voices steadily rising, interspersed with the calls of the birds.

To see him like this took her back to those difficult days, shortly after they had begun. It had been late at night, she once again found sleep a distance possibility, one she would never easily grasp. It was impossible to stay in her room, so she wandered the halls, found herself drifting towards the study with a churning heart.

She had opened the door, startled to find him sat there at the desk in the glow of the lamp. His head had been bowed, hands cupping some poor wooden bird that appeared to have been chewed by some young wild animal.

A pose he was now replicating in the present, as if the memory had manifested itself before her.

On his return, that sense of distain – towards not her personally, but her people – had still appeared in his words, completely unintentionally, she knew. An innate bias, but not to the same extent as others, something she herself was acutely aware of. Unlike later, when her study of sorcery became known.

That had driven a wedge between the few she had left there. Though surprisingly, Nessa had come around first, with Frex soon to follow. Nessa had even encouraged her, later, when she told her of her returned efforts in confidence. For that initial reaction, hurt though she was, she could hold no ill-will against them. They had their views, narrow-minded though they were. She could not bear to have lost that connection.

Grief, too, coloured much.

That bigotry faded away until they had a mutual respect between them – then a pleasant familiarity of sorts. Like… well, like true family in a way.

Glinda took in his wavering form, his figure hunched far beyond its years, his weight resting on a sturdy cane. No one thought to offer him a chair? Surely if not for his relation, than his vocation would afford at least that much. She cast her eye around, but there were no servants nearby, and no chairs present in the garden. She thought to fetch someone, but the thought of leaving him here like this, if only for a moment, kept her there.

Glinda’s steps grew cautious, though she made sure Frex knew of her approach by daintily clearing her throat, yet with some volume behind it. His hearing was failing quite rapidly nowadays.

Once by his side, she waited but a moment before she rested a gentle hand on his shoulder, a comforting gesture she hoped. “Frex?”

He did not respond at first, too absorbed in his own thoughts and sorrow that Glinda wondered if he was even aware of her presence at all. The pitiful reminder only adding to everything that encumbered her so.

She almost jumped when he finally spoke, barely heard despite their closeness, words almost lost beneath the growing chatter nearby and the weak flapping of the banners at their back.

“First Turtle Heart…” his muted voice cracked, his words weighed down as much as his frame now was. Pressed down by all those he had lost. Glinda ensured that her hold and posture remained strong, as if the stability she forced upon herself could be shared, could strengthen and support him also. As if her compassion, too, could pass from her to him with the touch in order to soothe his pain. “My dear Melena, my oldest child…” He sighed heavily, his misty eyes downcast. “And now sweet Nessa, my precious pet. It seems I am fated to be alone, to carry the ever-increasing burden of loss.”

“I understand.” For now she did. Like a shackled weight, a constant reminder bound to you, threatening to pull you down beneath the waves.

“They say such awful things.” Hurt, disgust, heavy in his words. Her jaw tightened. At least here, alone, they were free from hearing such things. He turned his head to her, lifting it slightly as he smiled weakly at her. “At least I still have you and my son.”

And his faith. Never wavering despite it all. But now was neither the time nor the place for her to consider such a puzzling thing.

She returned his smile, though hers was far firmer, practice made perfect. He looked once more to the rose garden, filled with people she was not certain he truly saw. “Surely you mean your son and his wife?”

“Do not belittle yourself so.” He turned his glassy eyes to her again; even now his face bore none of the familiar signs of Nessa, nor –

It was something she was, in that moment, greatly thankful for. Selfish of her perhaps, but it made things easier to cope with. To push aside. To stop the weight from pulling her down.

He lifted a hand to rest against her own, skin rough against hers, and gave a weak squeeze.

“You have grown." He paused, his throat moving with a difficult swallow. His eyes red, his chin quivering. "More than I imagined possible.”

The words could easily be interpreted as a veiled insult if she was within that mind-set, but she had clarity and knew it not to be meant that way. Not with Frex. Not now.

“I would like some time alone.” He shifted his weight, taking an unsteady step forward, moving from under her hand as he did. She clasped her hands together to keep them still. “Will you escort me to the Sunroom?”

“Of course.” As she moved forward, he stuck the elbow of his free arm out, an offer she politely accepted. Ever the gentleman was Frexspar, even as his hair grew ever whiter, his back more bent, the shaking of his hands ever more prominent. She slid her arm through his and they began their slow and careful walk away from the rose garden in a comforting silence.

Frex’s wish for time alone was not as certain at first. They had stayed together for a little while, simply existing in one another’s presence and sharing in a wordless understanding, before she at last took her leave. She, too, would much rather have been left alone for the rest of the day, to try to come to terms with the loss, to accept the reality that was before her and yet still seemed so distant.

However, as she looked out on the garden before she left him, in that so familiar memory filled room, she recalled all that lay before her. She had duties. Time for reflection, for private grieving, had to come later. She could not hide away in her room and ignore her responsibilities.

She caught one of her favourite maids as she left – Gertie (oh what a sight she must have made so long ago when that once lone maid stood before her in duplicate. Twins. All that time) – who was ensuring a flower arrangement in a nearby corridor was still as expected, Glinda requested that she bring tea to Frex. The always prim and unflappable maid was swift to act upon her instruction, after offering her condolences once more, though in her eyes rather than voice this time.

Alone, in a corridor for just a moment, Glinda smoothed her hands over her skirts, granting herself just a moment to gather herself. To try to relax the tightness in her facial muscles, to pay no mind to the scratchiness in her eyes. When she forced herself to move, her steps were accompanied by a rhythmic click. She paused from her path only briefly to duck into a side room she knew housed an oval mirror, to check she was still impeccably presented. Makeup neither running nor smudged; dress tasteful, exquisite and modest. Satisfied and composed, if only in that, she left.

The uncertainty concerning the succession had been palpable from the beginning. It was best for her to behave in a balanced manner, clear she would take the reins if necessary, but not enough to appear arrogant in assumption. Even so, it seemed that between herself and Shell, the general consensus was quite clear. Though that did not rule out that people were simply ensuring that all potential possibilities were covered.

The sun warmed her skin as she exited the mansion, the scent of the roses stronger than before, but the voices stronger still.

She glanced around subtly, but had yet to see Nanny. Her absence at the interment, she could understand in a way, never one to be shy of her opinion on Unionism. Even so, she had expected her to be there. She had aided Nessie in her studies despite her great displeasure towards it. Attended service with her, something in which Glinda felt compelled to follow despite her own feelings on the matter. Grief, perhaps, too great for Nanny to bear. Though, with her Lurlinist beliefs, surely she understood. Though Glinda knew that did little to lessen the pain.

She thought, for a moment as she passed a huddled group, she caught whispers. Hushed mentions of wickedness and witch. Foolishness. All of it. A twisted name given to Nessa by tabloids and used in satirical drawings in the City, all due to her strive for independence. Senseless, the lot of it, Nessa had no talent for sorcery, it went against what she believed in, neither did – none of the family did. Glinda, of all people, should know.

“– the sky turned green, so they say.”

“A sign if there ever was one. Great balls of ice fell –”

The Wizard had sent a representative, drabbed in green and gold and dark blue, the poor beleaguered man had paid his respects – and to her, also, a wish of best fortune and a promise to continue their working relationship – and then he had taken his leave as swiftly as was considered polite. Not a moment passed where he was free from the piercing gazes and purposefully pointed looks of others.

“Glinda, dear!” A voice called, Dame Margolotte of Wend Fallows lifted a hand, catching her attention a short distance away. She turned to say something to the women with her, a smile on her face. Glinda slipped past two deeply conversing men, unnoticed.

“– left as quick as she appeared.”

“Running away, I would say.”

Margo held out her hands, taking Glinda’s in greeting. An action that had once been so odd, came so naturally now. “How lovely to see you again, such a shame it could not be in more pleasant circumstances.”

“Truly,” she replied with a sad turn to her smile, their hands parting, “I do so look forward to your letters.”

After their first meeting at the funeral reception that followed Peerless Thropp’s passing, she had been quite surprised to receive a letter sometime later. And though it had taken her a great while to respond, the delay had affected nothing. Sporadic, their contact, but present ever since.

Margo grew sombre. “We offer our most sincere condolences.” She pressed a hand to the back of the woman next to her – the girl, Glinda realised when their eyes met. “My daughter, soon to be of age, and ready to take over from her father.” Margo laughed, as if in relief, brushing a hand over her daughter’s carefully styled hair, mindful of dislodging or pricking herself upon pins. “Finally listened to sense to go back to the proper tradition.”

“I’m happy for you.” She was, knowing how arduously Margo fought for the change. Glinda turned to Margo’s daughter, inclining her head in greeting and offering both hands even though this was the first that they had met. “A pleasure to meet you at last, Sallie.”

The girl’s eyes widened, but she covered her surprise quickly and accepted the greeting. “Your Eminence, I am sorry for your loss.”

“As are we all, I should hope,” the other woman present said, taking the opportunity as soon as a hint towards silence rose. She was a stocky woman with a natural displeasure to her expression. “Isomere Seban.”

“Ah,” Glinda said without a moment’s thought or a sign of her distraction at a title so easily given to her – at the assumption, “Eminent Seban, a pleasure to meet you.”

“And I, you.” Isomere did not move to offer nor accept a hand, her right swirling a glass of deep red wine. Glinda let the slight lift of hers fall. “Thank you all for your condolences.”

It seemed that her presence had been noticed, or pointed out, others appearing to offer words of acknowledgment, sympathy, and well wishes. A few hardly discreet attempts to turn the light conversation to political matters were deflected easily enough, as were those attempting to ingratiate themselves. Now was not the moment for that, nor they the people. But it was expected, unfortunately.

The four of them alone again, a glass of wine of her own now in hand, Isomere enquired after Margo’s husband – a not so subtle attempt to see his feelings on the matter of handing his title down, or so it would seem if her voice carried any intonation and her eyes any interest. It was her way, Glinda concluded quickly, easily misinterpreted if one did not pay attention or chose intentionally to not do so.

“Oh, you know how husbands are.” Margo chuckled, waving her fingers in an exaggerated flippant gesture.

It was easy enough to laugh along with her, Glinda casting an apathetic eye to a group of men opposite. “They have only two faults; everything they say, and everything they do.”

They laughed good-naturedly, and Glinda tried to take some lift from it.

Glinda took a sip of her wine, even more acrid than it once was after the easier access to quality wines in the City. Yet, it brought with it a peculiar sense of comforting familiarity, one that raised a slight tilt to her lips she could not quite understand.

“It is a shame the Lady Locasta could not attend,” Margo said with a trepidation that caught Glinda’s attention just as much as the name. And it truly was a pity, her desire to have an opportunity to share some words with the Gillikinese Sorceress never quite satiated. More so now, with so many questions. It was wise, to make leave, and not just for the obvious. Absence would help extinguish the rumours and lay the gossip to rest far more swiftly. At least that was the hope. Though experience did not bode well.

“Rather occupied,” Isomere replied. A distant, but careful, eye was cast about before she continued, “Not as those fools claim, of course.” She looked to Glinda then, as if to reassure her though her expression remained unchanged. “We should not forget all she has done for us due to… this. True kindness is hard to come by.”

“Father says she travelled to Rush Margins only recently. To donate a large amount towards the construction of a number of almshouses in the area.”

At first, it had been both a perplexing, but pleasant, surprise to hear the Good Wi – The Adept of the North – of Gillikin – spoken of so fondly. Almost beloved in Munchkinland. Their natural distrust of the Gillikinese seemingly disappearing in her presence and at the sound of her name. Until recently, and in certain circles, at least.

A popular figure throughout Oz, someone she idealised herself, as did most Gillikinese girls in their youth. But it was a popularity she never expected to extend into Munchkinland.

“She would hate to be called that – Lady, that is. She prefers a more personal connection.” She had encountered many people who acted, or claimed, that they were kind and caring. A meeting, extremely brief and long ago though it was, confirmed to her the genuineness of Locasta.

“So humble too.” Isomere turned her eyes to no one in particular, a curl to her lips. “They should be ashamed.”

What followed were a few long moments of silent agreement, before they returned to the idle chatter of before. Glinda let the flow of it distract her.

But it was not to last too long.

“Your Eminence?”

The eyes of the others fell to her.

“Yes?” She answered as she turned, not to find another dabbed in black, but a woman in an unfamiliar uniform. She sat in an awkward way point between Munchkin and Munchkinlander, neither short nor tall enough to fit comfortably into either category.

“If I may have but a moment of your time?” The woman spoke in a strained manner, as if the words did not come naturally to her. An internal struggle to sound a particular way.

She stood as a solider did, her hat tucked in the crook of her elbow, her arm across her middle, the other at her back. A military woman – not something Glinda had ever seen nor knew of as a possibility elsewhere. There was a muted hint of the Gillikinese about her, if only in eye and hair colour and if she were to be generous, but all else spoke of true Munchkinland heritage.

“Of course you may.” She glanced back, but her company had already distanced themselves in the name of privacy.

“Firstly, may I offer my deepest condolences?” Glinda thanked her with a nod and a small smile. The woman straightened more, if it were even possible to do so. “I am General Jinjuria.”

A general? Glinda could not claim to know the intricacies of the military in any country, but she knew enough of titles and ranks.

Glinda spoke quickly with a smooth, polite interruption, “A pleasure to meet you, General.”

General Jinjuria’s eyes lit up a little at such a simple, and surely expected, show of recognition. “If I may speak plainly?”

Glinda barely had time to indicate permission before the woman pushed on, clearly having held onto her words for some time and eager to finally voice them.

“We wish to serve our country as any man can, as we once did and do again thanks to the late Eminence. I don’t expect a lady of your station to understand – to mean no offense, but those of a delicate nature I mean. You must understand,” she stumbled in her repetition, her brow lowering and a tightening of her jaw spoke of both frustration and embarrassment. She stood firm, still, continuing a moment later. “That is to say, we wish to still have that same right. We are just as capable, if not more so.”

“If you fear that restrictions will be reimposed, I have no intention of it.” In fact, she knew nothing of it, but she saw no reason why a woman could not serve her country, just as she had seen – and still saw – no reason for the ban on women attending the better colleges. To become academics and experts. To pursue whatever they wished to as any man was free to do so.

“Thank you for your understanding,” General Jinjuria’s voice had a breathless quality of relief about it. She did not slouch, but straightened suddenly as if she had, her chin tilted up. “I held – still hold – faith in you, I am most pleased to know that I was not misguided to do so.”

To believe in someone as such when you have never met them seemed a rather foolish thing to do, but Glinda was not about to voice such a thought.

“Of course, the title change is not official as of yet, but I can assure you if that is the decision –”

“If?” General Jinjuria interrupted sharply, clearly unaware that she had. “There is no if, that title is yours by right of inheritance.”

“By right it could also pass to my husband.” The debate was a weary one, with arguments from all sides.

“No,” the displeasure was clear in General Jinjuria’s voice and the hard sheen to her eye, “the title should pass to the next female in line, to you and then your daughter. The Eminent Peerless Thropp held that title for far too long, his refusal to relinquish it –”

General Jinjuria cut herself off, chest rising as she took in a deep breath.

“I apologise.” Another breath. “It is something I feel strongly about.”

“There is little wrong with having passion.” It is only when it drives you too forward, propels you onwards by desperation, that it becomes a problem. A familiar ache made its presence in her chest known. “It speaks of your dedication and your conviction.”

“Thank you,” General Jinjuria said once more. “For that. And for your time. Know that you have the support of many, though it may not always be clear. I hope the way forward will be.”

“If ever I can be of help...”

Hat in place, General Jinjuria nodded, expression wiped to that of a stern and professional solider. With sharp, sudden motion, she thumped her closed fist to her chest, twisted her wrist and slapped the space above her heart with an open palm. A salute Glinda realised. Turning on her heel, the General departed through the throng of people who spared her nary a glance.

She barely had a moment to consider contemplating their exchange, or the hushed words others believed private, when another voice called.

“Lady Glinda?”

The address was nothing but a courtesy; no title had been granted to either her or Shell – nor any for the current and previous generations. The last to hold one, Nessa’s late grandmother. And, yet, despite all of that the name had stuck amongst the people there. She no longer recalled who had first spoken it, and was not of the mind now to ruminate upon it further.

Her expression had grown stiff, the aggravation that had slowly been creeping up on her at last making itself known. She turned at the voice, reflexively covering up her slip, the masking taking far less effort when her eyes landed first upon Genfee’s familiar shining head, then down to his affable smile. To think, he had been the Estate Steward the entire time. In her immaturity she had been too quick to dismiss him, the edge of guilt still stirred in the pit of her stomach with the memory.

“Yes?” The exasperation she hid not conjured up by him, but by what she sensed was forthcoming. Surely the other business she was now likely responsible for could wait, if only for a day. For this day.

Though she knew that was not wise. The wheels were forever turning, people forever jockeying for position, vying for ascendancy, making their moves even on a day of mourning. She was not afforded the time, not when there were duties that, with each moment, were falling into her hands.

When a leader is lost so too become the people.

They needed a leader, and she was prepared to become that leader. It seemed a decision had been made, not just by the public, but by the ministers themselves. As such, she was unsurprised when Genfee informed her that the Council of The Free State of Munchkinland were awaiting her presence in the main study of Colwen Grounds.

How presumptuous.

She followed him, pushing down her offence at the arrogance the Council had already displayed with only a few simple actions. Even the normally mild mannered Genfee seemed irritated, his typically composed demeanour when carrying out such duties broken by the tugging of his beard. Fidgeting with whatever was to hand like an adolescent unsure of what to do or someone well out of their element.

Genfee led her to a door on the ground floor, not too far from the entrance hall. He entered before her to announce her arrival, and she considered for a moment asking him to stay.

She decided not to.

He hurried back out of the room, leaving Glinda alone with the occupants.

The main study was a grander room than the familiar one that carried too many memories. More sterile, more open, books precisely placed to appeal most to the eye. It lacked the authenticity of the other.

The men, all Munchkins save one, sat at haphazardly pushed together tables. Looking for all the world as if they were waiting on her, like she was a tardy student and they the teachers. She recognised some of them from when she still resided at Colwen Grounds, towards the end of her time there, and others from her visits.

It seemed that they were rather particular about whom was present.

One individual, a Munchkin with a shockingly dark toupee and grey eyebrows, was an especially outspoken individual – at least from her recollection. Nessa held a certain displeasure towards him, his attempts to encourage her to abdicate doing little to change that view, but one could not simply dismiss a minster. Though Glinda felt as if Nessa’s thought had turned towards that.

It would not be the first time that someone took an opportunity to sneakily return to a position that was no longer theirs.

The whispers were not as discreet nor as private as people often thought. The title of Eminent Thropp had been tied to that of the Eminence of Munchkinland since its inception. She knew of the faintly murmured suggestions to abolish the Eminence entirely.

Ah. She was fairly certain of just where this conversation was heading.

And with Nessie only a few hours in the ground.

Vultures. The lot of them.

He had failed before, Nessa showing the sometimes endearing, and often frustrating, stubbornness of the Thropps. She had politely refused again and again, month after month, until the Munchkin had finally dropped the matter. Seemingly resigned in his loss or fearful of the repercussions that may well have followed regardless.

Little did he know, she could very well match that stubbornness.

She did not greet them straight away, instead walking to the large desk at the opposite end of the room rather than take the empty seat placed at the front, forcing them to turn in their seats to keep an eye on her. She hesitated for a moment, before deciding not to sit down. Instead, she lifted her head even higher, exaggerating her height advantage and rested her hands on the back of the exquisitely carved chair.

“You wished to speak to me?”

A Munchkin with oversized eyebrows and narrow eyes cleared his throat, standing as he did. “We, err, wished to broach a subject with you,” he began, scratching at his throat with a fat finger when he paused. “With the Eminence dead and the condition of Munchkinland at present, we thought it most important.”

“That I understand.” And Glinda did, Nessa does – did her best, but all realms have problems that will rear their heads no matter what actions a leader takes. Do one action, problems will arise; take the opposite action and different problems appear instead. There was no winning, only a balance of slightly less problematic losses, or those easier to mend. With those events Nessa had spoken of… “But Nessarose passed only recently, was buried barely a few hours prior to this moment. Surely it can wait until at least tomorrow morn.”

Eyebrows, for his part, had the decency to look ashamed. The other men suddenly seemed a little more apprehensive, all aside from the toupee wearing Munchkin and the Munchkinlander.

Toupee rose to his feet and marched straight towards the desk, tilting his head up and squaring his chin as if that would actually make an impression. “There can be no waiting. The time to take action is now.” He punctuated his words with a slam of a palm on the dark wood of the desk separating them, his pale brows drawn low. “Am I incorrect?” He turned to the five individuals behind him, gesturing with his hands. They all nodded their agreement, though Eyebrow’s head moved more hesitantly.

The Munchkinlander, though closer to a Munchkin in height if she were to be unkind, spoke next, his face tightly constricted. “He is right. There can be no more waiting when Munchkinland is in need of a firm guiding hand.” He stood, brushing his hands over his suit jacket. “As Prime Minster –”

“Prime Minster?” Glinda raised her brow, a hint of amusement about her mouth. “Nipp, is it not?” For she recognised the taller man if only in passing. Enough to have a name. “Nessarose had no such thing. The last I was aware, you were simply a concierge here.” A purposeful error on her part, the twitch of his brow most satisfying.

“We were all in agreement,” he insisted, gripping the lapel of his jacket in a too firm hold that pulled at the material.

“We,” she queried, “I do not recall hearing of such a vote.” Her teeth cut at her cheek to steady the rising swell of her anger from seeping into words. Such fickle behaviour, some would call it seditious, compare them to snakes waiting to bare their fangs and strike. Her knuckles flared white for a moment. “That being said, if official, I will of course not refuse to acknowledge such an appointment.”

“I can assure you,” he stressed with a sense of smugness and a tilt up of his bearded chin, “that we all were in joint agreement.”

Glinda lifted a single eyebrow. “You do not believe I am skilled enough to replace Nessarose?”

Toupee shock his head, sending the hair upon his head askew, he opened his mouth, but she cut him off –

“This is about abolishing the title again, is it not? Well, that will not happen.” She had not meant to snap, but after all that had happened in the past weeks could she really be blamed for doing so? She had lost a friend, a confidant, a sister, for Lurlina’s sake!

She took a breath and willed herself to calm. Unfortunately, that did not last long, Nipp instead continuing on in spite of her clear refusal.

“Nessarose did not leave a will; as such she did not state what is to happen when she dies.”

“I know what a will is.” Presenting oneself as frivolous had benefit, but to have it assumed when she had not done so was enough to sharpen her tone. “Something that is not required.”

“I think you will find –”

“Something that is not required,” she stressed the words this time, trying to get it to stick in his thick skull. Had they not reached such a conclusion themselves? Was that not why she was standing here right now? If they were so certain, there would be no need for any of this. It would simply be gone. Speculation and debate amongst others shutdown quickly. But the reality was this was not a decision that could be made amongst the ministers alone, not without repercussion or effect on others. “Not with a tradition of this sort.”

The men in the room seemed to shrink at her words, apparently beginning to see that they would not be able to exert their power over her as they originally thought. All expect the two before her.

Toupee hit the surface of the desk with both hands this time, his lips curled back over his teeth.

Another, his stomach protruding obscenely, gained courage at this, clambering to his feet and waddling forward besides his colleague. “How do we know you’re not in league with that Gillikinese Wit – Adept? How do we know that she was not sent her to dispose of the Eminence? To use that girl as a scapegoat when it did not end up looking like an accident?”

Now they cared for Nessie?

“What happened was a freak accident – a tragedy. There is no evidence to the contrary. It was a storm,” Glinda repeated, having grown long tired of such claims. Ones that had plagued her since her arrival. “One cannot simply summon a storm.”

“Then why did she run away?”

Glinda’s lips pressed into a thin line, her composure failing as her anger grew steadily more apparent; something that was not recognised by Toupee, nor barely herself.

They would not see the wiseness in Locasta’s actions. That her swift decision to leave was less for herself than for the girl who left with her. The one some deemed mystical in one form or another, and from all manner of groups and fractions.

Of course the Council would claim she was running away. Anything to strengthen their own argument, no matter how pathetic it was.

“Your kind cares nothing for us, your hand will be far too soft,” Toupee snarled, “It is time we controlled our futures, no more interference from others.”

“Is this to do with my heritage?!” The pitch of her voice dropped, the last word hissed rather than spoken. The other occupants of the room visibly shrunk or stepped back this time, even the raging Munchkin before her. “You are trying to find a loophole in a centuries old practice, one this family has maintained and has only been strengthened with time, because I am Gillikinese?!”

“Err –”

“And Nessarose? Why did you want her to abolish the title?” For their reasons – it now apparent they were not the action of one alone even then – had been much the same as the ones they confronted her with now, only when they were brought up with Nessie they had been far weaker, with much less evidence to back them up. Now most of the problems came from the pressure placed upon Munchkinland by Loyal Oz, something that could not be easily controlled or rectified, until now that is. For her thoughts were different. “Because of her association with me? Is that it?”

“This has nothing to do with race.” Thick beads of sweat were forming on the creases of his forehead, beginning to roll down his face sluggishly. “You are simply not a native, you do not understand what Munchkinland needs.”

“That was supposed to convince me that this has nothing to do with race?” The bigoted fool. Her knowledge on Nessa’s parenthood – unconfirmable as it was – was not something she would ever share, but Nessa’s pinkish skin and wider features might have given rise to gossip that Glinda had not heard. If that was true, then maybe race played a part with their attempts to oust Nessie also. Then again, Munchkins were not very good at keeping secrets, nor were they all that subtle, and she herself would never have suspected, if not for… she cast her eyes over the men once more. “Or is it our gender you have issue with?”

Flustered and sweating more profusely, Toupee, pressed a handkerchief to his brow, his cheeks burning bright. “I – that isn’t –”

As he continued spluttering, the others remained silent, their eyes wide and faces pale. Eyebrows edged towards the door with the carefulness of one confronted by an enraged beast.

Perhaps it was wrong of her to twist things, for surely they did have a slight point buried deep beneath their bigotry, but – for reasons she could not discern – she would not let them take what was now rightfully hers. She had been through enough to get this far, lost too much too quickly, only to now lose the only thing left for her to gain. It was in her protection. It was in her care.

She raised her chin, straightened her shoulders to put forth the image of pure power and authority that she needed to get across to these men, her smile most pleasant. “In the future there may be time for discussions of concessions, the possibility for reducing the powers of the Eminence of Munchkinland, maybe to the point of it only being a figurehead.”

Nipp – for the Prime Minster – was more than happy to hide behind Toupee. Leaving him appearing as the group’s unofficial leader. His throat bobbed rapidly as he tried to swallow his words, tried to grab them from the space between them and stuff them back inside; to force them down and pray they had never been released into the air.

“Until then, I remain. The Free State of Munchkinland needs to know that they have someone in charge. Someone they can voice any concerns to, someone to look up to in this dark time. Surely even you can understand the benefit? See what is best for our country as a whole?”

The other occupants in the room were still shrouded in silence, the air around them still while the air around her crackled and tingled against her skin – enough so she feared she may have unintentionally used her sorcery skills on the short fellows. Not that she could, she would feel wholly horrified if she had even accidently. Even the thought left a decidedly awful taste in her mouth. Not that sorcery of that sort was easy to do so intentionally; to defend yourself, or injury from a backlash or a failsafe, but to intentionally harm? Impossible. Mind manipulation? Immoral, forbidden, an unteachable rumour.

And there she goes, getting off topic in a way she has not done in a long time.

Glinda’s smile did not so much as twitch, still lovely, still disarming. “I really must ask that we cut this meeting short.” She tilted her chin up, an action of finality and perhaps grief. Leaving no room for argument. “You must understand the day, my temperament, for I have lost one who is like a sister to me.” Some, at least, had enough sense about them to look ashamed. “We shall continue this tomorrow.” Her look was pointed, but polite. “In the Parlour, as is only right for our first official meeting. A far more pleasing environment for such.”

There was a grumble, but no one voiced an argument.

Handkerchief crumpled in his hand, the still red-faced Munchkin bowed his head, his fellows following suit.

“Of course, Your Eminence.”

If it had not been for the weight of sorrow, the stress of the day, she would have mortified by losing control of her temper in such a way. Grief, they could understand that, could they not?

Considering what she had encountered, quite possibly not.

It still licked at her – anger and grief both.

What fools! How could they possibly believe that Nessa’s death had anything to do with the Northern Adept – that term still feeling so new, after witch had been twisted into something dark.

She did not truly know Locasta, had never attended one of her soirées as she had once dreamt of. A few invites had arrived, a token extended to family of someone of importance – or perhaps for her to be viewed as a representative of such – but it had been when she was deeply within herself, so they had remained unanswered.

She had, eventually, had a brief meeting with the Gillikinese Sorceress, and confirmed in those few moments what she had been led to believe of her. It had been at a large celebration in Shiz for the final approval of the extension of the Great Gillikin Railway south. Of course, as they had in her youth, the plans had fallen through at the last moment due to some dispute, or clause, or difficulty that was never made clear. A great loss in her opinion, more so, with the excited murmurings of an extension into Munchkinland that could follow. An advancement that would surely have only benefited everyone. Disappointment, though it was, at least she was able to meet such an influential figure before the plans did fall.

When the locals noticed Locasta’s presence there – in Munchkinland so soon after the death of the Eminence – things were different, celebration entwined equally with its opposite. Untouched, previously, by the inherent dislike of the Gillikinese the Munchkins typically held. It reared its head, mixed with her being part of Loyal Oz, the so called ‘enemy’. The rumours sparking and catching with little effort.

As so did hardened looks directed at Glinda herself. All of it turned in her stomach. Anyone with more than fluff between the ears would realise how ridiculous the claims were, but Munchkins were never particularly smart. And the Council more than proved that.

For her part, she ignored the whispers. Not for the first time, and undoubtedly not for the last.

Ignored rumours would disappear eventually. For all of them, or so she tried to convince herself. But for now, circumstances were different.

The girl. Strange, perhaps, how she had appeared mere moments after the storm that tore the area apart and ended Nessa’s life so suddenly. Raising from the ruins of a house unlike any other by all accounts, the rubble cleared away with no hint remaining by the time of Glinda’s own arrival at Colwen Grounds. Some claimed it a sign the girl wore their colours, others that it was not Munchkinland blue alone. Others that the house came down with a mighty impact but remained whole. Stranger still, that no one else had lost their lives in Center Munch.

For a house to fall from the very sky itself, it sounded implausible, impossible. There was no way for her to confirm such a thing. Not even a single board remaining for her to request to view, to see truly how different the building had been.

But a girl she was, and from the sounds of it one so lost and confused there was no doubting her harmlessness. Though the same conclusion had not been drawn by everyone. The name spread like a wildfire across the dry fields of Munchkinland; Dorothy of Canzuss or Kanziz; the spelling inconsistent. A foreign name, and an even more foreign sounding place. From whence she hailed, Glinda did not have the faintest clue, nor did anyone else from their mutterings.

She would be safe, Glinda believed, even with the rumours that trailed her. With Locasta by her side, together they should be unbothered and free of harassment as they crossed the borders back into Loyal Oz. Back into supposed ‘safety’ as others deemed it.

Still… to survive a fall from the sky, in a building or not…

Weary, Glinda debated returning to the garden, but hovering in the entrance hall, she could not bring herself to.

A moment. She needed just a moment.

She made her way up the stairs and to the balcony doors, looked out to where she had sat amongst the dignitaries during the public procession. To the potted shrubs whose intended forms she still could not see. She needed to make sure they were maintained.

She stepped outside, the breeze had picked up slightly, too warm to cool her skin. At least the view of the long tree-lined drive, the fields, and the edge of the hill to her right, made for a fairly pleasant view. Something to ease the stress of the day as her gaze lingered on the hill, memories resurfacing of so many years ago. She pressed a hand to her heart, lowering her chin when she turned.

She had attempted to find Nanny again, had caught a member of staff idling in a less frequented corridor, only to be informed that she was ‘gone’. Sensing her initial reaction, or perhaps simply hearing how the sentence had come across, the hall boy quickly corrected himself. Nanny had left on some journey of her own, searching for something none of them understood. Out of grief, maybe, in the wake of dear Nessie’s sudden passing.

In an attempt to lighten the mood he had dragged down, he made a quick joke about a greatly belated midlife crisis, something Glinda saw no humour in. Warmly, she advised him not to be caught slacking again. Nanny was indeed very old now; perhaps her journey had to do with wanting to do something before she had no time left to do so.

It left a bittersweet feeling in Glinda’s chest.

Another farewell missed.

She had only just lowered herself into a plush armchair facing the open doors when steps approached. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to greet the intruder with a cordial smile and kind word. When she opened them and turned, she was genuinely surprised to see Shell beside her.

Her stiff smile eased even as all that resided behind it remained. She relaxed in her chair, but not overly so. Her dress simply would not allow it.

“Evening, dear.” He smiled blithely, before making his way to the chair at an angle to her own, so they could have a view of the skyline while also keeping one another in their sight. He kept his voice low, lest it drift down into the entrance hall. “How was your meeting with those old fools?”

“You know about that?” She said with no surprise, her words barely a question.

“There is very little that escapes my notice.” He lent an elbow on the arm of the chair, leaning his cheek against his fist. A smirk on his face.

“As I am aware.”

He caught her eye, she turned away. “Besides, your countenance makes it obvious.”

Glinda drew in a breath slowly, her eyes focusing on the sky as the sun drew lower, the clouds floating by carelessly. Hard to believe that such a fierce storm had cut its path nearby, had caused such damage and harm – had taken a life – only a few weeks ago.

“We should perhaps discuss relocating.” It would be far easier to keep her distance from this place, from the memories that the walls held. Their move to the City had been a mutual suggestion struck long ago. Yet, there had been a time where her thoughts had turned, and she had been desperate to return to Gillikin – to little Frottica. To impossibly try to turn back the clock.

Years before, despite their previous discussion, and perhaps with a hint of fear of losing the connections she had and everything else that came with it, she had thought to stay, torn between sweet pain and the agony of loss.

She had not been in the place to make any decisions. Truthfully.

Naturally, she let him believe he had won their ‘disagreement’ of where to reside, despite the truth of it.

“The townhouse – the City, I should say, is far more pleasing,” she continued, “However, to properly govern…”

“Oh, I don’t see us relocating anytime soon,” Shell responded following his words with a chuckle. “The City also has far more going on for it, don’t you think? Far more lively than this backwater hamlet.”

Now while she knew of his dislike for his home; his carefully neutral accent, his mentioning of it as rarely as possible – if ever. She had never realised just how much contempt he held for his home country until that very moment. His tone heavy with loathing. She could not blame him, though her long returned disdain came from a notably different source, one filled with memories and impossibilities. Of course now things were different. After the secession those in Loyal Oz typically seemed to view anyone connected to Munchkinland as lesser, if not outright traitors to Oz. Not that they had not already had very low opinions in Gillikin, she thought feeling the old prickling of shame.

Shell’s brow, which had drawn low with his last sentence, smoothed now as he cocked an eyebrow. “Though, now with your new position, we are free to relocate to the house my dear great-grandfather procured on Lower Mennipin Street. If the City haven’t finally seen through their idle threats.”

“After I have just gotten the townhouse to my liking?” Glinda fluttered a hand to her chest, spoke as if offended with a shake of her head. “The time I spent! And so soon after Nessa’s passing? No, not anytime soon, dear, far too much to do to get that house to my liking, and with so much else to do too, however would I cope?”

Shell shrugged his shoulder, taking her words for how they appeared. “At least there will be little need to worry over my allowance now.”

“That will not be changing, we have an impression to give after all, and the correct impression is worth far more.”

Shell closed his eyes, crossing his arms with a slight chuckle before settling back in a relaxed pose. “Certainly,” he agreed. “I think we can manage things from our home easily enough.”

“We…” Glinda raised an eyebrow of her own as she turned to face him fully. It seemed all she had done since her arrival was to catch and file away information, a useful and beneficial habit long developed, but always exhausting after a while, here more so with the place and so much clamouring. “My, how presumptuous.”

“I suppose it rather was. Or poorly chosen words.” He tapped his chin with a slim forefinger, twisting his face into mock expression of thoughtfulness.

“I rather prefer to believe the latter.”

“Of course you do.” The expression dropped quickly as his elbow slipped, he pressed his hand on his knee, leaning slightly towards her. “And you did not answer my question?”

Like a cat with a mouse it planned to eat, he would tease and play, stray from it, but never let it truly go. He would get what he wanted in the end, no matter how long it took. No matter how long he spent playing.

“It went as you already know it did.”

“They tried to oust you then.” Out of the corner of her eye she could see Shell nod at the end of his sentence.

“And that was as far as they got.” He looked towards her now, and when she made herself meet his eyes, she saw genuine fascination in them. “They will not be trying to dispose of me anytime soon. My charm, you see,” she said with a flutter of her eyelashes, a tilt of her chin as if bashfully aware of herself, “and I am rather easy on the eye.”

He made an impressed sound in the back of his throat, clearly pleased at that turn of events. No doubt he saw some advantage he could gain for himself, not that she could really condemn him for doing so.

“So Eminent, or Eminence, whichever title you prefer,” he murmured as he let his head drop to rest against the back of his chair, “what do you plan to do now?”

“Oh, you know,” she said vaguely, “I hear all this talk of reconnecting the lands and how beneficial it will be for all, I cannot see why it has not been seriously pursued before.”

“Reunite with Oz?” His head jerked forward, snapping to face her with a concerned crinkle between his brows. “That will cause many to revolt.”

“My,” she mused with a smile and a titter, “it almost sounds as if you are worried that the peasants will rise and dethrone me.”

“You think they won’t? Reuniting with Loyal Oz would be the strongest trigger for one to explode into being.” He shook his head, as if aghast at the gall of her.

It made her smile grow. “And they won’t simply revolt due to a Gillikinese lording over them?”

He shrugged, rolling his shoulders in resignation. “I guess you have me there.”

The warm breeze through the open doors stirred a few loose strands of her hair, she pushed them back. Ensured neatness. She let him linger in his thoughts for a moment more, before settling the matter. “It is merely a suggestion, to get the flow of discussions going with Loyal Oz. What comes from it will not be my decision alone. Just as Nessa sort approval for her decision.”

“Oh.” He chuckled. “I see. Good, for a minute there I thought power had gone to your head. And quite swiftly too.”

“I have ministers for all of that.” She waved her fingers, playing at carelessness still but now distracted from it.

Glinda weighed her next words, wondering whether to voice them aloud or not. In the end she decided she had already said enough about her intentions, veiled though they were, what harm could more possibly do? It would be for the best if he understood that nothing occurring at the present moment could change her opinion on what actions she thought best. He would find out, regardless.

“It is better to be unified, for everyone, I believe. Nothing will change my mind. No arguments you may come up with. Nothing.”

“But that would go against dear Nessarose’s wishes.”

Glinda’s brow drew in, a niggling feeling tugging in her chest. It would be wrong, in a way, one of Nessie’s last and greatest actions was to separate from Oz, and she had done so with such determination. Had, in her odd way, thought it would be best for Munchkinland to do so. She did not know the full reasons, she knew what Nessa had told her, knew what the broadsheets and tabloids countered with. The truth of it, perhaps, in the middle. Or not. It felt lost to Glinda, and truly so, not her playing at obliviousness.

Back then, when Nessa had begun her actions, she had returned to Colwen Grounds immediately. Had been delayed by damage to the road, intentional it turned out. Nessa had, at least, rescinded that order, if only in part due to how it would impede her visits rather than the impact on trade.

Glinda had silently disagreed with Nessa. Then not so silently. Had tried to raise her opinions, too hesitantly, perhaps, fearful of losing her. Nessa was firm in her belief that it was to be beneficial for her people, her outrage so blistering, the fire blazing within her so familiar, that Glinda had been lost before it. Confronted with it, there had been no arguing then. And, now, there would be none at all.

Shell stood, wandering out to the balcony to take in the grounds. Or rather the few people straying from the garden, or seen at just the edge of view.

A death so sudden and unexpected, Nessie had yet to even write out a will or verbalise her wishes. Something the Council had latched on to if their words in the meeting were anything to go by, and surely something they may let slip for now, but which will undoubtedly be brought up again in the near future.

Though, would Nessa have made one even if she had foreseen her rapidly approaching demise? Or would she have trusted things to continue under Glinda’s own hands? That she would understand her wishes? Regardless of a distance that may or may not have formed. Or did Nessa believe that others would know?

It seemed unlike her.

These thoughts continued running around in Glinda’s head, she fought to push them back for the moment but with so much building up within, she failed, and so she responded as she always did when conflicting feelings arose within.

“Do you not have some desperate mourners to offer a shoulder to?” Shell turned to her, amused. Few people there could claim availability, but when did that ever mean much? It would not be a challenge for him to find someone.

“Later, dear.” Shell raised his brow, his eyes dancing, but just as suddenly it disappeared, something catching his eye as he turned his attention back over the balcony railing.

The stiffening of his shoulders captured her attention with the unusualness of it.

She was to her feet before she could think. Her heart beating quickly with pitiful hope, her body aquiver.

Shell lent forward, looking down to have a better view of whatever he had in his sights. It clear whatever – whoever – was moving quickly.

“Well…” he muttered. Glinda hurried forward, almost knocking a topiary over in her haste to stand by his side, she followed his gaze, her own eyebrows jumping up and breath seizing in constricting lungs.

Her lips parted, moved wordlessly for a second. The beat in her chest quicker. Harder. A cry caged within her ribs. Her voice but a crack, “Is that…?”

“It seems the prodigal daughter has returned.”

She could not reply, not even to right his incorrect use of that word. Her own lodged firmly in her throat, and no amount of swallowing or gasping for air would free them to flow up or down. Her clammy palms curled around the top railing, threatening to splinter the wood with the force of her hold. It was all that kept her standing. Kept her rooted. Kept her present.

There was no misidentifying the quickly striding figure even in the nearing night; not the dark, drab dress and, as they passed beneath a flickering oil lantern, the bright emerald skin.

Chapter Text

With swift steps and sweeping eyes, Glinda made her way through the corridors of Colwen Grounds at a clip. Every area she passed, every alcove and shadowy corner; thoroughly searched. Every glimpse of what she thought was a figure; her gaze snapped to it with a hitch in her breath.

Staff absent, still occupied with duties outside or stationed at the doors, others busy ensuring lanterns were brought out and lit before night fell absolutely, if they had not already done so. Others surely upstairs, checking the guestrooms for the countless time, making certain all was perfect for the guests. Even at such sombre affairs people did linger. More so here, away from so much and with so little to entertain.

Need she check each room? Open each door? But she held a sense she could not name for the fear of it – the want of it. She knew that she would find no one behind those doors, no one she longed for. She would know. She would know.

She did not stop, even as her tender feet protested, strained by her heeled shoes and unrelenting pace. Did not stop until she finally saw another, or rather caught the gleam of the flickering lights on a familiar shining head.

“Mister Genfee!” she called, rushing towards him, a breathlessness to her words and a rare show of detectable impatience running through them. It veered too close towards clear urgency, she knew, but could not quite constrain herself.

Startled, his brows shot up as he turned and jolted back, as if afraid she was about to barrel straight into him.

She stopped, chest heaving impolitely, hands folding together at her waist lest they clasp around her middle.

It was most fortunate the corridor was a rarely trod one. And most others safely elsewhere.

Genfee was floundering, lips fluttering hesitatingly. He was tugging at the end of his beard again. “Ah, L – Your Eminence.”

“I am most pleased I was finally able to find you.” Her breath was still a little short, as was her temperament she realised as she tried to collect herself.

“You were looking for me?” He pulled at the sleeves of his dark mourning suit with fidgeting fingers, his eyes even wider than was typical.

He cleared his throat and straightened up, gathering himself speedily, and she could no longer tell if it was nervousness or apprehension that led his flittering behaviour. Or perhaps his fright was lingering from her charge towards him. She had no time to worry herself over the unsightliness of it.

If he was otherwise engaged, he clearly favoured her demands.

Glinda did not respond immediately, for she knew her answer would be honest and that would cause the man to deflate; her wish not truly being for him. Instead she moved the conversation – if it could even be deemed that at its current point – along quite quickly.

“Have you seen anyone…?”

Glinda pondered over her words, still trying to steady herself, debating over whether to directly bring up that… that Elphaba – Lurlina, how long had it been since she allowed herself to even think her name?

Her chest constricted, stirred by thought alone. A torturous plea reaching ever out, like tree roots seeking water. The frozen seeking the warmth of a fire.

Genfee shifted his weight between his heels, waiting upon her words in the manner of one long accustomed to serving. Her own uncertainty, her inability to read him clearly with her mind in turmoil left her wordless for a needed moment. Masked by the calming of her breathing.

The debate rekindled; whether to mention that Elphaba was there, and that she knew. Did anyone else know? What would Genfee's reaction be if he did not? He had been in the family’s employ for many decades if Glinda’s memory served her correctly, so would his views be the same as those that he worked for? If only she had paid more attention to his opinion of Elphaba, or had seen them interact, but after she – in the time that came after, it had been too much for Glinda to even think of her, let alone speak of her. And yet she so desperately wished to cling to any reminder, had done so dangerously, had feared so much that Elphaba would slip from her memory just as she had slipped away from her. A shadow in the night, a void where they once sat. A contradiction that caused such internal strife. That had clamped yet another shackle around her.

So instead, she chose the safest route and used the vaguest terms she could think of on the spot. Something which usually caused her no trouble, but in the present moment she could not afford to fret over her unexpected inadequacies. “Has anyone else requested my presence? Or is there anything else that may require my attention? It has been a rather trying day, as I am sure you understand, and I would prefer to settle any matters that can be done so before I retire for the evening.”

“Ah!” He clapped his hands together, the sudden snap a fright. His forehead furrowed and eyes flickered away for a moment. “Yes. There is actually – a matter that is, but I’m unsure how you will take it… which is why I did not bring it up immediately. I do apologise, I know what this day must mean for you.”

His slightly rambling and rapid speech bothered her little.

As before, she chose her next words just as carefully, just enough subtle pressure to coax him into answering without it feeling as if she were demanding one or was forcing it from his lips. It came to her easier than the last. Her heart low and pattering. “I’m sure there is nothing that could… further dampen my spirits more than they are already.”

“Of course…” His brow dropped this time, his lips turning down, his own sorrow or perhaps simply his sympathy for her palpable. It rested for a moment between them.

When Genfee moved, he pinched and tugged at the end of his beard, concern rather than panic clear in his eyes.

Glinda struggled not to hold her breath, suspected then what was to be confirmed. That what she knew was not a moment of confusion, truly wasn't. A small part of her, always vocal despite her certainty, would whisper the opposite. Insist it all a product of her delusions. Of her yearning need. Of her heartsickness.

“The, erm, oldest has returned.”

There was no need to fake shock or surprise. The ground had shifted, and it was a wonder she still stood.

Her composure was deteriorating, breath noticeably catching in her chest, her heartrate a pulsing beat in her neck. She fumbled momentarily for her words, her fingers tangled together so tightly they throbbed for need of blood. “El – Miss –” The words stuck in her throat. The wrinkles on Genfee’s forehead grew more prominent, a turn to his eyebrows. “She’s here?”

Her discomposure could be excused. By him and herself both.

He jerked his head in an affirming motion, even with her faltering, the tension in his face eased at her now thankfully rather level tone. That, at least, she could manage, even though she still feared that her agitation had seeped into her voice.

“I took her to speak to her father a short while ago.” He cast a glance behind him, then past her. But they were alone, and if anyone were to approach, they would hear their steps before they saw them. It was a wonder he had not heard her before her exclamation. “I doubt it will have lasted for any longer than now.”

He wrung his hands and shuffled his feet, but Glinda did not pay that much attention, too focused on his words as she was. On the looming prospect. On not letting it slip from her.

“Do you mean to say that you think their meeting is over?”

"Yes, they were in the Sunroom." He nodded quickly as he spoke, gesturing down the corridor in the approximate direction of the room.

Frex had remained in there this entire time?

Her destination now known in her mind, a peculiar feeling settled over her.

It was not too far. But time felt like it was running short in an hourglass.

Glinda bid him her thanks distractedly, barely managed her normal appreciative smile, confident enough she could figure out a path there from her unfamiliar starting point.

She hastened away. If Genfee was bewildered by her reaction or her apparent dismissal of him, she did not know, his fading voice wishing her luck as she took a left turn into a familiar corridor.

Another turn and she was in the entrance hall.

She reached the Sunroom just in time to glimpse a figure clad in dark colours – not that unusual considering a funeral had just taken place – disappear around the corner before her.

Her heart gave a jolt. Like a single strike of lightning from the top of her head and down to her toes.

There was no doubting that gangly frame. That purposeful gait. No doubting the urgent pull inside.

It could have rooted her.

The corridor rushed by in a blur, her footsteps beating a harsh tempo as she charged after the figure around the bend. In sight again and distance closing rapidly. She reached out, just behind, seizing a bony arm with both of her hands, and with a strength unknown to her, dragged them both into the nearest room.

Heart beating frantically in her rapidly rising and falling chest, clarity was returning to her. Glinda found herself staring at the closed door, the wood smooth beneath her palms and the sound of it slamming shut still echoing in her ears.

It was a cool and solid presence pressed against her forehead.

Her emotions were untethered, breaking their bindings and springing forward from that faraway place she had buried them. The swirl of it all spun out of her control beneath her breast, like a tempest, her heart the centre point. But it rested in no eye, its constant beat interrupted by brief spates of harsh clenching.

Acting on impulse was something she should have learnt not to do a long time ago.

Another lesson she had failed.

But her goal realised.

And yet she could not turn.

Finally struck still.

“Galinda.”

Her fingers reflexively twitched, her nails scratching against the door as she fought the urge to push them into the grain of the polished wood. Her name so long ago said, longer still in that low measured voice. How it came to her in dreams, in memories, those moments she scarcely could allow herself to recall. That she could not.

Closing her eyes, she took a shaky breath before using her hand’s purchase to force herself into motion.

Had there been hesitance? A hint of it in her name, a trace of feeling, or was that simply her wishful thinking?

If there had been, when Glinda turned, it had vanished, the woman opposite was as inscrutable as always. Oh, how her heart seized, it was all she could do to keep her hands at her sides.

Elphaba, much as Glinda herself, had notably aged. The stern frown lines deeper than they once were, her features somehow more severe, not helped by the tight knot of her hair. She had only ever worn it loose, those captivating locks – to be distracted so even now, Glinda could have laughed if she were not so lost. It was as if she had been swept back into the full force of the bewilderment of her youth. But, of everything, it was Elphaba’s eyes that struck Glinda most. Something was different about her eyes. Something harder in their depths.

It was, in a way, disquieting.

“It is Glinda now.” Her answer was reflexive, something she had repeated often, but over time the need to do so lessened and lessened until the words were no longer needed at all.

That at least, promoted something, a deepening of that familiar crease between her eyebrows.

“And why exactly is that?”

“I decided it was for the best to change my name to something which would be considered more respectable, all things considered.”

Elphaba did not rise to the bait dangled before her, to seek the full truth of the matter, much to Glinda’s surprise. Not even a jape about her finally becoming a convert. Instead she peered at her with those dark eyes, her expression bizarrely neutral but a jitteriness about her, clear in the shifting of her fingers at her side, but being draped in a heavy cloak, Glinda could see little more than that. Could tell little more. It was as if Elphaba was fighting not to move. To stand still. To stay.

Glinda’s heart lurched, a loud thumping in her ears. Was it truly that unpleasant to be faced with her? To be this close? All those old thoughts propped up like rocks on the mountainside, threatening to slide and come tumbling down. She; too desperate, too needy, too demanding. Had forced what she wanted. Chased Elphaba away. Been too weak, not worthy, not significant. To be left behind. Abandoned by those she loved, over and over. To give and never to receive. To turn, always, to those that would never reflect what she poured forth.

Her breaths were coming rapidly, a sharp growing discomfort in her lungs. Not here. Not now.

“Why exactly did you accost me and shut me in a room?”

Glinda could not answer that question herself. Was struck mute as she wrestled to hold those memories back. To manage herself. To try to soothe the squeezing press in her chest.

She was here, with Elphaba, the musty scent of dust in her nose and a question lingering in the air.

She regained her breath. Blinking bleary eyes.

She had not thought in the moment. Had simply acted. The room was thankfully unoccupied though it seemed unlikely to see regular use; dustsheets over the furniture and filled with numerous paintings propped up against them on the floor. And yet there was a lamp burning on a covered table, perhaps for the impression it gave to the grounds.

She had cornered Elphaba – no, not cornered, she had trapped her. She could not run, for at least a short while. And did that not confirm all those hateful whispers? Those painful aching thoughts?

This was not how she had dreamt of this reunion going, not that she was one to dally in such a fantasy. Not anymore. That well had long dried and what had been left behind was hollow and cracked. Useless.

Elphaba’s gaze dropped then rose.

“A lack of colour.”

“It is a funeral.” She ran a trembling hand over her bodice, realising belatedly that her palm was slightly damp. “I needed something more reserved, naturally. Though Lurline knows the provinces still need to learn some style.”

“Hm.” A quirk to Elphaba’s lips, one that pulled Glinda’s heart taut. The subtle agitation vanished in a blink, her body still. Glinda’s whirling thoughts slowed, the hissed words fading. “Too many ruffles can make one long for blindness.”

A laugh, short and startled bubbled from her lips. Elphaba’s eyes softened at the sound, the slight movement of her mouth shifting into a certain smile, one that held a pleasing glimpse of teeth.

“I can assure you it is most fashionable, something some still need to educate themselves on,” her retort trailed off distantly, distracted by smile and presence both. Elphaba scoffed, amusement crinkling the skin beside her eyes.

Glinda’s hand had found its way to her heart, as if to steady it or to check it still beat. To ensure she was here. Alive. That this was real.

“You came?” The words were held on a breath, followed, almost inaudibly in her desperation, with her relief as she drifted closer, “I knew you would.” Hoped. Prayed.

If she did not come for this, then the when finally became an impossibility.

“In a manner.”

“How did you know?” The news was widespread, naturally, but perhaps Glinda wished for a misstep. For Elphaba to reveal where she had been, where she was – a clue at the very least, but for what? For Glinda to track her down? To follow? To chase after a dream?

Her eyes fell to Elphaba’s hand, with her body almost consumed by dark fabric, it was one of the few parts she could clearly see. Thinner than she remembered. Her hand fell from her heart, reaching forward, needing the grounding effect of touch. The reassurance, the connection, that solid warmth. Irrespective of her prior fears.

Elphaba flinched, smile falling, twisting to keep her outstretched hand in view, as if the action was unexpected or unseen. Unwanted.

Glinda snatched her hand back, cradling it to her chest as if suddenly wounded.

Elphaba’s eyes dropped to her hand, something passing through her eyes. Her expression shifted. The deep lines marring her skin reappeared. The twitchiness returned.

“I have my ways.”

Glinda’s eyes fluttered shut but snapped back open as if Elphaba would disappear if she took her eyes off her. Elphaba was no longer meeting her eyes.

Hurt, deep-seated upset, crept into her voice, the ever-present ache in her chest pressed on like the most horrendous of bruises. “Are all your answers going to be short and cryptic?”

Elphaba did not dignify her with a reply, verbally or physically, instead abruptly turning her back to her and striding towards the bare window to look outside. The sky still holding a hint of the deep purples and blues of before.

There was much that they needed to speak of, foremost amongst them the loss of her sister, and those rumours that had been building over the years – those awful accusations. Glinda’s throat constricted, her heart despairing, her mind under constant assault by thoughts and emotions, all stirred once more. There was so much, yet one thought in particular kept forcing itself to the forefront of her mind. A memory. A feeling. Still fresh, a gaping wound that festered and refused to heal no matter the salve plastered on, the weak stitches pulling it together snapping at the slightest motion. A repetitive pounding against the front of her skull, the familiar prickling pressure behind her eyes and stuttering of her breath in her lungs.

“Why…?” Her voice cracked, perhaps a sign that a part of her subconscious recognised that she should be bringing up far more important matters. Not this. Yet, even now, she was still so self-absorbed. “Why did you leave?”

Me, lodged in her throat.

That crumpled letter. The torn scrap of newspaper; little more than a footnote about an accidental death of a prominent figure.

She knew enough. Wanted – needed? – to hear it in Elphaba’s own voice.

Elphaba did not react, not even a minute flicker of remorse or sombreness crossing the reflection in the window. Distant. Impassive. So far away.

“Was I not worthy of even a farewell?”

Nothing.

A callousness she had never experienced.

“You promised me,” Glinda’s voice was a faint strain, words never uttered, but held so close. Her pulse beating heavily in her neck, her vision rapidly blurring.

There was no obvious sign that Elphaba had even heard her, not even a slight wavering in her posture, a shifting of her shoulders, a folding of her fingers. Glinda’s voice was not that feeble.

The raw hurt in her chest was now searing in its intensity. Sorrow twining with something just as fierce. Glinda clenched her hands tightly at her sides, her nails biting into her skin. The sharp press like a balm.

“You promised,” her voice had strengthened, had risen in mimic of her temper that once openly sparked like a fuse. The blistering heat of it building within her chest, stoked by the hammering in her skull and the agony within.

She took a step forward, the soles of her feet protesting any additional movement. Grew larger in the window. It was that sudden movement that finally earned her a reaction.

“No,” Elphaba said over her shoulder, before turning to face her. Something unreadable in her eyes that resided in some place so far from her. “You made a promise. I never said anything in the way of a promise back.”

Her breath caught.

Words long held on to. Cradled to her heart like the treasure they were. The hope they represented. Even now, with so much lost.

“You implied!” Glinda cut in curtly, because Elphaba had done that. Hadn’t she?

“No I did not, if you thought I did then you are just as thoughtless as I always believed.” Elphaba’s words held a slight edge, something that would have been unnoticeable in another’s speech, but in Elphaba’s it was as good as a snarl. Her bark had always been sharp, but never to her. Never like this.

Why had this just soured?

The rushing build of unleashed emotion inside Glinda spiked, her eyes stinging as she fought the urge to turn and flee the room. When had Glinda ever ran from a confrontation? That was not like her, not at all. Not now after so much. Not who she chose to be. She could not tear her eyes from Elphaba. Could not leave her.

“So you expect me to promise to hold out for you, which I have! While you go around doing whatever,” she spat, “you have been doing this entire time.” She thrust her arm out, the sharp point of her finger an accusation. “You abandoned me – yes you did! – you left me, and I have done nothing but wait for you.” She closed the distance as if to lash out, in action rather than words, ignoring the pulsing soreness in her feet and head. Knowing she never could. “And how dare you call me brainless; I’ve always had a brain in my head. You saw it quick enough, encouraged me – allowed me to not mask it.” She shook her head. Scrunched her eyes. “I’ve waited, while you’ve been doing whatever with whoever –”

“What are you rabbling on about?” Elphaba all but growled out, her irritation apparent this time as she peered down at her. If Glinda had been in a calmer state of mind she would have been struck by the rarity of such a reaction. Before Glinda could think to answer, Elphaba continued, her face further contorting. “And where exactly is your rabble of children? Your duty?”

Those dark eyes, filled with a fire from long ago. The same, yet different. A stark contrast she could not begin to differentiate. She struggled not to shrink within herself, never before the true target of its heat. Never before frightened by it.

Glinda choked on her breath, it hitched in her chest painfully, the throbbing in her head reaching a peak. A desire to say something else, to fling out some petty comment in pathetic need to see the twist of jealousy on Elphaba’s face. Greater still, the need to see her lips thin and her chin to jut, her fingers flexing and words sharp, a purposeful stride, all speaking of a fury born from a protectiveness she showed one precious stormy night. To see that she cared. To believe. To know.

Instead of a deflection she was hit fully with the memories forcibly forgotten, with the numbing cold feeling, the echo of words and expression and movement, her voice fraught, “There aren’t any.”

The words cut, bringing with them tortuous memories. Fabrication and truth merging. Attempts, if it could truly be called that. She had done her duty, and he had grown bored, perhaps, from the reality of what that was. She had never been happier for the disparaging comments, the comparisons, given with a laugh, for her supposed frigidness. Sometimes she suspected he knew, or had his own suspicions of some sort. Paranoia had a subtle way of creeping up on you. Either way, the few occasions were unfruitful, short-lived, and long ago.

A failure on her part. To not live up to what was expected of her. To not endure what she always knew she would have to. An age ago that would have sent her spiralling, but she was not the girl she once was.

She pitied that girl.

Her shoulders fell, voice a weak and frail thing, “You know me better than that.”

How she had mourned her failure, while just as strongly feeling alleviated. A juxtaposition. A failure of her duty, a failure to her family. She had but one thing to do; to increase their standing; to carry on name and legacy.

She could not even do that right.

Two lineages to be blinked out with her – though for one, there may very well be those unknown illegitimates. Never to be acknowledged if they indeed were out there, they may as well be non-existent. It should weigh greater on her than it did.

Even if it was not truly something she wanted. Not in the traditional way. Even now, having subjected herself to what was expected, she still felt that deep-seated revulsion. Clear on her face, perhaps, or in her voice.

Elphaba’s expression fell, a slight shifting of her brow. Reserved. Constrained. Glinda could be generous and call it stunned, or as close to it as the Elphaba who stood before her seemed capable of.

She longed for the reaction of the Elphaba she had known, back when life had felt serene and blissful.

Elphaba knew the truth.

Yet she had left her there to face it alone.

Glinda’s chest heaved as she tried to regulate her breathing and rid her vision of the tears that had consumed it mere moments ago. To try to push it all away once more. It was over. It was done.

It was done.

Her shoulders shook, her arms tense with the pressing need to wrap themselves around herself. To tuck her chin tight and hide away.

But she was not that girl.

The smart thing to do would be to turn her back on Elphaba, finally put to rest her feelings and memories and hopeless wants. To move on with her life, if that was what it could be called. Do as Elphaba so clearly had.

But she could not.

She had never been able to.

She opened her mouth but closed it just as fast. Why should she be the one to apologise? Elphaba was the one being as difficult as always, or perhaps her experiences while she was gone had changed her.

A short time ago she had been able to breathe, it had felt as if they were as they had once been. Or she had once again foolishly assumed, too hasty to believe and see what she wanted. The truth, something else. The ease had turned for some unknown reason, and now she saw what was.

The air between them was not the same.

Glinda knew of the rumours, knew of the reports and stories. Of course she did. How could she not now? But to acknowledge that the woman she knew – had known? – was truly partaking in the actions attributed to her was something she had not been able to comprehend nor come to terms with. She had seen no evidence of the claims; save a negligible price increase here – the wealthy complained but as if it were but a minor nuisance; an obvious gouging there, the rich always hungry to grow richer. Disgruntled complaints about a delay at the border, or goods ordered not arriving with the same haste they once did. Minor things, irritations more than anything for the upper classes. But rumours had deep roots. But she knew Elphaba, on that deeper unacknowledged level. Elphaba was not dangerous.

She could not – would not believe it.

Elphaba made a deep sound in the back of her throat, almost a growl, her features growing stern once again, but her eyes levelled at some far point over Glinda’s shoulder.

“I do not know why I bothered coming back. It is always the same.”

Glinda held her tongue, stopping herself from adding that she did not see why Elphaba had bothered either. All it had done was stir up what had settled, bring forth what was long buried and locked away. Made turbulent, once more.

Nessa.

It was for Nessa.

“I should have known you would confront me with your stupidity once more.”

Glinda took a deep breath, motioning with one hand that she was calming herself, and that Elphaba should be too. Not one to engage in patronisation, she prayed Elphaba would not take it as such.

“You’re upset and grieving, I understand that Elphie for I am feeling much the same right now.” And had for so long. The name foreign on her lips, her heart as if squeezed in her fist. Given so freely so long ago, never returned. “But that does not give you the right to behave in such a way.” Glinda sighed, her eyes fluttering shut for a split second. A breath in. A breath out. “And neither should I.”

“I can behave in whatever way I wish,” Elphaba said scowling, her shoulders trembling in such an uncharacteristic display of rage, that fire flaring. Her heart hammered, she clutched at her hands, palms sore and nails biting at the backs of them.

Felt something stir in the air alongside the dust.

Well then, if Elphaba could not handle her emotions as she once had, Glinda would simply have to be composed for the both of them. Levelheadedness was not a strange concept to her. The reversal of their positions, of the expectation, was an irony not lost on her.

“Using anger to cope with sorrow is –”

“Sorrow? You think I am mourning?” The following laugh was short and bitter, nothing like the one that once graced her lips. “Why should I mourn her or any of you? The same would not be the case if our places were switched.”

“You do not mean that Elphie,” Glinda’s words were soft, placating even as Elphaba’s own stabbed at the ache within her. “She did care for you, as do we. The worry we experienced when you left has not lessened over time. What I feel has not –”

“You expect me to believe that?” Elphaba’s eyes narrowed as she spoke, her lip curled as if in disgust. “I left once and was found, but this time…”

Had Elphaba expected to be found? But that did not make any sense. Surely. Glinda was starting to get the feeling she was simply saying these things to be intentionally baffling and difficult. The Elphaba she had known had been like that on occasion, and she, foolish and lovesick as she is – was – still is, had found an endearingness within it.

Now, though, there existed something else. A clouding to her eyes, a focus that was and yet was not, as if she was not fully comprehending what she was saying, or it sat distant to where it should be. Fingers grazing it, but just out of reach.

“We looked. How could we not?” Considering whether to tell her the truth or lie, left conflicted and unsure, Glinda instead settled on a half-truth. A single word swapped, though she could not claim as to know why. “We found no hint of you.”

There was no response from Elphaba, instead she moved back, increasing the distance between them – an action that felt like it twisted those stabbing shards that had long ago pierced so deeply through her heart.

Glinda swallowed thickly, her throat still tight, it brought the tension in her muscles to her attention. While she had tried to stop her mind from responding to it, from acknowledging it in its entirety, her body was all too aware that something was terribly wrong. Not simply in this interaction, but with Elphaba herself.

Mere moments ago she had put it down to sorrow and anger; the complicated, contrasting and indescribable emotions of grief. But her eyes… Elphaba’s eyes had always spoken of far more than her words or actions ever could. Clear even back when they first met, in that mortifyingly uncouth exchange, everything viewed now with the sweet anguish of hindsight. So cutting, so agonising, and yet she craved it so absolutely; eagerly welcomed her own suffocation within enveloping memory.

This could not possibly be the result of her own behaviour alone. She was not arrogant – self-hating enough to believe it was she alone to cause this distance. For Elphaba to pull from her as she did. Her impact, her greed, surely not as damaging as this? As she believed?

“What else happened?”

Glinda blinked, snapping from her thoughts – from her slipping – swept up in her resurfacing maze of confusion. The raw brokenheartedness. Never-ending, always present, lurking beneath thin breakable skin. Masked beneath smiles and quick words, a frivolous act, easier in the distraction afforded by the presence of others. She battled through, like someone led astray in the densest of fogs. Had done so, to no end, ever since.

She spoke, though the words felt distant, a stifled lament wrapped within such a small phrase. One she had once had no choice but to try to force herself to accept she would never speak. And, yet, here she was.

“After you left?”

“Of course.” Elphaba’s words were hard, as if she were biting back some unkind retort. Glinda tried not to cling to its absence as a positive sign. Or would it be a negative? Elphaba’s endearing, if not sometimes embarrassing, blunt remarks yet another thing long missed. What was not? It all gone, leaving behind a great barren expanse she could not cross.

“The…” she paused for a second to regain her bearings. The press of her palm into her stomach did little to ground. Her practiced control, held always in a tight hold, was wavering, still stripped so easily away in Elphaba’s presence. “The title was forfeited to Nessie when you left.”

Elphaba turned her back to her once more, approaching the window to lay her hands against the dusty windowsill. At least she was still. “You think I am clueless to that?”

“You asked!” Glinda snapped back though Elphaba’s voice had been low and lacking bite, it was her own upset – her frustration – leading to the prickling sensation of irritation that was seeping out. But there was no jab about her temperamentalness. Closing her eyes, she released a drawn-out breath in an effort to calm herself once more.

This was getting ridiculous.

When Elphaba remained silent, and she felt more even, Glinda continued, “It has passed to me now –”

If only as the caretaker.

There was only one true Eminent Thropp, no matter what anyone else said or thought. But she was in no place to –

Elphaba whirled around, her dark eyes blazing with a heat so sudden, so unexpected, that Glinda felt herself propelled backwards. Her own barely suppressed feelings of indignation vanishing in a gasp and jump of her heart.

“The title is passed on my say. I am here now and so I claim it back.”

Glinda battled to collect herself, tried to focus on the folding of her hands together, felt the cut of her hold. Struggling with a needed breath she couldn't quite catch, she frowned, the pull of stiff muscles aching. Her bafflement would have been clear to Elphaba if she had been paying any attention to anything beyond Glinda's words. Or to whatever was turning in her own mind.

“It does not work like that –”

That same old argument needed no repeating, Elphaba would know. A conclusion had been reached that day, but that did not mean the matter was settled. Either choice was against tradition to someone. Then there was the option of no choice.

“And I am supposed to care about how things are supposed to work?” Elphaba punctuated the end of her sentence with a sharp, bitter scoff. A chill was sent shivering down Glinda’s spine.

“No one would pay your claim any attention.” Glinda lifted her hand in a conciliatory gesture. At Elphaba’s darkening gaze upon it, Glinda dropped it back to her side. Her fingers itched to grasp it. “I struggled to retain the title. They would rather the position be abolished than passed to a Gillikinese. At least that is the impression I came away from our meeting with, or, rather, how they made it seem.” Glinda paused to take another deep breath, her difficulty taking in air a common trouble throughout this confrontation – oh, a confrontation now? “They tried to do the same even when Nessa was alive, though we believed it the actions of one rogue minister alone.”

Elphaba’s lips pulled down and back sharply, baring her teeth. Like an animal on the cusp of attacking. “It will be abolished only when I say so.”

“It will not be. I stopped it.” Glinda bit at her cheek, uncaring for how it must seem, the straining furrow to her brow deepening. “For now.”

“And now it is yours.” Elphaba jabbed a thin finger in her direction. “All you have ever been interested in is that title. Excuse me if I am wrong, but that is the very reason you were sent here, was it not?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Perhaps there was some truth to Elphaba’s words, distant possibility though it had been. She had accepted there would be no title, that there were bigger things at play. And Elphaba knew better – of all of it! Things had changed. Ambitions had changed. She had changed.

“Well remind me, dear Glinda, what were your first words after my great-grandfather died?”

Glinda’s face scrunched up at the puzzling question. Where had it even come from?

“How am I supposed to remember that? Many years have passed Elphaba.” All she could recall was that night; played it over and over again. Searching through every action, every word. Every possibility. If anything could have altered the outcome.

“Well, I remember. Clear as day," Elphaba sneered. “The very first words to spill from your lips were to state that the title of Eminent was mine. Always the first thing on your mind, clearly.”

Glinda’s jaw tightened, her back teeth pressing together uncomfortably. Struggled to recall it through the heavy blanket of emotion that shrouded her memories. “I… I did not know what else to say. You must see, Elphaba, that I have never been in such a situation before. I had neither met nor laid eyes on your great-grandfather, how was I supposed to know how to comfort you? If you would have even wanted that.” She would never want that. Never to be consoled. Glinda knew that. But she would always try. “You – you said you never wanted the title?”

Elphaba’s head tilted, a minute movement followed by a shake of her head, the press of a slim finger to her temple. “I –”

“If you truly wish for it...” Glinda spoke cautiously, already running through all the ways this could play out, despite her earlier concerns, maybe in spite of them. A feeble flicker in her chest that was quickly a blooming warmth. If Elphaba stayed, they could sort through whatever all this was. Fix the damage, mend the cracks – but those rumours, the stories. Loyal Oz… she continued before she could dwell on the reality of it, words high and urgent, “Then I am sure –”

“No.” Elphaba shook her head again, blinking as if waking from a haze, and Glinda saw the truth of it with trepidation. Elphaba was not making sense, and she knew it to some extent, was perplexed by herself. Or Glinda was grasping to whatever she could, as desperate as always. She jolted at the deep press of her nails; her hands had found each other again across her body. She restrained herself from reaching out.

Elphaba’s brow dropped low, narrowed eyes growing even smaller. A fight inside? An agitated lift in her voice, her gaze snapping back to meet Glinda's directly.

“Where are they?”

“Who?” Glinda's joined hands dug harder into her body, wanting to find a stabilising touch, but unable to relinquish each other. Uncertainty, distress, a converging storm in her mind. “The Council?" She guessed, but saw no recognition in Elphaba's eyes. "Elphaba, you are not making sense.”

“The shoes.” Elphaba strode closer, and though she was no taller than she once was, Glinda felt a child before her. “My sister’s shoes. She promised me them when we spoke last, said she would change her will.”

“I –” Glinda’s lips remained parted, she blinked rapidly at the sudden shift, barely resisted the urge to bite at knuckle or nail. Could not release the hold around her to do so even if she wished to. “I have no idea.” Why would she? They had not crossed her mind once, and why would they? “A promise made so long ago –”

“Not that long ago.”

“You’ve…” Her muscles grew slack, her hold weakened, hands dropping to her sides. The patter of her heart, the realisation a drop of clear water in the murkiness of the conflicting emotions in her mind. The dizziness of it. “Nessa would have told me – if you had… I was her confidant.”

“Clearly not as much of one as you believed.”

That could not be true. But, Elphaba would not lie, not even now. Had once claimed she could not to her. Too brusque. Too forthright. Omission – absence was not the same as a lie. She knew that deep in her heart.

Elphaba had…

Why not her? She would have –

“Where are they?”

“I told you I have no idea,” she snapped sharply, anger resurfacing, overflowing and bursting forth, a greater swell than she realised. Hurt, upset – bitter, pathetic jealousy.

“There seems to be much you are clueless to.”

It disappeared as quickly as it had washed over her. The remnants of the colder emotions settled within her, leaving her shivering and exhausted.

She blinked rapidly, chin low and eyes wet. The build of unknown tears escaping the squeeze of her eyes. She glanced up with blurring vision and a quivering lip, her wretched heart pleading when she met the weighted look levelled upon her.

Elphaba lurched forward, Glinda, stunned, lifted a trembling hand.

Elphaba pushed past her.

Glinda stumbled. The impact, or perhaps simply the action, caused an oomph to expel from her lips. Her voice was rough and strained, “E-Elphie, what are you doing?”

“I have grown weary of you and all these pointless words.” Someone else was speaking. The aloof, haughty dismissal unlike anything she had heard from Elphaba before. "I intend to have what is rightfully mind. If you will not tell me, then I will find and take them myself."

Frozen, Glinda stared at the vacant space before her, pulse pounding in her ears. Watched her own still reflection, Elphaba at her back disappeared into a black shadow, as if blending into the night beyond the glass. Could hear the rustle but see no movement. Her chest burning, yet the raw hollow that had taken up such space inside was now so cold, her cheeks chilled with rapidly falling tears. For a moment it felt as if all had ceased, as if her very body had stopped – lungs unmoving, heart unbeating, head unthinking.

A stilling of the world. A death having struck or coming.

The Wind.

A single thought piercing through, though all else remained as it was, as if bewitched in a way she had never known.

She should let her go.

Forget it all.

Live.

Try to.

But Glinda whirled around and cried, “Oh, Elphie!”

Elphaba did not turn.

The only answer the slamming of the door.

She had wrenched the door open as soon as her muscles finally unlocked. Her heels had echoed in the corridors, joined by her muffled cries and stuttering breaths. A song heart-wrenchingly familiar. But Elphaba had vanished.

Pennie, the poor startled maid, had been the one to come across her, disorientated and amiss in some dark corner. She had been easy to distract with a question about her sickly daughter, something Glinda usually cared much to hear, and rebuffed with a simple request she asked be passed to Genfee. Pennie was sent on her way with wide, jumping eyes and a worried frown. Glinda able to cover herself up well enough. It was the night of Nessa’s funeral, after all.

Somethings never change. Galinda would have run away at the confrontation, certainly at the ending of it, and that is precisely what Glinda, temporarily thrown so far backwards, had done after a frantic but fruitless search.

She sighed, long and drawn-out, pressing her thumb into the crease between her eyebrows. She had remained hunched over the dressing table in her unchanged room for a long stretch of time, or so the needling pain at the base of her spine told her. Regardless, she had been there for long enough that her grasp of time had fled entirely.

It was less the words exchanged than the changes in Elphaba herself. The general air of animosity surrounding the at once familiar and unfamiliar woman. The hostility directed at her.

Justified. You receive what you deserve.

She wished she could cover her ears, block the awful thoughts out easily.

She dared not raise her eyes. To look upon her reflection.

The reunion… it had seemed well enough at first.

What did she expect, truthfully? To be taken in her arms? To have sweet, apologetic kiss pressed to her lips? Soothing kind whispers in her ear? Or a desperate longing clash of bodies?

Certainly, that barely contained rage had never been present in her imaginations.

And it was selfish. Completely self-absorbed, that Glinda was far more wounded by that than anything else. Was agonised by Elphaba’s response to her, felt far greater distress and heartache over that than the loss of dear Nessa. She had been her confidant. Had spent far more time with her than she ever had with Elphaba. Yes they had drifted apart, or so Glinda felt now, but they had still cared for one another deeply.

And yet she felt more loss over Elphaba. Even as she still walked Oz, unlike Nessa who would never return in her own eyes – gone some place better and far removed from the mortal plane. To suggest otherwise, even in the safety of Glinda’s own thoughts, felt a betrayal of Nessa. Yet, the opposite, to not voice it, felt a betrayal of herself.

It was ridiculous. Frightening even. The constant to-ing and fro-ing of her mind. To stretch herself so thin, to cut off so much. To try to maintain a balance before others, shifting the various degrees as necessary, and still to try to keep so much within herself. She felt much like a pot on a stove, containing so much, boiling to the top and threatening to escape with each bubble raised.

Even so, the fact remained, clear in the thumping of her heart, the burning of her eyes and the tightness of her throat. That deeper feeling forever reaching out, left alone and abandoned. Unanswered. One did matter more.

So absolutely and utterly self-centred.

Everything she had so forcefully buried and hidden, suppressed with every ounce of her power, unearthed and left to overwhelm her entirely in one swift moment. That had stolen breath and heart and mind. That left her shaking still.

Glinda closed her eyes, pressed her thumb harder against her skin, surely with enough force to leave an unsightly mark. What did it matter?

Was she really that terrible a person?

That was the only answer, was it not?

This pull of hers – the way she yearned. It was ridiculous, childish, and completely immature – like an adolescent thrown to despair over what they believed true love was, only to one day see the true reality of what once was. But there was no fighting it. It was something she would never be able to combat or ignore. She would be drawn to Elphaba, no matter what she did, no matter where she was, or what she told herself. No matter what, it would remain, waiting for a slip to bubble over and spill the rest forth.

Drawn, completely and irrefutably.

Her hand shifted, clammy palm flat against her damp brow, fingers skimming through her curls, tugging at pins.

She did not know how to feel about it.

Disconcerted perhaps?

Powerless?

Forlorn; always.

There was no describing it – the true depth of feeling, and perhaps that was what scared her the most.

For to give it voice was to give it power and she had already lost so much. Given so much. She had known, long ago, what it was. Had chosen not to share, to leave it unsaid, to keep it close to her, and still continued to do so. And now, palm pressed flat to her anguished heart, she knew how right she had been.

And there was nothing that could be done.

Chapter Text

The throbbing in her head came to her awareness first, a constant pounding synchronised with the beating of her heart. The stretching reach of pain trailed down the side of her face, seeming to echo through her jaw.

Then the rest fell in line.

Her back was sore, a burning stabbing itch at the base of her spine as she pushed herself up from where she had folded forward. The tiniest shifting of her head pulled at strained muscles that made her teeth clench and nostrils flare. She rubbed at her neck, grimacing as she rolled her head, enduring the discomfort to try to rid herself of it. She could say much on that.

Glinda shivered at the chilled night air permeating through the room, goosebumps rising along her skin.

How odd a turn, to have the night not match the day.

Odder still, to find she had fallen asleep at the dressing table.

To think how often times she found sleep so impossible!

She slid to her feet, legs feeling as if they were wobbling as she stumbled towards the fireplace, only the weak moonlight filtering in through the uncovered window acting as her guide.

She stopped before it, becoming fully aware that she was far too tired to try lighting it; she instead turned to undress and put on her nightgown, improperly left hanging from the wardrobe in preparation for the evening she had planned, but not had.

It was far more challenging to change in near darkness than she thought. It always was. Still, she managed, experienced enough even with her numb, clumsy actions to disrobe and place her clothing on the chair, and perhaps the floor, leaving the curtains for now – it was not as if anyone could see, and she still needed to. She could light the lamp, but the thought of the brightness had her squinting.

Though her body weighed heavily with exhaustion, her eyes barely staying open and chin low, her mind seemed only more active, and soon was drifting. In this state the barriers that normally existed were weak, pitted beneath the unrelenting pressure, allowing thoughts that she could not face to seep through.

Foremost amongst them Elphaba.

Always there, of course, on the edge of her mind like the shadow in the corner of her eye when she woke. Like the flittering images left after a restless sleep. A constant presence she could not acknowledge for fear of what that would bring. For what that would mean.

In the span of her life, their time together had been brief. If she had been another, perhaps it would have been little more than an afterthought – a faint pleasant memory of what was, a vague fond recollection. To her, however, it could be nothing less than what it was. The true depth of feeling something far greater than herself, like the use of sorcery; innate and unable to be described with only the simplicity of words. It haunted her still, and, though a part of her feared that the extent of it had never been truly reflected, she hoped – knew deep in her heart that she had not been alone in her devotion. She could not be.

Memories enveloped her with no effort, brought with them always that tangled, stinging wealth of emotion.

Shared. It was shared.

And yet there was no denying their conversation earlier that day and all it brought with it. The faint hiss of delusional in the back of her mind, at her insistence on things for which she could never truly be certain. The intensity of the look in Elphaba’s narrowed eyes, the pull of her lips, the hardness of her expression, were stark images behind her drooping eyelids. The pure anger flowing off her, that rage directed at her for so many things that Glinda was, in truth, unaware of, and the rest, uncertain but held inside as such dreaded beliefs. But with no verbal confirmation her mind remained unsettled on the matter. One moment believing it, the next disbelieving. That constant excruciating back and forth allowing her no rest.

You reap what you sow, they said that in Munchkinland, and now she understood. Could feel it, with the severity of Elphaba’s words and appearance. How it cut so deeply.

Nightgown in place, Glinda belatedly recalled her hair, snagged only slightly as she changed. She returned to the dressing table, practiced motions alone enabling her to find and remove the hairpins. A reverse of the order of things, but had this day been nothing but out of the ordinary?

Grief, Glinda thought, she had seen the tempestuous whirlwind it conjured in individuals, had experienced it, and that was what she saw in Elphaba. In all, marginally different, but the commonality remained clear. The sharp twist of their interaction, a sudden souring she could not place on heartache alone. She had seen something else, also, as if Elphaba's actions were a mystery even to herself. A bewilderment at her own demands for a title she had never wanted, at her coldness towards Glinda – a feeble wish, another desperate imagining of her own making. Nessa’s beloved shoes, bizarrely the final straw. Buried with her, surely, the realisation only just occurring to her. If only it had come sooner, she may have calmed Elphaba, not felt her slip away from her outreached fingers once more.

Of course, even if Elphaba had claimed the title to others, nothing was likely to come of it. Though some support was certain to exist. If she had taken Glinda's offer, voiced with the increasing pitch of excited eagerness and accompanied by a fluttering of her tender heart, the likely outcome would be nothing but the worsening of a very delicate situation. But Glinda would have tried her very best, whispered in the right ears, flattered those that needed it, been the silk to soften the steel. To –

She let the hairpins fall from her fingers, clattering into their dish and accompanied by the hollow sound of them scattering across the wooden surface. Pinching at the bridge of her nose, her tried eyes aching, she heaved a sigh. To allow herself to envision such things! It was a pointless, heart-breaking endeavour. She knew that. Yet, idiot that she was, she could not help herself.

She pressed her palm over her thumping heart, as if it could soothe now when it had never done so before.

What was important –

She fought to turn her mind away, a fight that had never been easy, but certainly was better than it had been at its hardest. To focus on the matters that now found themselves in her hands, those she could do something about.

Perhaps it would be best to make her appearance as the Eminence as minimal as possible. Not just to pacify Elphaba who was watching from somewhere – of course not – but because minimising her presence for a short time might help the Munchkins and Munchkinlanders come to terms with her as their new leader. If she were too forceful from the beginning, made her changes and enforced her ideals straight away, the possible backlash may be far more belligerent. If she waited, made her changes subtly, which admittedly was far more underhanded and certainly manipulative (however distasteful it was a necessity), than they may be more willing to listen to her. Be far more accepting of her decisions – her suggestions. It would be easier, anyway, to pursue what she needed in the City.

Possibly placating Elphaba was simply an additional beneficial outcome. That was all. To mollify her would bring her back to her senses, Glinda hoped, and then they could have a civil conversation. If Glinda could find where she had disappeared to, that is. Or if she could get her to return to her – as if she had not thought of all manner of such over the years…

She released the bridge of her nose, sliding her hand up to her clammy forehead and through her freed curls.

She would ensure her position was secure, ensure that the public and those in power knew of her actions and her intentions, and then she would set about them. After all, the public there were not her main concern currently, nor she theirs, not truly. She was but a distraction, a useful target, for those clamouring for more.

No, the most pressing task was of a greater sort. The irony of which was not lost on her.

The ministers were the main snag in the plan, but that was one to be firmly smoothed over shortly.

Her plan almost fully formed in her head, Glinda sleepily lifted her chin and pushed her way to her feet to close the curtains.

Now she just needed someone she could trust to assist her.

Hopefully her sleepy decisions would not turn out to be muddled senseless nonsense when she awoke in the morning, as was so often the case with such late night musings.

Though she climbed into bed, head heavy and hurting, settled if only on one matter, the rest remained. And, barriers so weak, it all continued trickling through. Building, drop by drop until it overflowed all else, and she, unmoving and unsleeping, could do nothing but let it.

The heat of Elphaba’s vehemence had felt tangible, had licked at her skin like a flame and it prickled at her still. Like the echo of a healing burn it remained as if freshly inflicted, on bare arms and beneath the silk of her nightgown.

The thin quilt was pulled tight in her hand, a grip held firm as if it could keep her present in mind as well as body. She turned beneath the cover, curling on her side, as if she could fold into herself and hide away from sight and sound. From doubts and reality. From her own turbulent mind.

All those things she had heard.

It had not been immediate, not at all.

Years ago, she could not pinpoint when, but it was shortly after she had returned from one of her visits to dear Nessie.

She was always disconcerted on her return, that same discord in her mind, the storm of emotions and thoughts greater than it had been. Soon, all fell back, and was much the way it had to be – a return to the performance. That was until her expanded social circle – filled with people she did not particularly care for but had to entertain to maintain her fragile image – began entertaining more gossip and rumours beyond the typical. Something unexpected and so very new.

It began with whispers. Hushed claims concerning separatists sabotaging water and food supplies destined for the City, or rather for the heart of it. The upper classes thought themselves safe from the effect of such actions. For what did they have to fear from a group assumed to be comprised of rogue Munchkins?

Then the voices rose and the words turned, no longer a small, incapable band, but a terrorist group. A new one separate from the first, or second, or perhaps in league, attempting to incite a war, or perhaps after some sort of unknowable gain. Or perhaps their actions were simply due to hatred of those they saw as above them, and taking into account what Glinda knew about the conditions in Munchkinland, and closer, that was not a preposterous conclusion. Still, she never voiced it.

It all only worsened when their country separated from the rest of Oz. Perhaps not rogue rebels, but operations officially sanctioned. Attacks to pressure an unfair deal in their favour, or preparation for an invasion. As the rumours spread, they only grew more outrageous.

She paid it all little attention. She had not been affected by the events, nor had she even seen any evidence that the hearsay was true. Not at first. That came later.

She was well aware that many rumours held at least a small seed of truth within, but she could see none in those that she heard. They appeared, after a time, in the tabloids, but only those lacking sense would pay them any mind. She chose to ignore them in the early days, even as the reports started to appear as no more than dismissive asides in the broadsheets. There was nothing to be concerned about.

That was until she caught wind of other suspects rumoured to be responsible for the supposed attacks. Or rather, one in particular.

A green skinned terrorist.

No name. A description all that was shared. The rest coming later.

After that, every little titbit that flew by her supposedly unknowing ears was clung to. She was fully aware of the falseness, the exaggeration that must be present in the majority of the utterances, but she still greedily took them all. Turned them over, studied them like some obsessive fanatic, searched every single word for that small seed of truth. Hidden within or between.

The things she heard…

The things she tried to ignore.

The outlandish and the believable.

The most recent actions at the time of her discovery were not the first, she had found. How it had slipped her by, she knew. If she had not been... oh Lurlina, she may have been able to have found her. May have been able to... to do something.

Would she honestly have done so? Would she have jeopardised everything she had? Everything she had worked for? Everything she had endured?

A pointless question.

Over time, the broadsheets no longer disregarded the actions. The reports larger, clearer. Targeted.

The Elphaba she knew would never do such things. Not that which was attributed to her. Never, even if she had changed over the years, even if she had a negative view of the one who led them. Glinda had to believe that, even with their words from so long ago rattling in her mind. Elphaba had not agreed with the use of violence, nor disagreed, not clearly. Glinda had understood her words, but not agreed with such measures.

Extreme measures. Desperation.

Actions speak louder than words.

But the woman she had spoken to that very day… she seemed nothing like the woman she had once known – knew, as if in a dream.

Was what she pictured, chosen to remember, a creation of her own? A comfort of her own making? Was any of it true? Were all those awful doubts more truthful than she wished to admit?

The word had been twisted, formed into an inverse of what it once meant. Just the presence of it in her mind accompanied by a painful, horrendous taste, but there was no other way she could put it. Elphaba seemed just like The Witch of which ghastly stories were told.

Of how others deemed her.

And, knees pulled to her chest, chin low, and tears pressed into her pillow, she no longer knew how to deny it all.

The morning after the funeral, Glinda went about her usual daily rituals ruminating on her decisions of the night before, the comfort of her routine, rather than risk falling back into what else plagued her.

She glanced to the white tulips in the vase on her dresser, tried not to dwell on the unchanged room from years ago. A pain of her own design, she had been given a room on the other side of the mansion long ago, but had declined, though it was not proper. Nessie ensured her old one kept for her alone, and did not pressure though she did not understand. Had not understood.

She tugged on the ties of her dress a tad too firmly – she had decided to leave her lady’s maid in the City, preferring to do many of her daily tasks independently now. Besides, she had not planned to wear anything too extravagant, and at so short notice she could not very well leave the townhouse suddenly abandoned. Perhaps it had been a cruelty to not allow Ella the opportunity to say her own goodbyes, though she had voiced no complaint. Though she was unlikely to.

Glinda bit at her bottom lip and cast the thought away, turning her attention to the matters that had to be the most important. In the light of day her late night thoughts regarding it did seem sensible. Surprisingly so. She would act on them; she needed to act on them. The sooner the better.

She prepared herself to the standards expected. A modest dress, appearing black from a distance but when closer and in the right light one could see, instead, the deep blue of it. With a round neckline higher than her typical, long sleeves and no extravagant details; no ruffles, no bustle – though her layers did more than well enough for that – it was far more in line with Munchkinland sensibilities. Though the packing had been hasty, both she and Ella had done well in her choices.

Her make-up was muted, but done in such a way as to still draw attention. The right touch around her eyes to allow them the most prominence. She wanted there to be no doubting.

Hair up from her neck, but not into too complex a style, a few loose curls around her ears and at her brow. No painted lashes or glitter. Sensible.

A spritz of rose and bergamot scent; honeysuckle, her favoured, carried too many memories. Unworn in an age and recalled with so much else here.

Her chest ached with the familiarity as she left her room to attend the morning meal. No matter how many trips, no matter how much time, that never changed. Nor did the subtle hesitance in her pace when she walked past that other door just down from hers.

Untouched until time soured attitude; Nessa's sorrow twisting towards fury. The order to strip it sent out, and Glinda had not been there to plea for it to be disregarded. From all accounts Nanny had interfered, but Glinda did not know in what way. She had never been able to bring herself to turn the handle.

It could very well be occupied by a guest.

The thought turned unpleasantly in her.

The brief step into the past was thankfully both short-lived and uninterrupted. Their usual private dining room had been swapped for the larger, more formal one for the sake of their guests and the impression. Aristocracy, expectations, similar enough between counties, she had found. It was all marble floors, rich mahogany, silver cutlery and a florid woven rug at their feet. If she cared to, she would have studied the details intently, but not today. Not likely any day.

Her entrance into the room, eyes subtly sweeping, the greetings and the chatter as she passed towards where she was expected, her elegant slide into the chair beside Shell; all unthinking and reflexive. She observed, beneath the smile and vapid exchanges, waiting for the opportunity to slip away unnoticed or unbothered.

Elphaba was not there, though she had expected as much. Even if Elphaba was, she would not be seated amongst those present, with the genuineness sparing and the blatant status seeking overabundant. Or, Glinda thought with a wistful smile, she would in a way deemed discourteous by others, but Glinda would know the truth, would hide a smile as Elphaba gave those most disserving there a rude awakening with her cutting tongue and dry direct manner.

Over the bread and fruits, her untouched slivers of meat, Glinda's smile grew pinched. That impossible future, once so long ago last thought, seemed unable to be shaken from her mind. Maybe it never had been, maybe it had merely been covered improperly, unnoticeable to most eyes. Like the plasterwork on the corridor ceilings towards the rose garden. Waiting for the plaster to crumble and show through once more.

As soon as she were able, with a polite word and pointed tilt of her head down, she disappeared with a few sympathetic words following her.

She took the opportunity to search once more in the bright light of day, though she already knew. The dull forlorn throb beneath her breast that she tried so hard to ignore was answer enough.

The word of Elphaba's presence had spread amongst the staff, but that was of no surprise. Such things spread as easily as pollen on the wind.

More surprising was that the doors were still manned, not by servants as she had thought in a rush and low lighting, but ununiformed soldiers – career or reserve, she did not ask. The perimeter of the grounds too, she was told. It seemed the threats did not exist solely within the walls. To deter any unpleasantness, they stated, to ensure their guests unbothered by displeased locals.

In what manner, she would have wondered more, but her mind was occupied, filled as it was with woe.

No one had seen Elphaba.

She had melted back into the shadows. Taken flight, unrestrainable like water in the hand, or perhaps a raging fire would be more apt. Not even deigning to stay but a day or two.

Not even a stiff or silent farewell.

The cycle repeating.

Glinda exhaled a long breath, letting her head drop as she stood in some secluded corridor. A habit quickly developing if she were not mindful of it.

Before her the wide open grounds stretched on, the orchard a great expanse, green leaves unmoving. The air still.

Her fingers tightened on her arms, crossed over herself in a suffocating imitation of a hug.

Elphaba had gone. There was no doubting that.

Once again, she had fled in the night. This time back to wherever it was she was residing. This time with a fraught exchange, not a tender kiss and a promise. A farewell in itself, she supposed, though it had never felt as one.

A conclusion most obvious, even the day prior, but she had not wanted to accept it. Had continued to search with a fruitless fervour and a heart-wrenching longing.

Truly, she still did not want to accept it.

She had been left – had been abandoned. Again.

No Nessa to try to find comfort in or with; to console and support one another. No Nanny and her peculiar caring manner.

More alone than ever.

A jolt of pain jarred her, teeth digging into her knuckle. She dropped her hand, unaware of when her hold had loosened, and pulling herself together, she smoothed a hand against her skirts.

She was a fool. Idiocy running thickly through her every action. The pathetic desperation that thrummed within her still. The hitch of emotion catching in her throat.

She needed to focus on what was important, and had failed at every attempt. She needed to try better, turn her mind to that greater cause, and that… that was not Elphaba.

Glinda lifted her head and observed her reflection in the window. Looked at the women she was now. She drew a breath, squared her shoulders, and fixed her appearance. Righting a loose curl, dabbing at the slightest smudge of her makeup beneath her eyes.

She had a meeting to attend shortly, and a man she needed to see. She should have been preparing for that, rather than chasing her fanciful notions. The lingering ghost of her neediness. A longing never to be returned. She knew better, had promised herself she would be better. She had to do better.

The Parlour contained the expected garish mishmash of wealth flaunting trinkets, portraits of forgotten ancestors, and cramped assortment of too firm ostentatious chairs. She had rarely set foot in the place, not even when she had arrived as a guest all those years ago. Surely it would have been taken as an insult then if she had known. Now something, perhaps, to be grateful for with the benefit of hindsight.

“Now we are all present.” She said after the typical greetings, opting to sit this time, the unlit fire at her back and warm sunlight gently streaming over her offering the most subtle of highlights. All were seated before her. Tea served. All as hastily arranged. “As you are well aware, now is a challenging time indeed. A time of grieving.” She placed a hand to her heart, the press of supressed feeling almost palpable. She tilted her head just so. “A time of change. But not one where propriety will be forgotten.” She levelled her gaze to Toupee – Dorthic – to Nipp. The former at least had the decency to lower his gaze. “As such, I have called you all here. After all, we are – together – the government. We must not forget out Eminences.”

She may now be the Eminent – the Eminence – but the others would not be forgotten. Nessa had been smart. Shrewder than many will – would have assumed of her. She had asked after their opinion and their support, and once she received it, ensured they maintained the administrative duties of their respective provinces. Made certain that they felt no less. Glinda was not about to change that.

A few mumbled affirmations from some of the minsters followed.

“I do hope we have reached a resolution regarding your wishes to abolish the title of Eminence.” As expected, the gazes of those on her left jumped to the shrinking forms on her right. Abolishment, she heard someone hiss as she took a pointed sip of tea. A unanimous decision to form such a role, to dissolve it would surely lead to the dissolution of more – of theirs perhaps, that fear sparking a resoluteness she needed. Even Nipp had enough good sense to keep his gaze low. “As I said yesterday, when you asked to speak with me, in time, perhaps if that is the desire of you all. For now, I will do my upmost in this role, but, if it would please you all, I will consider myself merely a caretaker of the title.” It was not a lie and never would be. “To pass it to my daughter, once she is born.”

Some would – stupidly – call her far too old for such a happening now, but her aging had been graceful and well maintained. Riskier, certainly, but many had children later in their years if life afforded them the privilege of waiting. It was doubtful any would look too closely, though questioning of why no children had yet appeared was probable.

Nipp pursed his lips, but remained silent. A glance to the Eminences, and they seemed either content or unbothered by her words. Their attention, still, pulled more towards the ministers.

“Or if you wish for my husband to fulfil the role until then…”

Controversy would follow any option; those for and those against, in all aspects, just as it reared again before her. Eminences for tradition, those who favoured what they had now, the ministers with their politicking. Exhausting as it was, in the constraints of her mind, the limits of her capabilities, to try and strike that fine balancing act in-between it all.

A terse silence followed. When no one saw fit to break it, Glinda continued.

“The late Eminence’s will –” Her gaze slid to Nipp and the rest of the minsters, it was nothing more than an acknowledging glance to all there save themselves, “– is rather clear in her belief of the union between the title of Eminent Thropp and the Eminence of Munchkinland.” Genfee, bless the man, had pinned it down – or at least the copy. Confused, for just a moment, that no one had thought to share the contents with her. He passed it on, summarised it unnecessarily, but for once not to her annoyance. “And on many other matters. As I am sure you are aware.”

“She did not state who should inherit the title,” Nipp piped up, a highness to his voice that belied his apprehension.

“The late Eminence was one for tradition,” said Isomere before talking a sip of her tea. Her set indifference broken only by the flare of her nostrils. She rather wine. “For good and ill. I see no reason it should not pass to you.”

“But she has married into the family, is not a born Thropp.” Eminent Pand of Wend Hardings crossed his arms, but did not dignify anyone with a look. He reminded Glinda of a particularly wrinkled bulldog.

“Her Eminence,” said one of the minsters who had remained silent the day before; Aubin, she recalled seeing him often with Nessa, “was a confidant of the late Eminence, she clearly thought highly of her.”

Glinda's fingers curled tight around her teacup handle, she took another sip but it did little to ease the constricting of her throat.

“Her Eminence –” She was thankfully pulled from herself “– has already made clear she will pass the title on to her child, if that is your issue, Pand.” A former solider was Eminent Amby of West Tingewick, clear in his posture and bearing. And with a rather impressive moustache that she simply must compliment him on later. Eminent Pand grumbled something, but did not turn to face him.

“Let us not bicker as children do,” said Eminent Pastor in reply to Eminent Pand. “Are we not above that?”

She waited, only speaking when no one else saw the need to.

“If that is settled?” She paused, continuing after a moment. “I will not be having a public ceremony – not out of a lack of care or duty. I shall accept the title in a private affair. I believe the funds that would be spent on such things would be better utilised elsewhere.” She placed her teacup and saucer on the end table beside her, the clink a finality. She folded her hands neatly in her lap. “I thought to use a portion of it to assist with the damage from the storm, and I shall do so – whatever is needed. I have also considered looking into measures to lessen the impact if another were ever to tragically occur.”

There had been little irreparable damage caused; ripped up trees, torn up fences and ravaged homes, the removal and scattering of topsoil from fallow land but overall the crops not significantly harmed – somehow. The debris was dealt with swiftly and efficiently, surprising with how much of an unexpected shock it was. Unless more reports were still to follow, that appeared to be the worst of it. Even the chapel at the very heart of it all remained standing and untouched by all accounts. Which did little to dissuade certain claims. Many injured, but only one known death. It was as if the storm had arrived, struck its target, and left as quickly and as suddenly as it had appeared.

It still did not sit right with her, something was amiss, but that level of sorcery – it was not typical. It was not possible.

The Wizard – a conversation from so long ago, an unvoiced thought of her own; the Wizard using his powers to enforce his control, to quell his supposed opposition.

No.

That level of sorcery – she would have felt it thick in the air. Felt it lingering like dust on the roses. The destruction had passed too close by to escape leaving remnants there.

A ridiculous thought, to even speculate on it as she had was paying it more attention than it deserved.

The Wizard would never – could never. No matter his unparalleled abilities. There was no assassination, no act of the Unnamed God or what other deity may be blamed; it was just a terrible, terrible twist of fate.

She caught the looks of the minsters. Her pause thankfully taken as poignant, or allowing space for those who wished to raise needs to do so.

“Do not fret. This funding has already been allocated, has it not? Then there is no concern of spending what we do not have.”

She smiled warmly at them, felt rather than heard an almost inaudible rumble of acceptance. Satisfied, she turned her attention back to the room at large.

“With what remains, I hope you will agree with my thought to invest in updated and more efficient forms of irrigation and drainage, there are advancements in Gillikin that may be of great benefit. Particularly concerning the hills here. I understand the scepticism, with all that has occurred, but that does not mean we cannot still learn from one another, nor work together.” Her hold on her hands tightened, imperceptibly, she strengthened her smile. “I also plan to ensure that the benefits of the cessation of the Crop Tax will be filtered down to the most needy, and to allocate some funding to provide subsidies to the farmers most affected by the continuing difficulties. From my own pocket, if need be. To help you all.”

They did not have that kind of money. Not on that scale. But with careful allocation and movement of funds, she could manage it. They had a boon, a number of years back, when interest rates had rocketed – good for investors, not so for those bound to fluctuating loans and mortgages. And she had always been mindful, well taught by her mother, but the inability to have a bank account in her name alone was a long source of trouble. Charm and familiarity allowing her access, but used sparingly. The rest placed upon the account where able. She put aside what she could in an account in her father’s name, for additional savings, she had said. He had readily agreed.

“If there are no objections?”

There were none, surprisingly. In all, it was going far smoother and with fewer complications than she had prepared for. She knew well enough not to become overconfident with it, words were often held until out of earshot.

“Not an objection,” said Eminent Klip of Swallowsnest, a portly woman in her later years, “but simply a remembrance. Years ago, many decades, there was talk of accessing the subterranean lakes of the Vinkus –”

“Costly,” muttered Eminent Nunk of Affpuddle. Most of the other Eminences turned to the ancient man with looks that spoke of a respectful surprise. From all she had learned, he spoke so rarely. Isomere alone turned her eyes as if exasperated, a sense of familiarity about it.

“Yes, the plans were far too costly. Ridiculous even. Canals across the entire country…” Eminent Klip shook her head, released a sigh that could almost be a laugh. “Such things…”

“Let me reassure you that I plan to look into all realistic possibilities, taking into account such things as cost and practicality. Everything will be discussed with you all and acted upon only if agreed. As is only right.” Glinda could not profess to hold even the faintest of recollection of such talks, but why would she? Likely far away and safe in Frottica, unaware of what she was to face.

Eminent Klip smiled, satisfied by whatever it was she hoped to seek, and let the topic lie.

The road too, would need to be sorted, but that would have to wait. That meant there was only one pressing matter still to attend to. Her posture remained prefect, even with the tingling of apprehension in her chest.

“I am aware that a fear of reannexation hangs over us.” She did not think, for a moment, that it could happen. For Loyal Oz to invade them, to wage war, it did not seem possible. Too extreme. Too great an action that would cause too much irreparable damage for all. However, she was aware that it was a concern of many. “And I understand that reunification is a heated topic.” She would always be of the opinion they were better together, than apart. Such a delicate subject, was not something easily balanced. Not with such readily spoken and diverging opinions. “I believe that offering it as a possibility, to put forth a discussion to rejoin will, I am certain, ensure we will receive the Wizard’s attention, lower that risk and give us time. His representative yesterday was keen to inform me of his continuing endeavour towards maintaining our relationship. It should allow us to negotiate in a way to ease tensions and ensure fair and free trade. If that is where stands the greatest benefit and security for us, then that is where we shall go – if it is so agreed.”

The decision had been controversial in the first place amongst the public; there were those that supported it with just as equal fervour as those who were opposed. And there were those that simply did not care either way, or were in no position to have an opinion – too focused on simply being. What a life that would be, to simply be.

“I am well aware that you were all in agreement, though also that times have changed so rapidly, so I must ask; what are your opinions now? Please speak freely, for there shall be no judgement here.” She was mindful to ensure all received equal eye contact, that all were treated with equal importance. Even those least deserving of it.

Dorthic, unsurprisingly was the first to speak, though the zeal he held yesterday was greatly muted, “I, for one, still see independence as best for our nation. They took too much and gave too little.”

There was a murmur of agreement.

“While, um…” Eminent Lochwood of the Pine Barrens spoke, a thin man with worried eyes and a tremor to his voice. “While I agreed with the initial decision – after the Massacre.” The incident at Far Applerue… A tragic accident, a situation that fell quickly out of control. The soldiers involved had been disciplined, suitably punished for their actions. “Our province, being situated as close as we are to the City... I would be lying if I said it does not make me apprehensive. If anything were to… occur…”

They truly did perceive it as a very real, very apparent threat. “I plan to do all I can to ease tensions.”

Her marriage, the easing of tensions that it was supposed to bring, all a futile hope. There had been no reality to it. Fighting, once, over claim to a land that was neither's. A want for the emeralds, the connections and shares in the railway and mines both, the suggestion made by ones who knew the implausibility of it.

Everything she had endured. It was all for nothing.

The tensions, now, even greater, with all of Loyal Oz united against Munchkinland.

In this, at least, she hoped she could make a difference.

Nardon – Eyebrows – piped up then, a hesitant waver in his voice, “What of our military? Will they still be receiving the same funding?”

“I do not plan to roll back Nessarose’s decisions regarding that.” Though she prayed it would not be needed, she understood the necessity. “But an army cannot exist without the food to feed it, I believe we should consider opening up our workforce to all those willing and capable, in order to lower the potential impact upon the farming communities,” she said carefully, observing their reactions. “There are many perfectly competent individuals who are not currently being widely permitted to do so.”

It was far too soon to voice the rest, her shared words easily taken another way, but a hint of something left behind. No looks of horror or shock greeted her, only Eminent Amby’s vocalised agreement on needing the greater support to exist behind the standing army. Particular if both the reserves and militia were to be called upon.

By the end of the discussion, it seemed all were still for independence, at least verbally. She could see those who were not opposed, but voiced concerns in ways more veiled than Eminent Lochwood had.

“I believe my being there, in the City, for this critical stage will enable face-to-face discussions. Once secure, I shall return.” The thought of living there. She could not bear it, but there was much she could not bear, yet she had to. She could not hide from it. “I have no concerns in regard to our ability to communicate sufficiently.” Not with The United Consortium of Bird Letter Carriers allowed to function in Munchkinland. A change to a human associate at the border allowed the passage of the letters, not as efficient as a mail train, but certainly an improvement on how things once were. The Consortium dissolved completely in the rest of Oz, if only due to concerns regarding how radicals may have infiltrated or utilised them. Not an issue seen outside of the City, thankfully, though word spread widely and it contributed to the collapse elsewhere. There had been no such trouble within Munchkinland’s borders. “Unless there are objections?”

There were none.

Leaving posed risks too, the hint of uncertainty stirred in the pit of her stomach, but this seemed the best course of action. And so, she would follow it through to the end.

She was not so arrogant as to be unaware of her inadequacies, but she would do all in her power to minimise them. What was immediately pressing at the moment, as she again found herself traversing through the corridors of Colwen Grounds at a pace masked in poised posture and step, was to find someone staunchly reliable.

Someone who understood the people there and the land; locally and nationally far better than she. There were the ministers, of course, but her opinion of them had already been truly soured. No, what she needed was a true ally, someone she could trust and who had already proven themselves as such, even if her far earlier observations had been greatly misguided. She needed someone removed from the government, but with enough prominence to be respected.

She found him, eventually, fussing about in a small study-like room just off one of the corridors that led from the entrance hall. Often walked past, but never opened, the door was ajar this time. Gently, she cleared her throat to make her presence known, unfortunately sending him jumping remarkably high.

He spun on his heel, eyes as wide as the saucers just used. Glinda glanced down the corridor to cover the tug of amusement at her lips.

“Mister Genfee,” she said when she turned back, taking note of the low height of the desk and chair at his back, “good morning, or should that be afternoon now?”

“Ah.” He paused to chuckle at himself, handling his embarrassment well as always. “Good afternoon, Lady… err, Your Eminence. I mean.”

He pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, still wearing black, and dabbed at his flushed face in an effort to cool his heated skin. She paid his fumbling no mind, not at all surprised by it. Munchkins had a habit of stumbling over their words, just as the Gillikinese had a habit of being formal no matter the circumstances at hand.

“I wished to speak with you before I left.”

“You are leaving?” His brow rose high, the handkerchief almost slipping from his fingers. He caught it, tucked it untidily back into his breast pocket. “So soon?”

“I will be returning to the City to, with good fortune, begin talks to lessen the tensions and problems between ourselves and Loyal Oz.” She stepped fully into the room and gestured behind her. At his nod, she closed the door. “I believe that to be the most imperative of matters on our minds at present.”

Genfee pressed his hands together, nodding his head at her words with his normal enthusiastic speed.

His lower lip tucked beneath the other a moment later, his cheeks puffing out a little. Her expectant look gave him the permission he sought.

“I heard, if you do not mind me saying,” his brow crinkled with a slight grimace, as if fearing her reaction though she couldn’t imagine why, “that you plan to reunify with Loyal Oz.”

“That is not exactly the case,” Glinda replied, voice level, all the tension resting in her jaw and neck, but hidden from all others. She had expected gossip to spread, but not as swiftly as this. The people there were worse than the girls at university. “It is a suggestion foremost, one with which I hope to begin discussions that will be favourable to ourselves.” She pressed her lips together tightly, a brief moment of contemplation. The decision quick. “If that were to be the best option, it will be discussed and voted upon.”

His brow furrowed for a moment. “If you do not mind me asking…?”

She gave a short nod of permission.

“What is your true opinion?”

His eyes held a sudden brightness, and with a straightening of his spine, he was a picture of genuine curiosity. The forthrightness most appreciated. Her smile eased, growing more relaxed, more truthful.

“I would be rather more interested in your opinion.”

“Mine?” At her confirmation, he beamed brighter still. His hands jumped up, but he caught the motion, and they hovered as if frozen in movement. “If you truly do not mind me saying…?”

“I would not ask if I did not wish to know.”

His voice was low when he spoke, as if afraid that they were likely to be eavesdropped on, “… I have to agree with the suggestion of reunification.” Confidence building at something he saw in her expression, he grew surer. His hands moving in light motions as he spoke, like a conductor directing an orchestra. “In my opinion the situation may have improved in the short-term, but in the long-term things may well grow far worse. Especially with the worries of reannexation. Our goods are selling for more, but with that comes resentment and overall the total exported has reduced. Add in that the tax on importing goods will no doubt be raised again, we may well be looking at quite the economic loss."

He paused for barely a breath, and carried on with speed. 

"The City may only provide luxury goods which we have little need of, and while we now have more food for ourselves, we do rely on imports for what we have none or little of here – most of our timber for construction comes from northern Gillikin, for example. We will still be suffering in the long-term if we cannot settle matters and make a deal. A country can’t run itself on food alone. Of course, I am not ignorant to the previous heavy taxation on our crops, nor the Crop Tax itself, nor all the other issues and truly how complex the situation is. But I would hope that now, after all of this, we can reach a more satisfactory and equal agreement.” He trailed off, stilling mid gesture as if given a strict order to halt and left too stunned to move.

Glinda had remained silent with a supportive smile. She had half-expected, well more than just half, for Genfee to fall into one of his rambling speeches concerning his theories and beliefs.

He cleared his throat, moving a moment later. He twirled the end of his beard around a single finger, his cheeks growing red beneath his whiskers. “Err… my apologies…” he murmured into his chest, “I did not mean to get carried away.” He straightened his jacket unnecessarily, a flustered smile on his face. “I will, of course, stand by whatever decision is come to.”

“That is quite alright, I was hoping to hear as much.” It confirmed her decision was the correct one.

He opened his mouth as if to question her words, but seemed to think better of it, though the crease of his brow remained. She allowed him the time to mull, to see if he would reconsider.

When he finally spoke, she could tell his query was not the one he wished to ask, though the furrow to his expression had smoothed. “How long do you envision you will be gone for?”

“I imagine…” she paused to think over her words and select which of her prepared statements would be the best fit with the way the situation had turned out, “that I will be gone for quite a while, and not due to the travel alone. That is why I have come to you.”

Now was the best time to get to the meat of the matter, or so she hoped.

He blinked rapidly, turning slightly to rearrange a few of the parcels she had not noticed on the desk behind him – no doubt tokens from mourners. Giving gifts to the living was odd, but she had swiftly learnt that it was a common practice in Munchkinland. She doubted she would ever completely understand it.

She allowed him the time he needed.

Shortly, he faced her squarely again. “I will of course ensure the proper running of the Estate as always.”

“Of that I have no doubt.” He puffed up at that. “That is not why I have sought you.”

“I’m afraid I do not understand.” It seemed she was not alone in having trouble in understanding.

“Well,” she began softly, “I am sure you are not unaware of the motions of the Council.” Genfee pursed his lips, his eyebrows low and shoulders stiffening. Something akin to a mix of disappointment and annoyance crossed his face. “I have grown to respect you and your expertise.” She waited until his eyes met hers, which they did nervously now. “I would like you to be, how do you put it here? Ah, yes, my ‘eyes and ears’ while I am gone. To act as my representative – if necessary – during this time.”

“Oh!” He squeaked, his ears turning pink with the force of his new flush. “That would be – that is unexpected, but it would be such an honour. I will do my upmost to keep you abreast of all happenings, and do all in my ability to ensure that your orders are adhered to. To know you trust me…”

Glinda could not prevent the genuine smile that crossed her face. Yes, his ramblings could grow tiresome, as could his fondness for idle gossip and speculation, though she knew there was benefit in that. She had, admittedly, grown somewhat attached to the bald Munchkin she had once so rudely dismissed.

“If it is not too much along with your current tasks.”

“Of course not, Lady Glinda – Your Eminence.” His face creased as he tried to wipe away his enthusiastic expression, to morph it into the stern, seriousness that was required of a man in his position. And that which did typically grace his face when carrying out his duties.

Glinda gave a small nod, her smile still firmly in place. “You need not call me Lady or Eminence. Simply Glinda will do.”

His eyes grew even larger than they already were, his barely cooled face heating up once more. The poor fellow was going to collapse at this rate. If only she had her fan to hand. “If that is what you wish, La – Glinda.”

He said her name slowly, as if testing for any differences now it stood on its own. He looked thoughtful for a few short moments before his face grew heartened. “Is there anything in particular that you wish me to do immediately?” He seemed to bounce on his heels, his excited eagerness reminiscent of the few young children she had met over the years. Though lacking both sticky hands and insistent pestering.

“For the moment keep everything to yourself and an overall eye on things. I have already requested my first actions to begin, and will put all in writing shortly. Though if you can achieve any saving or additional funding anywhere on the Estate, I would find that of great interest. Though I do request that the topiaries be maintained –” She paused, a minute halt in her words, a barely noticeable tight swallow “– and the bees still cared for. In memory of dear Nessarose.”

Genfee promptly nodded his acceptance, did not even so much as twitch to question either order, and Glinda bypassed her hitch gracefully.

“Regarding Nessarose. You do not happen to know what happened to her shoes? Her favoured ones, those that dazzled so brilliantly?” She had not planned to ask, in fact the idea had not come to her until the words were already leaving her, though perhaps it would have if only she had been able to find Elphaba. If she had not fled.

She was not sure how she felt when Genfee gave a shake of his head, an apologetic turn to his lips.

“I am afraid I do not, though I would assume they would have been buried with her. She was so rarely parted from them. I did not see her body, too –” He rubbed at his cheek, let loose a sigh of breath, the implications clear enough and he tactful enough not to excessively explain this time “– and then with the travel back too, everything had to be prepared with most haste. We bury people in their best here, or their favourites.”

She inclined her head in thanks and moved swiftly away from that sore topic. To ask was pointless, even the confirmation of what she had thought offered little in the way of any relief – though of what, she was not sure.

All she could do was move ever onwards.

“Once discussions have begun in the City, I will denote the order of how I want things to transpire and forward it to you immediately.” She paused as he responded with an, of course, standing at his full height and chin held high for more than just maintaining eye contact. “I am sure you will keep me informed of everything that requires my attention, if you do have any suggestions do not hesitate to contact me with them – or act on them if it furthers our goals to benefit Munchkinland and will not cause dissent.”

“Of course. I will get to work straight away.” His serious expression wavered, his grin breaking through with force, a hand to his chest. “I will not disappoint you or Munchkinland.”

“I am sure you will not.”

If possible, he managed to look even more honoured.

Glinda gave herself little pause, striding back to her room to arrange things there.

Uncertainty and clashing emotions besieged her, as they so often did when she failed to stop them. Not for her actions that day or her decisions, in those she felt a confidence she would not put her full weight behind for she was never one for such arrogance.

No. It was the return that was so disquieting.

Back on her first arrival in the Emerald City, her move there, it had been a relief, in a conflicting way, to be away from Colwen Grounds. While she had missed Nessa and the routine that once existed, the freedom from the physical reminders in the place had lifted some of the weight from her shoulders. The very same that rose in her now, with each lingering glance and sudden startle, as if thrown back into a memory – even with her careful steps and purposeful avoidances. To take the long way to the rose garden, to sit elsewhere in the Sunroom and for dinner, to avoid the study. But certain sensations could never easily be evaded; the scents, the way the sun slanted through her window, the surroundings unchanging.

A pair of maids, a covered tray held between them, hurried past her, bowing their heads and with a word of acknowledgement. She returned the greeting with her practiced smile and responses. Tried not to dally in the entrance hall when she reached it, nor the stairs, nor the corridor leading to her room.

She had reasoned, in those early days, that she could always visit or, as she found herself doing far more often, write letters. It was far simpler to communicate that way, for it came with distance and was eventually far easier than it had once been. Unlike the travel.

The downward press upon her had not been fully lifted, however. How could it have been?

No distance, no withdrawal, could stop that. For when one weight lifted, another immediately replaced it.

Her reasons, her excuses, the only way to cope with it. Or rather to try to.

Shell had returned to finish his time at university, and Galinda had been left near enough alone.

And being closer to home had brought with it the return of an urge. It posed too great a temptation, but not one that could ever be realised. The want to disappear into the night; to return to Frottica, to live a life that had never occurred to her. That could never be allowed. And, now, could never be fulfilled as she wished.

She closed her door, the lock loud in her ears. Her eyes slipped closed, she tried to take in the scent of the fresh flowers, but they were absent of one. The feel of the polished wood beneath her palms alone offered little.

The thought of the City had distaste roiling in her stomach. For something long dreamed of, oh, how that had turned out.

The City, she had found, was like costume jewellery; expensive looking, impressive, perfectly pleasing on the surface, but once one looked closer, they could see it was nothing but brass and quartz, pewter and glass, all reflecting back an empty glitziness.

It was shallow.

As were the people. Those that sleepwalked through their lives, and the others, the actors, with their cold eyes and sharper words. It held an emptiness. Like a great obsidian void – an inconceivably black mirror that drew you in, convinced if only you were that little bit closer you would see something within the impossible depths, only for it to fall away and leave you to be swallowed up by what lay beneath.

Even the buildings, great and terrible to behold, summoned up little interest in her. She had seen those others first; made of waxed sheets and scrap metal, tucked into winding alleyways or propped up against crumbling bricks.

Empty. Absent. A hollow long hewn. There was little choice.

So she had dressed up, donned costume jewellery of her own, and joined the sleeping walking masses as was expected of her. It was all she could do.

Perhaps her mood had coloured it – her view, that is. Perhaps it had rubbed off the lustre, had drawn her eye to the darker aspects that reflected herself back.

It was not until much later, when that dark time had passed, that she found the shine never returned. The sleepwalkers and the actors in their pantomime still lingered. Words always haunting the back of her mind.

She had never seen an Animal.

Finding little balance, she pushed away from the door with a pang beneath her ribs, tried to focus on what had been unpacked rather than her unsettled mind.

What did she need? Was there anything she still needed to do? A few words to each of the Eminences, a last visit to the private cemetery. Perhaps she should have brought Ella after all.

Everything had been tided, even the hairpins that she had scattered around their dish. Had she done that? She couldn’t recall. Mind in constant motion, picking up so much while leaving something behind each time.

Pennie would be more than happy to help her, besides, she needed to apologise for not bringing her daughter a gift this time. The twins would understand, of course, but she would still feel better to have done so.

Yes, she would make sure all was in order, physically here and in regard to all other business, then ask for assistance.

Some things never change, the thought was bittersweet and accompanied by a thin smile and an almost laugh. She was still truly lost without her Ama.

She dabbed delicately at her eyes with her handkerchief, checked herself in the mirror, and ran through the rather long list in her mind.

It did not take long to decide on the additions. A request for some needed writing supplies as she had no time to bring any, a rushed reply sent before she had left the City, and some assistance with packing while she fulfilled the rest of her duties.

Oh, and she supposed she best tell Shell too.

Chapter Text

It was like stepping back in time, soothing and cutting at her in equal measure. The scenery the same, the fresh air carrying with it familiar scents and sounds, all as her recollection told.

If only turning back the clock was truly as simple a buying a ticket.

To return home, where all was as it always was, and yet feel a stranger. A peculiar experience.

The train drew into Frottica’s little railway station. It still looked so new, the platform not yet worn thin, the canopy with its carved patterned daggerboard as it was when she had left. The only sign of age, the tattered paper schedule pasted to the lone wall opposite. She disembarked alone. No one there to greet her, save Travere waiting by his cab, one of the older sort that had long since grown out of fashion in the cities.

Mother would have claimed it not proper to wait for her there, a cover for the truth; her mother not wanting the embarrassment of her father's complaints, even if there was no one else around to hear them. Sometimes he did lack an indoor voice.

At times she wondered if it was suspicion or fear that led their dislike, or simply the unknown. The first, and only, time they took the railway was to and from the wedding. That horrendous journey. A part of her had wished to spare them from it, another overjoyed to have them with her. Guilt always conjured such a confusing mix of emotions.

Regardless, they had not been convinced by their trip. Her father more than happy to share his displeasure, her mother needing to remind him insistently in a low voice to keep it between them. And that was before he started on about the empty flatness of Munchkinland. Then came her mother’s realisation that the family she was marrying into were not just Unionists as expected, but had a long and storied history of ministership on one side.

It would have been humorous, if it were not for everything else.

She paused for just a moment, glancing down to where once a rusty nail had poked free of one of the platform’s planks.

Her stomach turned. Her reaction back then, her selfish uncompassionate thoughts and cold uncaring words were unforgivable, and yet she had been. To receive what she did not deserve, to deserve what she did not receive. A contradiction that rattled through her.

She set her valise down, a useful thing to mask her actions.

She blinked back the sting in her eyes, idly running her fingers over the embroidered edge of her simple linen shawl, before drifting down to unnecessarily shift her reticule in the crook of her arm.

She drew in a big lungful of flower-scented air, tinged by the lingering smoke of the train as it rattled ever on. Even tainted, the comfort the air brought was little diminished. The beautiful chorus of the birds, their distinct songs interspersed and blending, seemed to rise louder in the wake of the train. As if in spite towards the roaring metal beast.

When she had left that very first time, it felt as if all of Frottica came to see her off. The smartest girl in the Pertha Hills they had called her, the pride she once felt like a distance memory. The second time had been hasty and secretive. The final time, her parents alone, teary-eyed but uncrying bidding her farewell and reassuring her of her inevitable return.

And here she was, returned and already awaiting another. Knowing.

Her throat was constricted and smile tight when she finally stepped off the wooden platform and approached Travere, greeting Barley as she passed.

“Miss Galinda.” He held the cab door open and took her valise, smile wide beneath his moustache and accent thick. “So wonderful to see you again.”

“And I you, Mister Travere.”

His lips pursed beneath his whiskers. “No, now, no Misters remember.”

Her smile shifted, holding a jest now, his words not spoken unkindly.

“How is your wife?”

As she chose to remain at the door, he hurried to load her valise, not to press her on but to talk eye to eye, a chuckle in his words, “Same as always, insists I should get a proper job.” He returned to her side, offering a hand she did not need, but took gratefully as she stepped up. Travere’s impression was as impeccable as always, “Frottica is small enough for walking, she says. I'm too old for dairy or fieldwork, I tell her. Was the same even back when I was doing the same between the towns.”

The sweet breeze ruffled his grey hair. She smiled down at him as she settled on the worn seat, she had heard it all before, but sometimes one needed the heartening familiarity of repetition. “Well, you be sure to tell her Little Galinda is most appreciative of your hard work and forward thinking. As I am sure she is on market days.”

He laughed, pleased, and after a few checks that all was in place, and her earnestly replying more than once that her seat was quite agreeable, he placed his flat cap back in place and the door finally closed. When the carriage shifted beneath his weight, Galinda's smile fell. Alone in silence, her mind stirred.

Outside the window, a colourful array of sweet peas sat in the woven baskets decorating the single wall of the railway station. They disappeared slowly as they pulled away.

As with most things in Frottica, their pace was easy. The little squares of glass in each door left slid aside to allow a pleasing airflow, to keep the interior cool, to enable conversation if she leant out – he would scold her, she knew, but allow it.

Outside, the slow clopping of hooves, the rolling of the wheels on old stones, the quietness of an easy life.

They passed only a few people through the centre of town; the others busy with their work in the early morning. Those still there, the oldest pottering about outside their homes or on their way to see friends or family, shot cautious looks to the cab, all carrying the inquisitive suspicion of those still unaccustomed to and distrustful of strangers. Recognition was quick though, smiles and waves and friendly words she responded to eagerly, leaning out to better speak. Grasping the present, the touch of the far past, to avoid the future and the rest.

The warming scent of bread reached her before they moved past the bakery, she considered asking to stop, to see Ms Bellis and purchase some sweets, but let the idea go as soon as it rose. Throat thick.

She turned then to call to Travere instead, he offered a stern warning undermined by his smile, before happily continuing the conversation. Losing herself in it was most welcome.

“Good to know the city ain’t changed you one bit,” he commented at one point. She was glad he could not see her expression then, turned to an unforgettable pond busy with birdlife.

It was only as the road grew steeper, the beautiful old-style houses grander, and a familiar one appeared in the distance, that she ducked back inside.

Sliding one pane of glass over, she used her reflection to right her hair and neaten her shawl. Bad enough for her mother to see her hanging out the cab, but to see the evidence was little better.

She was back to the other window in seconds, foot tapping against the floor, one hand against the door, a bubbling build of exhilaration in her chest covering the heavier feeling beneath it.

So caught up was she, it was only then she recalled the pocket mirror kept in her reticule.

As they made their creeping way closer, she saw them looking as they always had. Mother dressed beautifully, hair piled atop her head, a picture of elegance, always as if expected at a ball or other such social gathering. Father in his best, as demanded, hair always a nudge away from unruly but his sideburns neatly trimmed. Watched, with an amused smile, as her mother pried her father's arm from around her, no doubt accompanied with a scold of, Not in public, Highmuster.

It mattered little that no one was around, and those that were minded little.

She let herself slip backwards, allowing the buzz of energy beneath her skin to take over, her knees jumping now. Hold white knuckled on her reticule and she almost so close as to be pressed against the door.

They finally came to a stop with a roll and a snort of Barley’s.

She flung the door open, bounding down with quick steps and raced forward, reticule dropping from her hands and shawl flying free. A baffled laugh followed in her wake.

“Papa!”

She threw her arms around his neck, his smile broad and arms wrapping around her to lift her feet clear off the floor. A gleeful laugh flew from her as he partially swung her, holding back from spinning her around fully as he once did, but close enough for her stomach to flip with delight and memory.

“Highmuster…” came from beside them. She could picture her mother's expression perfectly, had imagined her stern words just as precisely. “Not in public.”

She ducked her head against her father's shoulder, glancing bashfully towards her mother, a giggle held inside by biting her lip. Feeling more like herself, her younger self, than she had in what felt a lifetime.

“Right,” he chuckled, the sound of word and laugh rumbling in his chest. He set her back down, her shoes somehow having managed to stay on. But when she glanced up, letting her arms drop, his large smile was marred by a sudden tightness around his eyes.

“Oh, Papa.” Galinda shook her head, eyebrows pinched up and a turn down of her lips a perfect picture of great disappointment. She gave his stomach a pat.

Choosing distraction came so easily.

“The cheek of you!” he said around a laugh, the tension vanishing. “I am much the same as I was when you left, thank you kindly. Where have your manners gone?” His lips were still parted, more to come, but her mother gracefully cut him short.

“Nowhere at all, there are far less elegant ways she could have brought that to your attention.”

Her father spluttered, torn between arguing the point and earning a scolding, or accepting the exaggeration. Galinda hid her smile with a quick pivot on her heel, hurriedly retrieving her reticule and pale-yellow shawl – mother would surely be displeased over that, though she found the tiny smattering of dried almost imperceptible mud from the slabs insignificant. It was nothing like the dust in Munchkinland.

Shoulders stiffening, she drew in a breath to relax before moving to meet Travere at the end of the path to take her valise. She bid him a thank you and a cheery farewell, sending her best wishes to Mrs. Travere also.

They were together again, if only for a brief time. The why of it, she could not linger on if only for this short moment.

“Is that all you brought?” Her mother asked. When Galinda turned back, she caught the subtle tilting of her mother’s head. Her father approached, holding out a hand and she, unthinkingly, handed her valise over.

“Most of my old belongings are still here, it made more sense not to bring much,” Galinda explained, words practiced and words level. Father nodded his head as if in agreement, but she saw the lift of his brow.

“No maid?” her mother asked as she watched the carriage begin to roll away, Travere making his journey back to the train station and the centre of town.

The gentle breeze stirred at Galinda’s simple dress. She looked to the blue of the sky, the beloved hills that they all nestled within. The calls of the songbirds and the rustle of the trees filled a noticeable but short beat of silence.

“Coming home is important.” The hold on her shawl tightened. “And I am trying to increase my independence. You never know when something may befall those you rely on.”

The tremble of her lip broke through, hidden too late as she turned to look at the house, her shoulders bowing. The quietness of her last words almost caused them to be lost on the gentle breeze.

“Let’s get you inside,” her father said gently.

Her breath seized. Tensing at a touch to her back.

She blinked.

She was home.

A second passed, and she relaxed.

The uncertainty was tangible, but he did not ask, likely assumed the reason. Mother did not question her choice of dress. For that she could be thankful.

The touch lifted, her father moving to take the reticule from her hand, but she shook her head, preferring his support over his assistance. He returned his hand to her back, and they made their way up the path to the door.

As soon as they crossed the threshold, the door closing with a quiet click, she was wrapped in her mother's firm embrace and surrounded by her delicate floral perfume; peonies and lily-of-the-valley.

Galinda used her occupied hands to cover her delayed response to the gesture, the thump of her reticule accompanying her return of the hug. For once not fretting over the risk of wrinkling her mother’s immaculate dress, not that her mother cared so much behind closed doors.

Movement at her back more than the heavy steps signalled her father collecting her shawl and reticule from the floor.

Her mother pulled back, both hands resting on her covered upper arms, her thumbs stroking soothing patterns. Galinda stood firm, trying not to dip her chin as her mother studied her features for a long moment. She was hugged close once more, words whispered in her ear.

“We've missed you so much.” It felt an apology, one that made the gnawing ache in her heart only grow. “Our sweet Galinda.”

A sniffle caught in her nose as she blinked back the burning in her eyes.

In the rush of joy at seeing them, all that pain had almost been forgotten. How they had pulled away from her in the lead up to her departure. How utterly alone she had felt, disorientated and lost, and would have been entirely if not for –

The hug lingered, a hand at the back of her head the other at her back, her mother uncaring for the potential damage of tears at her shoulder.

That hurt that clung to the deepest parts of her could be healed, she was closer now, though she herself had drawn away on her move. Not consciously. Never intentionally. A captive within herself again, and no one there to guide her out this time. Sometimes she wished it was easy to leave yourself behind, but it never was. It never would be.

By the time they straightened up, she had gathered herself, her mother's hold remaining on her arms. She looked around from the familiar stairs to the magnolia walls, the intricate maplewood mouldings above the waist height boiserie below, and the beautiful warm brown rug with the subtle gold threaded along the borders in mimicry of winding vines. All was as it always had been, unchanging, a constant. But even constants come to an end.

“How are things now? With your marriage?” Her mother cupped Galinda’s cheek in one hand as the other fussed with her loose curls. The light contact was a welcome point to focus on as her stomach dropped, unpleasantness churning within. “I understand from your last letter you were still suffering from nerves?”

Galinda worried that her gaze had wavered, even as it remained locked with her mother's. Even as she strove to maintain her fixed expression. “Yes. Things have settled now.”

Her father appeared beside her mother, his eyebrows uncharacteristically drawn together. To hope he had seen nothing seemed a waste, though he had never been as astute as her mother.

“If he treats you any less than you deserve, I will have words with him.” Galinda shook her head at his reaction, though his voice belied nothing of what that may mean. Too many ways to read it, but the most benign the most likely. Her lips quirked into a small smile, it held more strength than she thought, and his face eased.

She did not wish to speak of him.

“The townhouse is pleasant, and in a good part of the city right before one of the many man-made canals.” Her letters home, sparse though they had been for some time, said as much, but the assertion felt needed to ease any worries. “Business is progressing well, or shall be once it commences properly. Graduation and the like.”

Her father's jaw twitched, her mother’s lips thinned, she knew why. Her visit home was the first since she had left. The lack of decorum shown by another.

The glide of the hand tidying her hair moving down to her forearm pulled her attention away. Her mother's eyes so soft, her smile so gentle.

“And still no sign of children?”

She could not stop the slip of her gaze, the parting of her lips but lack of words. Her heart hammered a stilted beat. The tilt of her head spoke of bashfulness. The hesitation, the slight crack of her voice, embarrassment. “No. Not yet. But we shall continue to try. It is early days, after all.”

Nausea roiled, the quivering feeling of disgust skittering along her skin, made worse with the words she forced from her lips. The light voice she used.

This, on top of all else, was too much. Too great. The mask, slighter than those worn with others, was now a pitiful fragile thing and it was threatening to split in twain.

Mother still smiled, a shine in her eyes, but not for her words nor her reaction. The pretend taken as the truth, or perhaps she was recalling the reason Galinda was finally there. The reality breaking through the moment of elation that had swept them up so completely.

It was a harrowing thing.

“I understand…” Her mother began, rubbing at Galinda’s arms with comforting hands as if she were trying to pass her assurance through touch as well as words, to alleviate Galinda, “… these things take time, but you will get there. Marriages between unknown parties often end up pleasant, if not completely joyous. You learn to love them; it simply takes more time for some. Do you not agree, dear?”

But it wasn't the same, was it? Galinda had never enquired too much, but she had heard enough from them, aunt, and Ama. Not a forced marriage to someone unseen, but rather long known to one another – acquaintances through a family friendship. Her father had asked her, hadn't he? They had a say, had a choice.

Her heart sunk only further, though she tried to grasp to the caring touch, the words meant to enhearten. Tried to find buoyancy within them both.

Her father twisted away slightly, a single gruff cough into his elbow. The sound caught in her chest, the awful chill of remembrance, of memories viewed with different eyes thanks to the curse of knowledge. Little benefit did it ever bring.

But it was brief, and she too foolish, her father straightened up and scratched at the top of his jaw, his eyes crinkling with the size of his smile. “Not for me. It was love at first sight.”

Her mother's hold finally slipped away, Galinda felt the loss but was distracted from it by the haughty look in her mother's eyes and the rare smirk spreading across her face. Mother looked at her father, posture perfect and flicked her chin up. “Of course it was.”

The ego fake, blatant, the scoff she earned overemphasized, Galinda could not help but laugh, joined, almost immediately, by the bright sound of her mother's.

It echoed in the entrance hall and, for just a moment, she forgot all else.

But, as with most things, it was not to last. Her stomach churned, the fluttering in her chest changing into something intense and searing. A raw pain she had grown quite familiar with. The joy of being home, of things feeling as they were before the distance, was overwhelmed once more by everything that came with it.

She drew in a breath, swallowing a painful growing lump as she looked towards the top of the stairs.

Her reticule and shawl, an attempt made to fold the latter, sat on the end table by the stairs, her valise on the floor almost touching the feet of the cabriole legs. She could not say why she stopped to look at them. Did not want to.

Galinda looked back to her parents. Her father was watching her with clear concern, his brow wrinkled and eyebrows high. Mother was beside him, lips almost unnoticeably pursed, her hands folded primly before her, but the slight fidget of her fingers was obvious to Galinda.

They had already offered to come with her, had checked if she was certain, but she had gently declined with a quaver in her voice. She needed to do this on her own. Should have done so far sooner. If she had thought. If she had not been so lost within herself.

She managed to offer them a frail smile, hoping the space between them would make it appear stronger than it was.

A leaden weight had embedded itself in her legs, making her steps on the stairs heavy, her hard grip on the banister an attempt to steady the shake in her hand.

Through a partly open window, the scent of wildflowers gently flowed in. It should have brought her cheer. The familiar hallway, as unchanged with time as everything else, pushed in towards her – towered inwards – leaving her crowded and small, like she was a child once more, seeking comfort after a nightmare or the fright of a thunderstorm.

She pressed her fingers to her breastbone, felt the shivering of her muscles. Of her tender heart. Something had been eating away at her chest, its hunger only growing, and she could do nothing about it.

The short distance to her Ama’s room, directly beside her own as it had always been, felt as if it took an age.

She paused in front of the closed door, taken suddenly by dizziness, teeth pressed hard into the swollen flesh of her cheek to try to steel herself.

It shook, her clammy hand, as she raised it to knock softly on the wood. Weaker than she intended yet still so deafening.

A beat, and she cracked open the door.

“Ama?” Nerves alight, Galinda poked her head around the door, stuck there as if wishing to remain hidden behind it.

Ama Clutch lowered the book she held, a bright smile spreading across her pale face. One thin hand was freed to motion her in, a look on her face as if amused by Galinda's uncharacteristic meekness.

The door closed quietly, a low hammering of her heart reverberating through her. Ama Clutch looked dwarfed by the plush sheets wrapped around her and the pillows at her back propping her up.

The glimpse of her hands had already hinted as much, but now seeing her clearly and closer, Galinda could see for certain that she had indeed lost weight – and a significant amount at that.

“Duckie,” her Ama's voice was low and crackly in quality, and yet still so cheerful. She placed her book on the bedside table, not caring to take note of the page she was currently on. Galinda wondered if she had ever truly been reading it. Wondered why she was wondering about such things now.

She was paralyzed by trepidation for too long a moment before she managed to force herself forward, at her Ama’s bedside now.

“I’ve missed you,” Galinda rushed out, bottom lip trembling. Wavering, struck between that burst of joy and the burden of unbearable sorrow. A sob trapped in her chest as she circled her arms around her Ama, hugging her gently, as if afraid she would bruise. Her familiar scent helped calm Galinda’s clenching heart, her smile matching her Ama’s save for the wateriness of it.

A button back chair was already placed at the bedside, Galinda pulled it even closer to the bed before sitting down. Immediately, she reached across the sheets to grasp her Ama’s left hand, further soothed by the very real warmth beneath her palm.

“You look well,” Ama Clutch said softly, her eyes bright with affection. “Are you really well?”

“Yes Ama, I feel much better now than I once did.” Galinda wanted to return the compliment, to say that her dear Ama looked well, to tell her how much she looked forward to spending time together once more. But she could not say what was not true, nor could she live in the pretend of how she had imagined their reunion, their future, to be. Little ever was how she imagined.

She had said too much, misspoke, not wanting to cause any undue distress she added, with a poor attempt at a frustration born from snobbery.

"The journey, you see, horrid thing until you reach the train. Leaves the nerves unsettled for a time."

Her Ama turned her hand, clutching Galinda’s with surprising strength in her grip. Seeing right through her. “I am so sorry to have done that to you.”

The lump in her throat swelled, the itch of tears pushing at her scratchy eyes. Misidentified, it may be, but the sting was just as real. The loss, the directionlessness, isolated until she wasn't –

Don't start.

When she managed to wrangle herself enough to speak, her voice still hitched, “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I knew, Duckie.” Ama Clutch’s eyes slid shut for a moment, her exhale noisy. “Before we left.”

Galinda shook her head, looking up to the plain ceiling as if that would force the tears to stay put. “You shouldn’t have come,” she whispered hoarsely. To make that journey not just once, but twice.

“I couldn’t not –” Galinda had insisted, demanded, too frantic to face it without her “– I knew I could, for at least a little while. Until your parents asked…”

Asked her back. Told her. Ordered her.

Galinda screwed up her eyes, the lump in her throat growing sharp.

“They knew?” The question was strained, tilting up at the end. Anger at them did not materialise, nothing but a twisting, rippling upset –guilt, like the choking grip of ivy had long planted and coiled itself tight beneath her breast. There was no removing it now. Her chin dropped forward, her free hand curled tight in her lap.

Her Ama nodded.

They too had borne her arguments; her persistent imploring wrought from pathetic childishness. The alternative – even if proper – would not suffice, it had to be her Ama.

“It’s alright, Duckie. I chose to.” Her Ama’s other hand covered hers, offered a gentle encouraging squeeze. “It was my choice.”

“I'm so sorry, Ama. I should never have –“

“Enough of that, I chose.”

“No,” Galinda gasped, shoulders quaking. There could be no excusing her, not for this, not for what she had done. “I – what I did, how I behaved –”

“My choice,” her Ama said as kindly as ever. “It does no good to speak like that, so you stop that now. You hear? Do as your Ama says.”

Galinda bit her lip, shakily nodded her head after long moments passed even as she wished to argue. Trying her hardest to make herself accept her Ama’s words, not because she did not believe them, but because she could not accept the fault being anyone’s but hers. Could not accept how easily her apology had been dismissed, how it was met as if unneeded. Ama Clutch had been ill, and Galinda had been completely oblivious to it. So self-centred. Perhaps even wilfully ignorant…

“And the girls? How are they?”

Her breath caught, gaze dropping to their hands and her pulse hammering in her neck. A difficult question on the best of days, more so with her emotions already heightened as they were, her grasp on them long slacken from fatigue. Galinda swallowed, ignoring the piercing discomfort in her throat, tried to gather herself. A task that only ever grew ever more challenging.

She stumbled over her words, her head pained from the constant fight inside, the battle to hold back hot tears. “Well, I believe. We have grown closer, I think you could say we are more like true sisters now. You were completely correct, as always.” Galinda managed a small smile at this and a ghost of a laugh that had her Ama's smile grow greater still. “Nessa is really quite lovely, if you ignore her tendency to fall back on religious discussions or scoldings for supposed sinful behaviour or words taken as such.” An exaggeration, her Ama would know, Nessie was not as severe as that, her ambition had always been to follow in their father’s footsteps.

She still felt that there was something admirable to be found in that dedication, even if she did not quite understand the cause. And saw, beneath that, a girl who desired to see more than she could. It would be nice, she thought, to bring her here and show her something outside the little she had been able to truly see. As she had once suggested on a day that now seemed so long ago.

But that had been born in a moment when she had given herself into improbable make-believe, and now, that faint possibility was gone completely. Nessie was too occupied, too fraught, and she, herself, so far and too distant when not distracted by the presence of others.

Make-believe. Imaginations. Pretending. What did that truly bring?

Ama Clutch’s chuckle was cut off by a harsh cough, her breathing laboured as if it was a fight to take a breath.

Alarm made her voice grow shrill, “Ama?”

A glass and pitcher of water sat on the bedside table. Galinda twisted, her Ama’s hand lifting from hers. She hurriedly filled the glass halfway and pressed it into her Ama’s free hand. The water sloshed in the glass as Ama Clutch shook. Galinda released her hold on her hand and helped her take a sip to soothe her throat.

Once Ama Clutch signalled she had drunk enough, Galinda returned the glass to the bedside table, only then realising how her heart raced.

Calmness returned unsteadily.

“You seem more capable than before.” It was not spoken unkindly, though somewhat hoarse, if anything, Ama Clutch sounded reassured by her words. And, true, Galinda had not been frozen in her sudden panic. But was it true elsewhere and other times? Could she be truthful in this?

“I feel more capable now,” Galinda affirmed, pulse still slowing. “I am married now, did you know?” She had not been able to write, not in the build-up or the aftermath. Her throat tightened, the ivy's hold growing greater. “I wish you could have been there.” To support her, to give her the strength she did not have, to say what she needed to hear. To stop her sliding. To keep her here.

“I would have if I could.” Ama Clutch touched her arm, her other still solidly holding on to Galinda's. “But I was there in spirit. I always am.” At Galinda's nod, the touch on her arm fell away, her Ama's smile turning softer. "I told you that those girls would be good for you. The more experiences a person has, the more they grow.” She sighed. “I wish I had done more with my time.”

Galinda shook her head, the dull pain housed inside felt as if it were loose, rattling about and colliding with her skull. Her lip wobbled and her nose felt stuffy, her words sounding like a hasty demand, “Don’t speak like that Ama.”

Ama Clutch simply smiled. “No point ignorin’ the obvious, Duckie. The Wind is coming. Besides, I realise that wish means nothin’, I don’t regret it. All those dreams I had as a girl aren’t truly missed. Not when I had that time with you.”

“Ama…”

“Don’t be sad.” A frail hand, warm and sure, gently swept over her cheeks, pushing away the tears that had fallen without notice. “We’ll see each other again. Souls got a way of finding those important to each other. In all our lives.”

She could not respond, only give a small sniff as she tried feebly to contain herself, her words trapped within. Only the subtle tremble that ran through her gave away just how difficult the struggle was. The touch drifted up, brushing at loose curls much as her mother had.

“You’re not that little girl running scared from ducks no more.”

A small laugh burst out of Galinda; a hiccup of a sound mixed with a sob. She flushed, how could she ever forget her childish fear of those feathered beasts and their gargling cries. The wet slap of their feet...

“The way they waddled, right Duckie?”

“Urgh.” Galinda shivered, hot cheeks wet. “Blasted things. You try being chased by them, the waddle isn’t so innocent then. And then, to add to the humiliation, you spend the rest of my childhood and adulthood taunting me about it every chance you get.”

“You overcame that fear and so many others.” Ama Clutch paused to yawn, her eyes now bleary with drowsiness, but the depth of meaning in her voice still so clear. As secure and certain as the hold of their joined hands. “I am proud of you.”

The words twinged in her heart. What was there to be proud of? Truthfully? Galinda dragged the back of her hand over her eyes, uncaring of the way it would smear and smudge her makeup or the improperness of the action. “You’re tired.”

Her Ama nodded and hummed her agreement. “You were always far more capable than you gave yourself credit for.” Ama Clutch placed her hand on top of theirs once more. Met her eyes with so much feeling within them. It pulled at the twisted mess of hurt and upset and distress nestled deep inside, grasped something else just as raw and yet other somehow, guiding it free. “You can still do so much, my sweet Galinda.”

And with that, she drew in a breath and drifted off to sleep still holding her hand.

Galinda stayed for a while, face pulled rigid by drying tears and her full heart heavy. In the silence, the only sounds her Ama's hoarse breathing and the songbirds outside the window, she could do little more than mull over the words exchanged in their far too short conversation.

Within the constraints of the life she found herself in, what could she do? But her Ama was right. She always was. She need only figure out what and how.

The world was too big and she too small. Where she found herself was a twisted version of what she had once dreamed of. The experience did not match the fantasy, her wish now for something else, but that too an impossibility.

But Ama believed in her. Thought she was capable even though she had only ever shown how untrue that was.

She looked from her Ama’s sleeping face to their hands, unable to not think of all her missteps and failures. All that her Ama had needed to do for her. Then, and even now.

When was the last time she had so much as thought of sorcery? Beside to gloat or brag? But even that was long ago now. When had she last cast a simple spell or two?

The few challenges she had ever faced she had managed to overcome in the end. Well, almost all of them… but never alone.

She pressed her free hand to her lips, fresh tears falling, shaking from the heartache she tried in vain to contain.

For her Ama. For her abandonment – twofold – for –

Distance from memories only did so much. Isolation a blade with two edges. The only path downwards or to lose oneself.

She drew difficult breaths in through her mouth; nose too blocked to draw in air. The pounding in her head now persisting, a fully developed headache that would not be easily shifted. It had sunk in, pulsed along with the beat of her heart.

Home. She was home and with her family.

Chin lowered, eyes squinting at the bright light filtering in through the window, she tried to find solace in the birdsong, the wildflowers, the familiarity of home, the warmth held in her hand.

Her Ama was right. She was capable. Beneath it all, more than she had ever thought. Despite everything, despite having so much taken from her; future and present both, she continued onwards. And was that not a show of some kind of capability?

She could be more. She could prove to others that a person could be greater than what was thought of them, or what was expected and demanded of them. Or, what they silently thought of themselves.

She could do that if only for her Ama. Even if... even if she was not around to see it come to its full fruition.

For Ama.

She remained for a while, letting the gravity of the words, her decision, her promise, settle on her shoulders. It was no burden, unlike the rest, if anything it helped to take some of what encumbered her and balanced it somehow, allowing her to stand that little bit straighter.

She uttered a few soft words, affirmed her promise, her tentative belief, and finally slid her hand from beneath the weight of her Ama’s. She wiped again uncaringly at her face with her palm, eyes sore from the tears lost. With mindful steps, and one last look back, she snuck from the room to leave her Ama to her rest.

Galinda jolted awake gasping for breath, a cold sweat sweeping across her brow and trailing down her back.

Her eyes, roving sightless in the darkness, were raw. The pounding had returned to her head. The excruciating ache in her chest had ruptured, flooding every part of her, pulling ever muscle taut.

She lay, shaking and breathless, mind lagging behind the present. Her quaking only intensified as she fought to push herself up, her wobbly weakened arms barely able to manage that most simple of movements.

Her dream... terrible, painful. Agony. She could not recall the details, as always with her nightmares, only the horrifying and all-consuming emotions that had been brought about by it. The indescribable anguish. Worse still, buried under it all and unexplainable; a sense of welcome. Of peace.

Sitting, sheets pooled around her waist, she sucked in air, pressed her trembling hand to her thundering heart. Her chest still heaving.

It did nothing.

She dropped her head into her palms, trying to breathe in and out as she had long ago been taught. Her fingers curled, nails digging into her skin. Striving to calm herself. Spots, like fading lights in the darkness, popped behind her eyes with how hard she pushed at them.

She was lost within herself, unsure how long had passed in the silent darkness. Not even the wind or low hoots of owls or chirp of insects to try to turn her mind towards. All was still. Unnatural.

Her nightdress was stuck to her skin, chilling her perhaps even greater than the sweat that still clung to her.

She swallowed hard. Mind finally catching up, drifting, but caught in an unsteady grasp. What lingered pushed down, held by a firm hand.

She debated, then, whether to draw a bath now or wash herself with a cloth and wait until morning. The decision did not come with the ease it should, so, to carry on and hope it found her was the only way.

She slipped unsteadily from her bed, heart lurching when in the dark she tripped and stumbled.

Braced against her bedside table, she blindly scrabbled around until her hand met something soft.

She picked Bubbles up from the floor. Perhaps she should have felt shame for falling asleep with her cradled to her chest, but she was beyond caring.

Pulling her curtain aside, moonlight highlighted the closest part of the room in a soft glow. She rubbed at her eyes, hurting as if the weak light was as bright as the noon sun. Turning, she placed the yellow bear on her dresser, repositioning her only once to ensure she was just right.

She had just changed her nightdress when there came a soft knocking on her door.

Though she was not startled, her stomach dropped. For a moment she stood unresponsive, her brow growing sore from the severity of its crease, nausea pushing at the back of her throat.

She turned just in time to catch the glint of the handle moving in the moonlight. Hearing nothing until the click of it opening.

“Galinda, dear?” her mother called gently as she opened the door, letting soft light from the hallway flood into her room. Galinda scrunched her eyes at it. At what this meant.

An ornate oil lamp held close in hand, her hair down and flowing, dressed in a silk robe, rarely ever seen as such. Her mother’s eyes were shining.

“Mama?” Galinda whimpered, voice thin, almost lost in the sound of her rapid muffled steps against the carpet.

The old childhood term was allowed to slip, greeted with not even a frown of disapproval. Before Galinda could blink, could speak, she was wrapped in her mother’s arms, overwhelmed by her perfume and the sense of security it carried.

“Come, quickly, there isn’t much time.”

Galinda’s head spun, the world swaying, her mother’s hold alone keeping her upright.

She was right.

“Come,” her mother whispered, partially pulling back. Her expression fixed, but barely covering how distraught she was, her arm a supportive presence around Galinda, her free hand grasping hers.

Her father at the door, the lamp in his hand now.

This was too soon.

Too quick.

Why did she have to be right?

She was led.

She had never known her grandmother, but she had never felt the loss of not knowing her. Not when she had her Ama. Always bright and cheerful, always by her side, indulging her, reading her stories, offering so much help, and being ever so blunt when needed. Oh, and how she had needed it.

How she still did.

The doctor had left them, his voice soft as he told them to take all the time they needed. He was waiting outside. Waiting, so they could say their goodbyes.

Goodbyes.

Her parents had been taking turns checking Ama Clutch throughout the night, had done so for quite some time, unknown to Galinda. Unmentioned. They had not wanted to worry her, not with the journey separating them. The fear she would not make it in time a profound one. Tonight, there had been a turn for the worse.

Her father had noted the change and had fetched the doctor – in his nightclothes of all things.

Galinda wondered what happened to their old housekeep and cook, an odd thing to be concerned about with everything else that was occurring. The mind was a curious thing.

Galinda found herself on the chair, guided there unaware. Her father, hair and sideburns mussed by sleep, stood on the other side of the bed. Her mother was turned slightly into him, his arm around her. Both wore equally pained expressions.

Ama's hand was still warm and solid in her own, Galinda offering comfort with her presence. For her Ama. For herself. Her other hand fisted her nightdress, unable to hold her Ama firmly for worry of hurting.

She said nothing, for there was nothing she could say – if Ama Clutch could even hear her anymore. Galinda tried, croaking, words feeble and merged with stifled sobs. Ama knew she was there, she had to know. Galinda shook, right down to her bones, throat constricted, battling as bravely as she could against the blurring of her eyes. She had to be strong.

Ama Clutch had seemed fine when they had spoken. Smaller, weaker in body certainly, but her mind was still sharp. How could such a thing happen so soon? With such haste? It was expected, they knew what was coming, and yet it was so unexpected at the same time. Was life truly so confusing? So out of their control? So unknowable?

Her mother whispered an old prayer to Mother Lurlina, her gentle voice and melodic words the only sound save for her Ama's breathing. Soothing almost, her words, a guiding light of safety offered in the pitch black of a storm.

If it were possible, and maybe it was, it almost felt as if her Ama had held on purely so Galinda would have the chance to say goodbye. As if her Ama, herself, only wanted to share those precious words with Galinda and then she was happy to go. To find her peace. For the Wind to come.

With one last rattling sigh she was gone.

Such stillness could not be described.

It was then, and only then, that Galinda let the tears fall freely, her head hanging low and shoulders shaking with gut-wrenching sobs she fought to supress. She still held her. Didn't let go even as she was enveloped in a hug. Not even as she broke, her cries spilling forth. Words an indecipherable plea.

The funeral was a quiet, reserved affair. The day bright, a smattering of white clouds in the blue. They wore black, rather than colour. Though she noted the subtle purple of her mother’s earrings and necklace, her father's matching cufflinks; her own decorative hairpin, styled with a cluster of delicate violets, was much the same. A few of her Ama’s distant family members were present; neither she or her parents had seen them before, and never knew them to contact her. Galinda turned from them with a set jaw.

The unfamiliar people, however, thankfully kept their distance for the majority of the ceremony, standing beneath the bowing branches of a yew tree. They only approached Galinda at the end to thank her for her kindness – for she had paid for everything, despite her parents proclaiming that it was their responsibility. Shell would likely be greatly displeased if he were to find out, but he would soon forget his feelings on the matter in a day or two. Not that she would allow herself to be bothered by how he felt.

She had paid but allowed her mother and father any say. Naturally, her mother had taken the lead, a fine line had to be tread. As it had to be, even here.

Her Ama’s family were invited back, her mother opening their home for the wacian – not that they could refer to it as such with strangers, nor pay respects how they wished.

It was short notice, but her mother promised that they could manage a more than decent offering. The family, though, politely declined. Her mother insisted, as was expected, and they continued to gently refuse.

In the end, her mother dropped the offer, for which Galinda was most relieved. The strangers thanked the three of them to an almost obscene degree. As if they knew. As if they cared.

Through the struggle of her emotions, Galinda felt the winding sliver of her anger grow. She held her tongue with the press of her teeth and the balling of her fists. Grief, such an ugly unpredictable thing.

When all had gone and the earth was placed back, they stood alone in the little cemetery. Stone slabs spoke more of Unionism, the dotting of bright flowers of something else. The breeze, as gentle as it almost always was there stirred at the trees circling the place, carried the scent of sweet pea and honeysuckle and the ever-present call of the songbirds.

Alone, her mother offered a prayer to Mother Lurlina, the three of them joining in one low voice; Ozian, not Gillikinese for her dear Ama could not speak it. They placed potted white fairy lilies at the head of the mound, held a lit sprig of rosemary above the water held in a shallow bowl of yew wood, and, once it was reduced to nothing but ash floating on the surface, poured the contents on top of the fairy lilies – they would be buried in the soil in tradition, but they could only do so much.

When they returned home, they held the wacian as planned. Celebrated life and death, the return to the essence, the beauty of the cycle. They offered food and drink, her choice; the custard tarts she and her Ama often not so secretly shared. She tried to remain as upbeat as she would have wanted her to be. Her parents too, with tears in all their eyes. There could be no life without loss. No joy without pain.

They remained up until late into the night, sharing stories and memories and song.

When exhaustion weighed them down far too heavily, Galinda retired to a guestroom, unable to return to her bedroom that night save to retrieve Bubbles from her dresser.

She clutched the bear as close to her chest as she could every night, remaining in that same guestroom until it was time for her to bid her parents goodbye and return to the City. To what was supposed to be her new home, though it still did not feel like one. To linger would be to allow the temptation to stay to grow until it became an impossibility not to.

Just before she was due to depart, she travelled to her Ama’s resting place by foot with a paper wrapped bundle of white dahlias and yellow roses, that same shallow bowl of water, and a small stone figure of a duck she once brought on a trip to Wittica for her Ama. She placed the flowers down, poured the water over the fairy lilies and the soil beneath, and whispered a prayer of her own. It felt unfamiliar, a practice lost, but she found some odd comfort within it, that familiarity of youth.

She placed the duck prominently, resting beneath the fairy lilies in their pot as if sheltering from the rain. In a whisper, she said her goodbyes and reaffirmed her promise.

A promise that she would do something, that she could be more. She would do more.

She would justify her Ama’s pride in her. However misplaced it may have once been. Her promises to her always kept.

She would be better.

She had to be.

Every three months at the very least, after she surfaced, she would make the journey home to visit her parents and pay her respects to her Ama. She would kneel with flowers before the stone once it was set, the memory it represented of this life. Of the woman who had always been by her side. She would pour the gift of water over the fairy lilies and the soil, sharing stories of joy and sadness, of hopes and wants, growth and loss; of her continuing life.

Galinda would sit back, running her fingers softly over the writing and poem engraved in the stone, her voice low and wistful as she let her tears roll silently down her face. Reassured, at least, by knowing that one day they would find one another again.

Of the inevitably of loss and return.

Chapter Text

Glinda rubbed her hands together, her brow low and lips pursed. Slowly taking in a breath, she stretched one hand out to hover over her half full teacup. With another small intake of air, she flexed her fingers and felt the thread of connection form, a lingering pull from her to it, then the heat of steam curling upwards against her palm. It took only seconds.

“Ha!” Glinda exclaimed, smiling widely at her success, elation warming her chest and the chair creaking as she sat back.

Only a few days had passed since her return from Munchkinland and, as such, she had been rushed off her feet ever since trying to sort out her plans and ideas. Her concerns and her fears. Distance seemed to have muddled them all, leaving everything ensnared and entangled, and it was all proving quite tricky to pick apart and make separate. Admittedly, it was not at all helped by herself, the biggest contributor no doubt. Her mind a disarray of duty and unburied emotion. To wrestle that back down was not as feasible as it had once been. Her heart ached – yearned – with a strength like which she had known only once.

A tremble overtook her smile, the pleasing warmth shrinking beneath the chill of it all.

Shoulders dropping along with her mood, her hand curled tight against the surface of the desk.

Closing her eyes, she tried to refocus.

Another breath. In. And a long exhale out.

For now, all her attention had to be on Munchkinland.

The title ceremony had been small, just as she had stated she intended. Only those that needed to be there present, no accompanying celebration, her words – intended to unify and reassure – spread in the local press, distributed through the Eminences and their mayors.

When she had formally accepted the title, she had been somewhat taken aback by the weight she felt. It was her responsibility. It was in her care. She had no time to be distracted by any other invasive thoughts or emotions; unwanted and as unnecessary as they were. She could not slip backwards.

She opened her eyes, forced her hand to uncurl, and took a sip of her reheated tea, savouring the comforting taste of home. Almost as good as fresh – she could have asked Ella to deal with it, but she had long ago decided against such actions. It was, after all, another opportunity for her to practice her sorcery, and as such she would do just that.

She had promised.

How long it had lasted – that long period of unmeasurable melancholy – she could not recall. She had sunk like a stone within it. Once she had finally surfaced, pulling in as much air as she could, she tried to rekindle her ability.

She fought and struggled, battling in her effort to reach for it, but it was as if her ability had slid as she had; sank deeper and deeper, down beneath the heavy swell of emotion. She had only just barely breached the surface, and it had been left behind, stuck in the thick sediment beneath the waves.

Or, perhaps, she had never truly had the talent at all.

The doubt had been persistent, insistent, it had taken almost all she had to shake it off. Her memories were not false, she had not fallen for her own half-truths. Yet, the heavy weight of failure remained. She had adored sorcery, even if her teacher had not been the most skilled – if anything, that was only a most peculiar encouragement of sorts. If only she had not let the weight of others steer her away, who knew where her life would have led. Where she would be. What she could have done. But then, she had thought, what would she have lost on that path?

It stung either way.

So she had forged ahead, tried to reclaim what she felt was lost. Dredge it up from the muck.

And, eventually, her fingertips had brushed it.

No one knew she was practicing her skills – not anymore – in fact she was unsure if anyone else (outside those that knew a lifetime ago) was aware of what she had studied at university.

The only other whose abilities were publicly known was Locasta. Either Glinda was more of a rarity than she was ever led to believe, or the rest – those that had not been turned away or found it too arduous – thought as she had once come to; there was little to be gained from parlour tricks.

Perhaps the former was not so hard to believe, after all, she had once boasted to any who would spare her the time to listen. Which was most, if she was being honest. Whether they actually wished to listen or not was of little concern to her.

“Enough of distractions,” she murmured lowly to herself, lifting her pen from the inkwell and carefully tapping the nib against the side to remove any excess ink. The light metallic sound bought to her some measure of clarity.

Outside, the window ajar, the light sound of voices passing as they moved along the canal. The sunlight streaming in through the voile curtain brought out an almost golden hue in the red oak furnishings, the scent of paper and ink ever strong in her nose.

Settled, and with an even greater care this time, she resumed her work. There had already been one incident where ink had splattered unexpectedly, staining a letter she had almost finished. A letter that had been absolutely perfect. Unsurprisingly considering how long she had spent ensuring as such.

Naturally, she had been left with no choice but to take a break to calm herself before she broke something.

Already, she had penned a number of drafts and letters where she deemed the writing too chaotic upon the page, leaving her rather tightly wound. The page from the broadsheet had not survived it; a snippet, rather than an article, announcing the new leadership of Munchkinland. In all, little more than a title; Galinda Thropp, Eminent Thropp of Nest Hardings, The Second Eminence of Munchkinland. It was beyond due – the destruction, not the announcement – why she had kept it she could not say, but better a ball on the floor than a stark reminder on the desk.

No one had made the association yet. She doubted they ever would. Not the company she had to keep.

A lapse in herself, a brief flash of temper. Thankfully she was calmer now, filled only with a surety that, this time, she would finally get the letter completed to her exacting standards.

The tea most certainly helped.

Adjusting her grip on her pen, she repositioned one of the chaotic letters to better view it. Satisfied, she began to copy the writing. Neatly, this time, flawlessly like she had been taught as a child.

She had always had such beautiful penmanship.

She signed the letter with a flourish, paused, then cast a final appraising eye over her work.

Perfection.

As expected.

She released a long drawn-out breath, her shoulders freed from the tension that had settled on them. Rolling her head back to fix a crick that had formed in her neck, her eyes slipped closed, it was as if a small weight had been lifted from her. At least this one was unlikely to return, though may well be soon replaced like so many others had.

Her head dropped forward, poised once more, just as a light knock sounded against the door.

Glinda passed her pen from one hand to the other, fully aware of who it was. She allowed a moment to pass before she answered.

“Yes?” she called, not looking up fully as she placed her pen onto its holder. Silver and engraved with winding leaves and gillyflowers; silly in a way and definitely sentimental, but the closest she had found to a hint of home. And, nonetheless, a rather attractive piece.

The door opened with a cautious slowness, Ella peering around the side of it as if it were a shield she was wielding. “I was wondering if you needed a drink, or something to eat, Lady Glinda? It has been quite a while.”

Of course, and to little surprise, Ella had picked up the unearned reverence during their visits to Nessa. No amount of correction seemed to shake the habit from her, so Glinda no longer tried. Even as she, rather hypocritically, used the girl’s forename rather than her surname as was proper.

Glinda levelled her gaze at her. “No, thank you.”

Ella nodded jerkily, her gaze dropping to the ball of paper on the floor but wisely skipping past it. “Of course, my Lady.” Her forehead wrinkled, her hand slipping down slightly where she clutched at the wood, seeming for all of Oz to be slumping into herself.

It tugged at something in Glinda so, just as Ella was beginning to retreat, Glinda called out, “What a fool I am! I appear to have run out of envelopes.”

As if to prove the point to herself, she slid open the top drawer of the desk, pulling out the single envelope she had seen that morning. She had made a note to find some more, but like most things at that moment in time, the thought had slipped her mind in favour of other more undesirable ones.

“I have one for my letter of most importance, but I require more for the others I plan to write.”

Ella’s expression brightened as she straightened, still mostly obscured by the door. But it lasted only for a moment before she hesitated, her eyebrows turning and teeth appearing to bite at her lip.

“May…” Ella asked unsurely, fingers tensing on the edge of the door, “... may I ask who you are writing to?”

“No,” Glinda responded simply, closing the drawer with a heavier hand than was necessary. The bang startled them both, but only she managed to hide it.

Ella flushed, her ears burning bright. “I – I’ll go fetch some now, my Lady.”

Glinda nodded her thanks as she moved the letter to one side, replacing it with a fresh sheet of paper as she made another mental note to increase Ella's wages. It had been a long while since her last pay rise and was well overdue. Ella had never complained of having to perform housemaid duties, was eager to do anything that Glinda requested with no question or sharing, and truthfully Glinda did feel rather cruel in her often dismissive attitude towards her. She had tried to be kinder, sincerely had, but Ella reminded her of someone Glinda could not quite recall or name, and it had always set her just slightly on edge. Yet, she could not bring herself to replace her, nor did she honestly wish to.

Certainly, the challenging times she had endured was of little help towards her behaviour. Concerning as it was.

She never used to break things.

When Glinda looked back to the door it was closed.

And Ella was still there. Her last lady's maid had tended her resignation after everything was over. Even though times had not been as difficult as that, Ella showed no signs of leaving, in fact seem quite content to remain.

Stretching her fingers and rolling her wrist – the crack it made causing her nose to scrunch up in distaste – Glinda set about composing a far easier letter, one that would hopefully free herself from yet another weight on her form. This one not to reoccur or be replaced.

Her reply to the few Eminences who had sent well wishes and reassurances in response and separate to her own, the letters arriving long before she had, and to Genfee with his unsurprisingly good ideas (which either coincided with her own or improved upon them) could wait for the moment; this particular one was for her parents. Writing to them had once become a task that was no longer easy for her, but with time it had steadily come back.

She loved them dearly, always had, but after she returned from her first visit, during the worst of what followed, there had emerged a sliver of deep-rooted bitterness within her – resentment that the choices she had always expected and been afforded, for at least a time, had been taken from her. Resent to have had no warning. Resent to lose so much. Resent that she had been forced into this situation with no option but to remain.

It was not their choice alone, she knew that. Just as she was aware that if there were any other options, any other possibility, they would never have done this to her. Not if they knew the full truth of it.

The press of her lips was firm, her heart felt for a moment akin to a knot, but she drove it away with a press of her fingertips above it.

Flexing her fingers one last time, she picked up her pen. Concentrated on what she needed to.

After spending the majority of the day and afternoon attempting to complete just one letter to the Wizard, anything else would seem a doddle.

There had been no reply.

Her parents had done so promptly – yet another benefit of living in the City, or in any place that was connected to the Great Gillikin Railway. Though admittedly, with the mail from Munchkinland no longer having the delay it once did, there was little difference in it now.

It was with great pleasure that she read that her parents had been discussing purchasing some land from a friend, while another had offered partnership in a longstanding dairy farm. They had yet to decide which to pursue, but she would support them on either path – or both, if they so chose it. Her reply said as much, and promised if they needed further funds, she would send it without hesitation. She could suggest that her father take it himself, but she knew he would not access 'her' account.

It had taken an age, but their status was steadily improving. How could that bring her anything but joy?

Margo had sent a letter detailing happenings and some other gossip, nothing too compelling or concerning, and Eminent Amby had written for permission to ask Eminent Lochwood for additional timber to repair and reinforce fencing in the part of the Madeleines that fell within his province, adding an assurance he would repay more than in-kind. There was no need for him to request such of her, but she appreciated it for the sign of respect that it was.

Her letter to Frex, a second after her first sent during her journey back, had remained unanswered. She would be certain to ask after him in her reply to Genfee and send another in due time. She more than understood, and did not wish to put pressure upon him, to make him feel he must answer during such a harrowing time.

Genfee, if the date of his letter was to be trusted, which she was confident it was, had replied as soon as hers had reached him. She had reiterated to him her idea of opening up others to the idea of broadening the workforce countrywide, a coded message she hoped he understood, and if not, she knew it would pose no issue. It could be implemented at a later date when she was there. After all, it was a delicate time. He agreed, though she could not tell for definite if he understood.

The majority of his response detailed something else. How the Council had, as she very well expected, immediately resumed their previous behaviour as soon as her carriage had disappeared down the drive. He had slipped the happenings to the Eminences who had been most displeased, her success at that bringing her a smile. They, along with a few others, rallied. It had taken very little time for the Council to once again give up their protests, choosing to silently fume rather than actively and vocally protest.

The distance, as she had supposed, opened up the way for such behaviour. There was, however, little she could do. To stay there would have enabled her to deal with it as swiftly as before and ensured it stayed beneath her hand. However, that would then have caused a large delay regarding her talks with the Wizard. Problems would arise either way, and as she had decided before, this took precedence over politicking. That would have to wait until she returned, hopefully with an agreement that would please most, if not all.

And, while her being in the City could be twisted by others, it would also show a commitment to the Wizard; a willingness to put herself in what many would deem a perilous position all in the name of aiding in the talks.

Silent fuming she could manage, and with good fortune she will arrive back long before it evolved into dangerous rancour.

Still, the Wizard had not replied to her first letter. Or the second, or even the third, even with the reassurance she received at dear Nessa's funeral still fresh in her ear. Rumours of increasing reclusiveness did not lend themselves to an inability to reply to a letter or three.

While she had sent a number of letters on her journey back, she had only drafted her ideas for the Wizard – wanting to ensure it would be faultless, ideal, and that her stationary would be of the finest quality for the best impression.

When no reply came after another week, she poured over the ink splattered letter she had used as a draft, glad she had kept it in case she needed to reference its contents at a later date. There was nothing in it that she saw as offensive or the least bit threatening. Nothing demanding. Nothing that would earn a dismissal. Nothing but an open, frank willingness.

Perhaps he is simply otherwise occupied, she had thought, calming herself and letting another fraught week pass. As pressing as this matter was, he was sure to have others of which she had no awareness. Oz was large and complicated, conflicting demands were everywhere. Though, realistically, what could be more crucial?

Then another week passed.

All the while a distant memory prickled at the back of her neck.

“You seem awfully chirpy today.”

Shell, lounging in the study doorway, did not so much as twitch in response to the irate look she shot his way. Instead, he laughed loudly, the sound rattling in her cacophonous mind. She straightened her back, resisted wincing at the stabbing prickling of an ache long formed in the base of her spine.

“Hungover?” He queried with a smile.

Her own was quick and humourless. She did not appreciate the sentiment as he very well knew.

“No, dear,” Glinda sighed, fighting the urge to clench her jaw. To snap and bite with her words. Voice delicate and light, a falseness he could not see past. “I am simply rather exasperated.”

She shifted in her seat, visibly appearing unaffected save for weariness. With a couple of fingers, she tapped a steady pattern on the polished wood of the desk. The rhythmic sound offered something else to focus on.

It seemed she had claimed his study over the last month or so, not that it really mattered all that much – he rarely used it when he was there. If he ever had.

Leaning against the doorframe, Shell raised a single eyebrow as he studied her. How she hated that look, as if he could see straight through her – as if he believed he could. The sheer arrogance of it. “Shame. I thought you had finally loosened up.” He tilted his head back in a dramatic show, before adding wistfully, “What fun we could have had.”

Posture rigid, she shook her head as if merely inconvenienced. Her stomach turned, her lips twisting down and brow pinched, it all crossing over her face for only the time it took for him to glance down to his pocket watch.

She gathered herself more than well enough. Such things should be left long in the past; it was the only way to move forward.

“Someone not dignifying you with a worthy response?” he asked, closing his watch with an unnecessary snap before returning it to his pocket.

“How little you think of me to consider I would be bothered by as much.” She would have pushed at her curls, tossed them over her shoulder in a flippant display, but she had opted for a simple looping updo today. As she did most days as of late, her time outside the townhouse rare. “No, it is a lack of a response.”

Shell hummed, a habit he had only further developed over their time together. He drew the sound out, tapping his chin as he did. Surely only to further irritate. “Since when has that ever stopped you?”

The jab did not hit as well as he surely intended, her own voiced in a blunt manner, but whisked away in the offhand, distracted way she spoke it, “I could say the same to you.”

Unaffected, he rubbed at his chin, still appearing just as thoughtful. “Just what is it you are writing about?”

Just for a second, Glinda debated over wherever to deflect or not. The conclusion she reached as it often was; Shell no doubt already knew and was simply testing her to see if she would be truthful. After their discussion weeks ago, it should not come as a shock, in fact, that their shared words had not slipped her own mind was the true surprise.

“To the Wizard –”

“I already figured that out.”

“You already have it all figured out,” Glinda said as if a compliment, swiping at her brow. She hoped she had not left a smudge of ink there as she had done a few days before. She had not flushed, but had certainly felt the embarrassment within when Ella had hesitantly pointed it out to her with stammering words and stilted motions.

“Well, when your own wife won’t open up, you have to.” He rolled his shoulders, tilting his head to grin charmingly at her – at least that is how others would consider it, she supposed. “I deal in the collection of secrets.”

Glinda sighed again, wondering if she now appeared to be deflating with the amount of air she had so harshly exhaled recently. Displeasure was hidden in the uncharacteristic monotone of her voice, her fingers stilling, “Your charm does not work on me.”

“Oh, I know that.” He paused to wink. The curve of his lips strengthening at her veiled discomfort. He pushed up off the doorframe, brushed his hands across the breast of his terracotta suit jacket. “Why do you not simply ensure he is receiving your letters?”

He reached behind himself to straighten his crisp white collar from back to front, spinning on his heel as he did. A show with no audience.

“Enjoy your day working, dear.”

As the door banged shut, Glinda left vexed and unsettled, her expression fell into a severe frown.

She sat there for a while, still in her contemplation. When at last she moved, it was only her gaze shifting from her letter opener and wax seal stamp, to the empty envelopes and the neat pile of letters, finally coming to a rest on her inkwell. She brushed the pads of her fingers over the engraved pattern, traced the ridges and dips up to the pen which she picked up to do the same. Felt some alleviation, the easing of her expression, the fading of the unknown tautness of her muscles.

And, she found, beneath her weariness and aggravation that Shell might just be right.

It was not the first time he had helped, if she were to afford him some measure of appreciation. During that dark time – the slide into an impossible level of melancholia – at its worst when sleep was impossible, haunted by agonising emotions and searing shadows, Shell had procured the only thing she found could help. The poppy flower extract –

Nausea rose from her wrenching stomach. Her brow furrowed, low and severe. Palm pressed to her sternum, her fingertips brushed against her throat. That sharp ache in her chest resurfacing as if cut anew. It was forever there; that unhealable wound, the hollow hewn by reality. The very most she could do was wrap it up tight and try to pretend it was not there, mask the pain beneath everything else. It worked mostly, but then the rawness would flare. It would bleed, and would remind her.

It festered beneath its poor excuse of a dressing, and even if it were flushed out and the decay cut away, it would never knit back together; by nature or stitch.

It made one wish…

Sleep. No dreams. No nightmares. No emotions.

Just nothingness.

Peace.

She shook her head as if to fling away the recollection, to free herself of the creeping urge – that old temptation. She dug her nails hard into her arm. Bit at her cheek to bring back her mind.

The pen clattered. Paper rustled as she rifled through the drawers of the desk, carelessly shoving objects aside as she sought what she needed. Her impeccable organisation was threatening to tilt towards complete chaotic disorder if this continued.

A bang rang out as she placed each item on the desk.

She would simply have to ensure that what she was sending was indeed being received.

This would all be far simpler if she were as aware, as intelligent as Elphaba –

Metal cut into her tender palm, her grip tightened on the handle of the top drawer. Heart churning.

The shake of her head was violent, sight blurring with the fierceness of it.

She did not know where Elpha – where she was. Did not know if they would ever meet again. She had not even come for dear Nessie, back when she had inherited what she never thought would be hers. Back when she needed her sister most.

All Galinda's desperate assertions. Her frantic speculations. Each flicker of possibility, each lift of hope – of maybe this time – stopped dead at every turn.

What a pitiful fool. To convince herself of such implausibilities. To choose delusion.

Glinda had to do these things, make the decisions, determine the path forward. And she had to do them on her own. She could not rely on others for the rest of her life. Could not turn for help on every occasion. Every difficulty. She knew that plainly.

The pain. She had let it linger.

Forcing her grip to relax, she released the handle and lifted her hand. With her eyes, she followed the echo of the intricate pattern imprinted into the delicate skin of her palm. She wiggled her fingers, jarred the soreness, did it as if that would make the angry red marks fade sooner.

This was for her Ama.

No one else.

It should not be something that she need remind herself of.

Many were relying on her. No alternative existed but to do her best. Be her best.

To do as she promised.

Not fall back into such behaviour and mind-sets.

With a grimace, she stretched out her fingers and carefully rested her palms on the desk. Closing her eyes, she slipped her feet from her heels to press into the rug beneath her. An attempt to ground herself, to calm her racing pulse and ease her tense muscles.

It took a while before she was prepared to perform the spell. A clear mind, one free of swirling emotions or memories was required, lest something go terribly wrong. Not that there was much potential for damage if this spell went awry – unlike a girl back at university who had been trying to create a small ember to start a fire; she had ended up losing a significant amount of her hair. They had not let her live it down. It was only with much fortunate that she was not left physically scarred.

Still, even with lack of a known backfire or potential for injury, she wanted to ensure that it went perfectly. There was no room for errors or missteps. Not anymore.

She held both hands steady before her, hovering just above the objects on the desk. Drawing in a slow breath, she focused on that gentle living warmth so deeply entwined with her being, that once again flowed just beneath her skin. She coaxed it forward, into her fingers and downwards. Felt the pull of connection.

In reality, it was a simple spell, if it were not for the time between her bouts of using her skill in this particular way. Though, surely, like when one learned to ride a horse, it was something you would never forget. Not that she had learnt to ride. Besides, sorcery was so ingrained in her, and this enchantment used often enough at university.

Girls could be so terribly invasive of privacy, and in a dorm with many others, the use of the spell by the few Sorcery students ensured no one else would read their private thoughts or mail. Or, rather, it would be known if someone did. To specify too great a challenge when they were first learning, and pointless with so many present, but to try to do now the only way to be sure – though whether she was to be successful an uncertainty.

Of course, the Wizard as great as he was, could undoubtedly detect its presence easily. But it was such a small, subtle thing, a trifle of a spell used by ‘children’, it could just as easily slip beneath his notice. Or be so close to nothing that he would care little.

It took longer than she liked, but at last the tell-tale sign of a dark, almost black glow surrounded the envelope and the small slip of paper beside it, her heart lurching then fluttering at the sight. The glow faded gently, lifting like a fine mist in the early morning, leaving the paper just as it once was; untouched and a pleasing cream.

Though her lips curved into a pleased smile, she did not bask in her success.

With fortune her alteration would work. She did not have proper opportunity to test it, or rather, she did not feel she could comfortably do so – nor could she accept the delay.

Now, she need only to write another letter about reunification and her willingness to discuss it, as she had in the first letter and those that followed.

Repetition helped set things in one’s mind.

As always, a polite enquiry regarding her past letters. In all, grateful and concise.

Hopefully it would not take too long this time and, all being well, she would soon receive a reply.

Chapter Text

The slip of paper she kept to constant hand darkened on her bedside table. Glinda froze in the process of extinguishing the lamp beside it, staring unblinkingly as if unable to comprehend the sign.

Her letter had been read.

Gasping in a shocked breath, lurching back into movement, she yanked her hand back to press against her breastbone. Heart thumping beneath her palm and fanned fingers.

It had worked.

Oh, where she could have been if she had ignored the influence of others! The years of mastery she had lost! The difference she could have made! Or tried to make…

Just parlour tricks, she had once told herself in way of comfort – a rare humbleness used to disguise that she knew, or suspected deep down, that it could have been far more. That she knew she had squandered her opportunity, had wasted her potential. That for all her desire to make her family proud, to do right by them, she had in truth failed them – had let herself down. They did not know, and could not possibly know. But she did. And she always would.

Now, all she could truly do were parlour tricks – more advanced than not, but tricks all the same.

The last bit of her elation vanished with the stiffening of her jaw. The frustration that so much was lost felt insurmountable, like a great mountain, and there was nothing she could do to climb and surpass it.

Gone, perhaps, but not truly forever. She would find what had been misplaced. Retrieve as much as she was able.

First, the matter at hand; her letter had been read – though not necessarily by the intended recipient. Yes, she had attempted to specify, for the spell to only react upon a particular individual opening the letter, but perhaps she had not been successful. Specification was too much of a challenge when young, and now time was too short and she felt far too much discomfort to test on the unaware.

In fact, now she thought upon it, she was certain she had not cast such a spell since she had stopped chronicling her thoughts in diaries. While she knew it to be an age ago, for it to truly be that many years. It always stunned her when she recalled how quickly time moved.

Sorcery had so many restrictions and rules, was in reality more like a recipe, and if not followed exactly or under the correct conditions, the fallout potentially disastrous.

She had never met the Wizard; even brief personal contact led to the easing of such attempts to specify. The change in front of her could even potentially be a sign the spell had been broken or intentionally triggered. There were far too many possibilities that she, as witless as usual, had not contemplated.

Of course, if she allowed herself a moment to give over to fanciful thinking, if she chose to believe she had accomplished her intention and that all her doubts did not exist – that they were just a result of her typical overthinking – then the Wizard had been receiving her letters after all.

She brushed at her hair as if to move it from her eyes, not due to any being in her way, but more to keep herself occupied as she ran through her thoughts. With no brush to hand, her fingers glided through her curls, the action soothing much the same.

The air held a slight chill as she slid her legs out of bed to sit on the edge, gaze fixed on that small slip of paper that signified so much. All of the possibilities wrapped up in a tiny slip of pressed fibres.

Why, then, were there no replies?

Why disregard the reassurance from Nessa's funeral?

Racking her mind again for any possible causes for his dismissal, she came up just as empty. There was nothing improper in her letters, nothing ill-considered, she had not sent them too frequently or with too much demand.

Then, perhaps, as she had reasoned before, it was due to something she could not possibly know of – after all, she knew little of these situations and how to handle them, to stand where she did was like nothing she had ever been taught. She was well aware of her inadequacies, which was precisely why she was trying so hard to combat them. To become as capable as she could possibly be.

Could that be the cause for his dismissal? That he knew she had little knowledge in these matters? That he believed she was unaware of what events had transpired? Or was it, perhaps, because he did not know of her?

What a ridiculous notion. Of course he would know. He ruled Oz.

The government would know first of all and in greater detail, what with all the tensions and the rest in Munchkinland likely under constant monitoring. They were well aware of that tragic incident and the change of leadership that followed. Her name was reported in the broadsheets for Lurlina’s sake! The letters signed with that expected name; the first time she had ever used it. She never would have imagined feeling a sense of unfamiliarity in writing such a thing before.

Heat rose in her face, hot against the cool hand she pressed to her cheek. She could not even blame the late hour for her stupidity, not with how her entire stream of thought had devolved.

Brow creasing, she bit at her lip as she manoeuvred her feet into her house slippers.

The fire had long ago dipped down in the grate, the slight chill she thought had permeated the air worse than she believed. She shivered, slipping on her batiste lace dressing gown, hoping it would help stave off the cold that only crept in at night this time of year.

Padding back over to her bed, she picked up the slip of paper, handling it as delicately as her precious heirloom fan.

All the reasons for the Wizard unintentionally disregarding her, or being otherwise occupied, seemed entirely plausible, if not weakly so and lacking true understandability.

It was still entirely possible the letters had been read by another – the Wizard was a busy man after all. But this was no issue to be delegated, nor one that could escape his notice. Even if a member of his staff held such prejudices and acted without consent, to not send a letter under his own steam, to send even an enquiry, raised questions. This situation too urgent, too great.

Even so, the explanations that came to mind were undeniably better than the thoughts brought forth from distance memory.

Perhaps it was anger or just plain stubbornness that meant she would not entertain them. That meant she could not.

Or, maybe, it was the raw hurt. That which cut so deeply as to never truly heal. The good and the bad, none of which she could bear to think of for the pain it brought her.

The paper shook, a tremor in her hand. She wet her lip, closing her eyes to steady herself before her breathing could start to quicken.

No. She could not.

And, with that, she let what rose up fall back down.

The hair on the back of her neck lifted when she opened her eyes, though she could not claim as to know why. The sensation stirring a jitteriness within her, one she could only choose to ignore along with so much else.

She would still feel better hearing someone else’s opinion on the problem at hand. Someone in the present.

Only one came to mind; Genfee. How senseless she had been in her younger days still vexed her. How closed-minded not to give him the time, to not allow herself to see that he was a particularly deep-thinking man.

He had seen much for one who had been in the same employ for most of his life; perhaps he could shed more light on the matter. At least from his prospective, with the biases it will naturally hold.

Disregarding her state of undress – not that Ella would be horrified seeing her in her dressing gown, though it would be a rare sight indeed outside her room – she blinked the tiredness back behind her heavy eyes. The sooner she wrote the letter, the sooner she would receive a response, and the sooner she could try to decide on her next course of action. Or should that be their next course of action? One could not forget the contributions of others.

She slipped from her room almost silently, unnecessarily so, no doubt it was only she and Ella there. The lamplight outside cast long, stretching shadows down the corridor, the curtain left pulled slightly aside as if in prediction. Her steps were quick as she moved towards the study, always as if something lingered within those darkest spots.

She would wait, as she had before, but this time if no reply came from the Wizard in the week that followed, then she already held some inkling over what to do. Her finished workings long prepared.

She would see what Genfee suggested, consider his opinions and shared knowledge, and then act upon what was best. To be fully prepared for all eventualities was always ideal.

And, for once, she felt she was.

The sun warmed her skin, her eyes following a water cab on its leisurely path. The passengers, a man and woman were laughing heartily, arms linked and pressed into one another’s side. Courting, perhaps newly married, or engaged in some clandestine affair. Joyful, regardless, free if only for those few moments they had to share.

Long ago, she would never have imagined she would have an interest in picturing the lives of others, of what that could entail, but she had found almost an enjoyment within it when times had been dark. It offered an escape, and soon became a habit on her lazier days. A remnant from that most difficult of times.

But today she found no escape.

The water cab drifted lazily onwards.

If only she could do the same, but her mind was too frantic to even approach the possibility of drifting. Her hold curled tighter around the metal of the balconet, long heated by hand and sun.

With each day that passed, her usual attempts to calm where becoming less and less effective.

Her gaze rose skywards; empty save for a few clouds scattered amongst the blue. It was always empty.

Always stirred a sensation best left unnamed in her chest.

The door opened behind her.

“Not now, Ella,” she called over her shoulder, voice curt. The loosening of her grip left her fingers tapping. A steady tempo of nail on metal.

“That poor girl.”

Her chin dropped imperceptibly, lips pressing tight as she drew a breath. That explains the absence of a knock.

“Are you not going to greet me?”

She turned as if leisurely, leaving the doors open to allow the gentle breeze in and to prevent the sudden feeling of entrapment from growing.

“I did not expect to see you back so soon.” A trivial remark to fill the air she felt was now much too stifling. Unfortunately, ignoring him never did much to hasten his departure.

“Oh, don’t look so surprised.” Shell chuckled. “I am not forever occupied with work, though I know you would prefer if I were.” He stayed in the doorway, the door propped open with the stretch of his arm. “After all, my allowance only goes so far, though not an issue anymore, is it?”

“As I have already made clear, that will not be changing. The correct impression is far more valuable. Do not think that you can cease working.” It was sharper than she intended, a worrying sign she could not ruminate on with company.

She took the few steps to her rosewood side table, but did not sit in her chair, instead picking up the teacup and saucer Ella had brought her some time ago. She cupped her hand around the teacup, turning slightly from him as if to glance back outside. A brief closing of her eyes, an attempt to clear her mind. The cold teacup heated in an instant.

“If you are expecting we rehire your valet on a permanent basis, I advise against it. It was a waste of resources better spent elsewhere.” She had regained some of her usual flair, though perhaps not with the assured strength of the typical. She gestured with one hand, voice lifting, “Ensuring the townhouse is as refined as it is now, for example. After all, it was not our money that brought it, and you should not forget that.”

It was a pleasant enough place, she supposed, situated not in the wealthiest area, but certainly not the poorest. Not the opulence she had once dreamed of, but that was not a dream she had held for an age now. Nor did she wish to dwell on the trivialness of her thinking back then…

Even with the distraction and her mind the way it was, she had succeeded in her spell. Her lips curved into a smile, one that existed for herself alone and for only a short-lived moment.

When it passed, she looked back to Shell with a far more sober expression.

“Do not worry so.” His grin was grating at her, made her grip flex on teacup and saucer. It would not be the first she'd broken. “I do not plan to – cease my work, I mean. After all, we must all strive to better ourselves.”

“Always,” she agreed, and she did. She distracted herself with her tea, the taste not registering.

“Though, when do you feel that we will be returning? Home, that is.” He rubbed at his chin, brow furrowing unfamiliarly. “My father could use the company, and the care, I feel.”

“I did not know you had the heart.” Frex could use the support, and undoubtedly some care. She still had not heard from him, though Genfee had reassured her he was as to be expected. The care of servants was not the same as the care of family and, as terrible as she was, such things had not crossed her mind even as she had bid him goodbye – too occupied with everything now piled upon her.

“Nor I, you,” he said, reading the slip of her expression.

“He is being looked after, we will be able to aid soon enough.” She hoped and yet also feared. A bewildering contradiction that she had no hope of untangling there and then.

He definitely deserved better care than whatever Shell would offer.

The train of thought seemed swiftly lost to him, her answer passing by easily enough. Even so, he still lingered. Placing her teacup back down, she crossed to the mantelpiece.

Paying him little mind, she fidgeted with a few of her ornaments, moving along each in turn, before reaching a small bone china trinket box. Briefly, she brushed a fingertip over the hand painted pink fairy lilies – a gift from Aunt Eileana; she had not been able to come to the wedding, and not just her alone. Sorrow pulled insistently at Glinda’s face, but she held it off. Remained looking impassive.

Glinda wanted to visit her, but unable to make that decision despite her want, inaction was the result. She turned it just so, snatching back her trembling hands quickly. Hidden within; two muted blue river pebbles.

“I never realised you held such fond memories.” Her gaze jumped back to find he had slunk further in. Amusement danced in his eyes when he caught her expression, it again slipping despite herself.

“Whatever do you mean?” she asked blithely, jaw stiff.

His gaze dropped back to the mantelpiece. Her own following suit a split second later. Her heart lurched at what else was displayed there, that cherished most unexpected gift; a delicate flowered hair comb.

“Of our wedding.” For a moment he looked pensive. For a moment she believed him.

How could she forget?

Because these things were not meant for his eyes.

She flittered past, continuing to occupy herself, rigid back to the mantelpiece rather than him. “You do not know everything it seems, dear.”

It never held any affection.

Pausing at her slim bookshelf, she cast a cursory glance over the titles. Eyes catching on two. Memories everywhere.

As if she wished to punish herself with the sweet, unbearable pain of it all.

Shell hummed. She felt his gaze on her as she retreated to her dressing table, aimlessly sorting the array of glass bottles and occasional jar there.

“You're buzzing around like a bee.” Mirth laced his words, giving a casual lift to them that had her shoulders raise high. Movement, it seemed, was a better outlet than the alternative. All those times of polite chatter, posture perfect for however long, were firmly in her past, at least for now.

“I have never been one to sit still.” It would not convince him, neither words nor sing-song voice, but she was not trying particularly hard to. Was not in the right mind for the required effort.

“We cannot let our friends think you have become a recluse again.”

Your friends, she wanted to correct him with some bite. Or acquaintances if not that. She cared little for the specifics.

Pointlessly, she rearranged her perfumes and makeup, knowing all would be placed back how they were once she was alone.

Why must he pester her so?

“They have already picked up on your absence.” It was spoken with indifference, a tease as much as a warning. She trailed her fingers over the handle of her hairbrush, felt the lines and grooves of the flower. It could have been long replaced with something much finer, but it was too precious despite its simplicity.

“I still attend the most important of events.” Had agreed to that, at least, after the last time he had seen fit to mention it. Admittedly, she had been letting her other duties slip, and she did know she could not lose what she had gained, even if it was with those people. Even if the advice came from him. “You know how my moods are,” she said airily. “What a temperamental frivolous thing I am.”

“You are running the risk of becoming a joke, dear.” His voice rose higher, laced with humour, but she could see none within it.

There were far worse things to be, she had realised perhaps much too late. Still, appearances did have to be maintained, even if she now found little joy in the whole affair.

She returned her hairbrush to her dressing table with a bang. It appeared accidental.

“What do you want, Shell?”

She looked to him, the terseness in her voice affecting too little as always. He had crept closer.

“Oh, how plain of you.” He pressed a hand to his chest in a mockery of offense. “I am merely thinking of your reputation.” He rested a hand to the flat surface of her dressing table, leaning forward with one brow arched. She stood firm despite the unpleasantness stirring against her skin. “We are having a meal tonight, and I simply wish to offer you the opportunity to repair some of that damage of yours. Or simply to show that I do, in fact, still have a wife.”

Exhaling a tense breath, eyes fluttering shut for only a second, she reflected upon his words. The distraction, as unwanted as it was, would at least shorten her wait for Genfee's response. And, as loathe as she was to admit it, Shell was not incorrect.

“Fine,” she acquiesced a moment later, affecting lightness again, her jaw tight as she rolled a decorative hair pin between her thumb and forefinger. She shifted away with a subtle motion, returning the hair pin to its place while moving back towards her the open doors. “Who is it with?”

“Why, only my dearest friend!”

If possible, she clenched her jaw even harder.

The Braised Boar may not host the best company, but it at least had wonderful food and a sense of style. They could do without the cost, especially with how more extravagant Shell was led to be when in particular company, but appearances.

It turned out to be a very small gathering, just the pair of them and Shell’s dearest friend and his wife. Others being there too would have been preferable, but it was what it was, and she would raise no complaint. One could almost call it a shared date, if they were so inclined and oblivious.

They greeted each other with the usual vapid pleasantries and practiced gestures; a kiss to a cheek, in reality more a kiss to the air and a ghost of a brush of cheeks – to preserve their makeup, naturally. A dip of the head to the gentlemen, neither woman inclined to offer a hand even with their familiarity.

They took their seats under the veranda. The walnut tables separated by exotic fronds, a tall flickering candle in the centre of each despite the daylight. Elaborate metalwork decorated the window surrounds; a spidering twist of silver and gold that surely was meant to represent something but so abstract as to be left utterly unrecognisable.

Lord Avaric, Margreave of Tenmeadows. How long had it been? She did not frown, of course she didn't, but she did not wait too long to take a sip of her red wine. The rich flavour of pink Pertha grapes and the fruitiness in her nose did little to combat the smell of roasting fat even in the not quite fresh air. It had never bothered her before, had stimulated her appetite even, but for some reason that day it pulled at some unknown primal part of her mind, revulsion roiling in the pit of her stomach.

She let her lips linger on the rim of her glass, her gaze slipping to their company.

Apparently, she had been mildly surprised to discover, she and Avaric had attended university at the same time, though the truth of the matter was that it was around the same time.

She could rightly claim she did not recall him, and for his part he made it rather clear that he did not recall such insignificant details.

Karina, the Margreavess, always carried the air of someone who would rather be elsewhere, with an ever-present cold look in her eye and a downward curl to her lip. The typical Gillikinese attitude, warped into something even more aloof. At least in that, one knew where they truly stood. Glinda could appreciate that.

At the very least, she supposed it was astute of Shell to have a lawyer in his pocket. Perhaps that was why nothing untoward had ever come back on them – of which she was aware, that is. Or Shell had been better behaved than she gave him credit for, which seemed most unlikely.

Raucous laughter erupted from her left, but she did not hear at what, Karina scolded the men harshly about how it was not proper talk for the dinner table. Shell and Avaric apologised graciously, their lips still curled up at the corners. They were, in ways, like berries on the bush.

The similarities bristled at her, left that lingering feeling of discomfort prickling at her skin. Her smile was quick and false, but pretty. Her words carefully chosen and aired in that particular rising lilt.

“It is a shame it has been so long since we last did this.” Avaric’s smile was as charming as usual, as were his words. One could call him irritatingly smug, but he could not justifiably be described as such. He was everything one expected of a true gentleman. And, fortunately, he did not share Shell’s preference for flamboyant suits on social occasions. “All together, I mean.” 

“Too long,” Glinda agreed with her practiced smile and an airy bounciness to each word. “We really should make it a regular occurrence.”

It was not the first time such a suggestion had been made.

“A shame you could not make our last dinner party. What an occasion that was. The dinner party of the season, if I do say so myself.”

“Certainly interesting company,” Karina added, it unclear if she truly meant it or not.

Glinda had turned away, passing an eye over the table opposite rather than allow herself to think off why they had not attended. Shell saying nothing, that they said nothing, not at all unexpected.

The source of the overpowering smell was clear now as she watched as a waiter cut into a thick meat roast to place upon awaiting plates.

Her stomach flipped, the hair on the back of her neck raising – from the chill of the gentle wind, it had to be. She looked away, baffled by the churning feeling of sickness within.

Too little eaten, too much drank. As improper as it was to have done so before the food, though a habit often found now with city folk – born or residing. She rotated her glass slightly to the left, focused on the folded shape of the napkin on her plate – an attempt at something birdlike – how the wind moved the top edge almost unnoticeably.

When it came time, she ordered the fish, to the slight bemusement of the others at the table. As its namesake implied, the fish was not what The Braised Boar was known for.

Shell insisted on paying for two further bottles of vintage wines to suit their meals according to the waiter’s suggestion. She rather have chosen herself this time, though the Wiccasand white would suit well enough.

The conversation passed, forgettable small talk. It was easy enough to slip into the old role, to pay no mind to the unsettled feelings still skittering beneath her skin.

“– with all these stories in the broadsheet and tabloids these days.”

It was easy to join in with affected disinterest, matching the woman opposite. “Anything to push their sales, do you not think?” She glanced towards the railing of the balcony, but up here she could not see the streets below. The people forgotten, but the occasional call of a cab driver or whinny of a horse drifting up. “Of course, saying that…” She laughed lightly, as if embarrassed. “It often is so scandalous. I simply must ask what is it that has captured the minds this time?”

It was pathetic how swiftly her desperation reared its head, that need for any sign or hint. The hopeful lift to her heart, that little creeping belief re-emerging. The promise that was never to be met.

Her actions were measured as she leant forward slightly, as if they were conspirators. In actuality, she was eager much the same.

“The talk over the border of course.” Karina tilted her head gracefully, glancing towards the door leading to the balcony. The slight tightening of her pressed lips told of a hint of displeasure towards the service. “With their new leadership.”

Glinda sat back, hand curling in her lap, she picked up her glass with the other, lifting a curious brow even as a nervous quiver replaced the flutter within her chest. A choking pressure building.

From the corner of her eye she saw Shell’s smile grow, could picture the amusement in his eyes. Unseen though it was, it still grated at the bared edge of her nerves.

Avaric’s brow furrowed at his wife, a scoff in his words, “That is old news, hardly worth mentioning.”

“Old perhaps, but of no less importance,” Karina intoned, unperturbed.

“Is it all really that important?” Avaric retrieved a silver case from his pocket, engraved with his family crest, Glinda’s nose wrinkled at the sight of it. Opened, he offered it first to Shell, then took a cigar of his own, waving it between his fingers as he spoke, “What goes on over there, it is of no matter to us. Not yet. It is the trade that is the matter of most importance.”

Karina raised a single brow. “They border our home, darling.” The term of endearment carried as much affection as all of her other words. Glinda’s polite smile twitched up at that. Perhaps they were not so dissimilar.

“This talk of incursions, of war. Please, spare me.” He rolled his eyes, red hair flicking with the tilt of his head. “I am positively quaking.”

His surety in his words was not as absolute as he tried to make it appear. War; good for some trade, bad for others.

To think, even those here considered it a possibility, even if only out of anxiousness for their portfolio, or appearing as such.

There would be no conflict. No war.

Karina ignored him, eyes on Shell as she sipped from her glass. “A relative of yours,” she asked him, a question filled with clear assumptions.

The smell of tobacco soon pervaded the space, even with the breeze guiding it away. It added to the suffocating feeling on her chest, made her blatantly aware of her nausea once more.

“Something like that.” Shell chuckled. Glinda kept her surprise masked beneath her smile. It would have been easy for him to deflect them, to claim it a coincidence in the family name. With his careful motions to hide both accent and connection, to avoid talk of where he was from, it would pass. Though, it seemed, they knew. The peculiarity did not escape her. Or, to give him benefit, perhaps Karina had made the connection on her own in some inadvertent manner.

“Talking of such things...” Avaric halted, uncharacteristic of him, and gave a slight shake of his head before turning his charming smile to Glinda instead. “I hear your old schoolmarm died.”

“Oh?” she responded, utterly bewildered as to why he saw need to mention it. Or why would he think she would care to hear such? Dismissive, was the nicest descriptor she could apply to that woman. Even more so after her return. “I recall her, of course, but – well, it is a sad truth that age finds us all. Some, more noticeably than others, of course.”

Avaric inclined his head, as if offering condolences, before his gaze flickered to the bowl on the table. He gently tapped the ash from the smouldering end of his cigar. “Barely a footnote in the paper, I rather hope I’ll deserve more than that.”

“I have no doubt we will,” Shell replied with no shortage of confidence. Karina’s apathetic gaze shifted from her husband to Shell, the tight line of her mouth most severe.

“At least the youth programme is helping to sort out the ruffians on the streets, and elsewhere,” Karina said as if intending to interrupt something. “How unruly they have become.”

“The issue if they have no direction, I suppose. You should have seen what some of the boys got up to at university,” Glinda added smoothly, hands jittery beneath the table. She giggled, hand fluttering to her lips and a chill to her brow. “But all of this serious talk is rather above a silly mind like mine.”

“That is all very well,” Avaric said, ignoring the rest, “but the question is what direction are they being given?”

Karina looked to her, a slight lift of her brow seeming to say she agreed with her.

Avaric leant back in his chair, the air hazy with cigar smoke. “To keep them occupied can only help settle these, well, unsettled occurrences, one hopes. Terribly bad for the trades they’ve been.”

“Let us speak of lighter matters, dear. Not lower the mood,” Karina said as if she had not begun this topic herself.

Glinda peered over her shoulder as if out of her own impatience for their food. Beneath the table, she ran her fingers together, flinching when her fingertips met the ridge of her ring. She dropped her hands into her lap. Pushed back her chair.

The thread of conversation had already been forgotten, Karina now casting her disinterested eyes over her husband and Shell talking about some case or other.

A break before dinner arrived. To clear her head. And her lungs from the heavy scent of tobacco. The very least they could so was wait until after dinner, retire to the smoking room away from the ladies. She expected better of Avaric than to be so uncouth, but manners were changing rapidly. In the cities in particular.

The table opposite cast them a disapproving look. Dinner finished, most of the roast remaining, forgotten, at their side.

“I will back in just a moment.” The men paid her no mind, still, she continued, “I need to freshen up, I cannot go around not looking my absolute best.”

She retreated towards the restroom, finding her steps there perhaps a little unsteady. Not obviously so to anyone else as she moved through the restaurant, the clip of her steps on the marble floor sounding even, but her awareness of it made her face pinken. The nauseating scent was near completely overwhelming inside, almost made her wish for the smell of tobacco to cling to her. It pulled at her again, something rearing up inside, pushing against her memory but gaining no clarity. Like something better left forgotten. The murmuring voices, the clinking of glasses almost too much. Only the low lighting offering any hint of respite.

The restroom was thankfully empty, smelling of something sweet and floral, her sudden hastiness echoing as she approached the sinks.

Pressing her palms against the counter, she took a long inhale, her reticule slipping from her elbow. Though a sweat had broken upon her brow, the coolness of the tiles was welcome. Her skin both hot and cold, a baffling contradiction.

The tiles along the edge of the counter had looping, sweeping designs in a glittering gold and sage, reminding her of waves upon water. She followed them with her eyes as they trailed up and around the great mirror, and there she was, hunched forward, wild-eyed. Heart sinking at what was reflected back.

Her reticule hung limply from her wrist, almost tangling in her bracelet, the silk of her sleeves creased by worried fingers.

The lines marring her face, between her brows, seemed startling deeper.

The barely perceptible marks beneath her eyes had reappeared, pronounced beneath her makeup.

She sucked in a breath.

She stood up straight, smoothed her hand over the periwinkle silk taffeta and lace, and adjusted the pearls at neck and ear. And, just like that, the haggard fright of a women had vanished. One full of grace and elegance stood in her place, if one were not to peer too closely. Though that too was soon to be mended.

The matching reticule was placed, prepared and ready. She was as she often found herself; concentrating on the surface rather than what was beneath.

A benefit, truly, and one in which she found herself calming.

She was just finishing reapplying the makeup under her eyes when she heard the door open.

“Better to keep those covered up, dear,” Karina’s voice filled the space quick enough that she could not have had time to check if they were alone.

As the sound of heels approached, Glinda straightened up, cleaning her hands of any lingering powder.

“Not sleeping?” A comment rather than a concern. Karina placed her own reticule on the side and opened it.

Glinda dried her hands on the towel hanging below her sink.

“Simply rushed off my feet, as I am sure you can understand.”

“Certainly not in any entertaining way.” Karina sighed, teasing at her hair in the mirror, ensuring it remained as perfect as it always was. Her eyes slipped to Glinda’s reflection. “I must say there is rather more care between you both than I ever thought to believe.”

A furrow appeared between Glinda’s eyebrows, she smoothed it as she returned her makeup to her reticule with measured motions. “Whatever do you mean?”

“The jests, of course.” Karina pursed her lips, carefully reapplying the scarlet paint to her lips. Glinda's stomach dropped, but her jaw clenched. Shell had not mentioned the jokes were currently being made. Previously, she knew, and that was not what was being referred to.

Why did she let that stun her?

She drew her reticule closed, her pull a tad too harsh but fortunately unseen. It was not as if it was her treasured one from youth, not one to be so mindful of.

Satisfied, Karina leant back, upright once more, and finally continued, the pause feeling intentional though it may well not have been. “Shell was rather blunt in his defence of you. Gave us quite the shock.”

Glinda too, it turned out.

“No one has breathed a word since he explained just how important whatever has you so occupied is.” Karina tilted her chin, her eyes still upon her own reflection.

The not quite unpleasant surprise gave way to the familiar prickling feeling of irritation. So, he had gotten her there under false pretences after all.

“Makes one wonder if the same was true the first time.”

Glinda still faced the ornate mirror, though her eyes had long since moved from her own reflection.

“I was certainly occupied then too. The manner may have been different, but it was no less demanding.” Though her throat grew thick, her words belied nothing aside from a polite conversational tone.

Karina secured her things back into her own shimmering satin reticule, meeting Glinda’s eye in the mirror. “My, how important you have become. Or perhaps always were.”

“Some would say so.” It was perplexing, on Shell’s part, for him not to gloat. To not even hint at what had unknowingly passed with a smug smile or a drawn-out exaggeration. All that existed were his concerns of her becoming a joke.

It unsettled her.

The thought was dismissed as quickly as it had appeared. She had far more important things on her mind, and was not at all keen to explore the discomfort this unexpected knowledge brought her. Nor start to dwell on Shell’s increased presence at the townhouse.

“Takes awfully more work for someone such as myself.” She laughed, the sound like the tinkling of a bell. Clear and bright, designed to capture attention. Little like her true one, but unnoticeable in that.

When had she last truly laughed? So long ago the falsity had become her new norm.

She stepped back pointedly, but before she could begin to think on whether to turn to leave or linger to do so together as was politest, but potentially unwelcome, she caught Karina’s eye on her once more.

Her self-deprecating words, the deflecting laugh had no effect.

“I am aware of the correct pronunciation, Galinda. I am most astounded to be alone in that.” Glinda blinked, taking a moment for her old skill to resurface, the delay notable. Heart thudding, her expression remained unmoved in the mirror. “I assume you understand, considering your standing.”

“I do.” The words felt foreign where once they were so familiar. When was the last time? A prayer back home? Through the years she found that sense of strange comfort still accompanied her old practices, and it only seemed to grow. The sort of familiarity that came from childhood; from stories and fables.

“I am impressed. As they say; one must mind the grass for the bite of the snake.” The saying familiar, similar to home, but incomplete; Mind the bumbling bee, though it too must mind its sting.

She looked to Karina, not her reflection, feeling tension in her shoulders that she did not show. Karina returned her gaze, meeting her eye to eye, the slightest hint of a smile to one corner of her mouth – the most Glinda had ever seen on her.

“Do not worry. I have no interest in such idle gossip.”

“Nor do I.” Glinda smiled with a tip of her chin in lieu of a verbal thank you – it was simply not appropriate to voice it.

Karina inclined her own in kind, her expression remaining as haughty always.

Something had passed, and though she could not call what had been left in its wake a building sense of camaraderie, it was unmistakeably the beginnings of a change of some kind. Amiability more genuine than it once was, if nothing greater.

“To dinner then?” Glinda asked lightly, glancing back once to check her appearance.

The door opened, three women entering in a whirl of silk and musset and perfume, amidst a swell of shrill laughter.

“I suppose we must,” Karina mused unimpressed, eyes slipping to the arrivals. Two of the women took their places on the plush settee to admire the yellow lilies presented there, the other drifting to stand at end of the counter closest to them. “I could do without the tobacco; it clings to the hair so unpleasantly.”

“And the rest,” Glinda agreed as they turned as one, passing the women as they left together.

The response came as swiftly as it could, all things considered. Even knowing it would had offered her little ease.

A couple of days only, yet feeling so many more.

From the moment her letter had been sent, with only a brief reprieve of sorts found in the distraction of the evening at The Braised Boar, Glinda had found herself completely consumed by her mind to the point of pacing. More than once, she had caught herself biting at her thumbnail or her knuckle, her forehead furrowed unsightly with the stress of it all. She was set on edge, yet she did not fully comprehend why.

All that had changed was her awareness, the confirmation that her correspondence was being received and chosen to be left unanswered.

Doubts still abound, she certainty rarely ever truly certain it seemed.

An answer was still possible in the meanwhile.

Shut away in her room or the study more often than not, there was growing credibility to her status as a recluse feasibly soon moving from quip to fact. At least it was the firing of her nerves that pushed her into perpetual motion this time, rather than them ceasing to propel her altogether.

Her chair creaked as she shifted her weight, the late afternoon sun casting tall, reaching shadows across her desk. She should close the curtains, switch to indoor lighting instead of scrunching her eyes to cope with the low blinding light filtering through the voiles.

She remained rooted.

It had gotten to the point that she may as well move her bed into the study, had, perhaps, dozed of once or twice there. But being rumoured to be a recluse and actually becoming one were two very different things. What an ironic happening it was for it to reoccur. Life was indeed cyclic, bound to repeat, and not simply the after and the before. Such was the way of things. Or so she told herself. A part of her, one that seemed to be growing in size if not strength, simply no longer cared what was said.

She could ill afford to not care, more so after the scraping and scrabbling she had subjected herself to repair and maintain her social situation. The result of following that part of her disinclined to care was far from ideal, the impact too great, yet she could not find it in herself to fight it as she knew she should. All the resolve seemed drained from her...

Or perhaps redirected.

At least the ridicule had been silenced. Karina’s words were not something she had doubted for a moment, though the unpleasant feeling raised by the unusualness of Shell's behaviour had remained skittering against her skin. Like a sensation of uncleanliness that left your skin red raw as you tried uselessly to scrub it away.

The letter had crinkled between her fingers.

She pushed her forgotten teacup back to lay the letter flat against the wood, then smoothed the minor wrinkles out with her palm.

By now she had reread Genfee’s reply a number of times, but had lost count of the exact figure. On the second read through she had taken a clean piece of paper and made notes in shorthand, something she had not truly utilised since her university days, though some existed on hidden architecture sketches she had once doted upon during her free time.

A peculiar sadness twisted in her gut at the thought; when was the last time she had done something she had actually enjoyed? Something truly and purely for herself? When had she last held the desire to?

Her gaze, having drifted to the closed door, dropped back to the familiar squat writing.

She had more important matters to focus on. Matters she had to focus on. She could not afford to waste time and energy on such frivolity. Her own happiness, what enjoyment she could find, had to come later. It had to be an afterthought. As it always had been.

She rolled her pen between her fingers, then stilled. Recaptured her attention.

Genfee’s thinking made sense. A sense she would honestly rather be misinformed or inaccurate, but now she saw that such naivety on her part may well be damning. She had to view everything with an open mind; she could not simply accept what she was told as the truth was just that. Like Elph –

Another wrenching in her gut, this one more intense, accompanied by a twinge behind her temple. She pressed her hand to her stomach, tried to steady her wavering gaze.

It seemed the more she tried to put aside her feelings about... about her, the stronger they became. The louder, the more demanding. 

Her head dropped forward, propped up by her left hand. She rubbed at the creases on her forehead with cold fingertips, a steady ache beneath her touch. This reaction, these thoughts, could not be healthy at all. Could only lead her backwards.

When she had not been able to leave those thoughts and memories behind or rebury them, she had locked them away. The presence a constant, even as she fought to ignore it, even as she told herself they were not there. Trying so hard to persuade herself with her own falsehoods. Now she was starting to think confronting them would have been the better course of action. But she was not that strong. Not yet. Likely never would be, not that she could acknowledge that completely. She had to block them off. Turn away from them, close them behind that door. It was the only way. It always had been.

The only way forward.

She raised her chin, arm dropping impolitely to the desk with a thump and a jolt up her arm she barely registered.

It all had to be left in the past.

Lowering her gaze, she tried to concentrate on Genfee's words once more. Battled to leave her harried mind behind, to embody the other.

Her success was limited.

Genfee's theories concerned a number of issues she knew of, though perhaps not as completely as she had once believed.

The so-called terrorist attacks, of course, the increased delay on goods and higher import and export fees (and the ever-present threat of further increases), but they seemed a footnote amongst the rest.

He claimed that the Wizard could, and likely was, blaming Munchkinland for the increase in taxes on the public. Not directly in the press, but filtered down to the right people, publicised in that vague way that could pass by some people but not all. A careful choosing of words, something she knew much of.

Glinda had not noticed such an increase, though it was possible that only those further afield or the poorer of their community were the ones being affected. They were the greatest number after all, even if the upper-class did have the greater share of wealth. After all, if the Wizard taxed the wealthiest more heavily, he too would have to pay a substantial amount. Her company would not concern itself with such happenings, not until it affected them directly. And she could not claim to be any different from them in that regard. Her restricted access to their bank account meant she was afforded little clarity, though for Shell to not complain...

The cessation of the Crop Tax meant less food being sent to Loyal Oz, and what was being sold was being charged more fairly – even if the trade was tenuous, it was necessary. Resent, though, had naturally arisen due to the changes. The demand for food production greater within Loyal Oz, and the Lowlands of Gillikin no doubt bearing the brunt.

Then came the matter of water, the greatest source of which was located in Munchkinland, and yet they affected so greatly by erratic droughts. The ever-pressing need to access something that once was freely available again raising a grievance.

Food, water. Necessities they all needed. All matters she was aware of, but was now seeing through different eyes.

The tensions, the alarm and frightened agitation over the prospect of an invasion – the talk of which existed on both sides. Nessa’s initial decision to destroy the Road, her investment into military spending alongside the religious, her changing and lifting of restrictions to increase military size and farm production – perhaps Glinda had been far too quick to dismiss the feasibility of reannexation…

No… surely it could not happen.

No. Not war.

And, yet, to deny it now did not come as easily to her tongue. It hesitated, catching on something unspoken.

Rumours, too, these unheard of to her ears. Fears that the eminenceship would be claimed back by the rightful heir – that war would be waged on Munchkinland's say, that… that she would be worse than her sister.

City talk, that was all. Unfounded and made to cause anxiety and drama for the sake of it, conjured up by bored city folk and spread to Munchkinland through word of mouth. It could travel far and unplanned, regardless of tensions and restrictions.

Even so, to cross such vastness…

The last point detailed in his letter did little to dissuade her disquiet, to settle her sense of foreboding.

Genfee detailed the terrorist attacks in and around the City – there was no possibility of Glinda forgetting about those... not with the description attached to a number of them, not with her desperate grasping for a hint. A sign – any sign. She still had seen no evidence of any attacks as such herself, though of course for the last couple of months she had been occupied with the trip back to Colwen Grounds, then back to the City where she had spent most of her time in seclusion.

The acts attributed to them, he did not refute, but he stated that their hearing was that those responsible were a ‘mixed bag’. That there was little evidence it was the sole doing of inhabitants of Munchkinland, and most assuredly had never been officially sanctioned in any way. Whether he was speaking of the new or the old, was not clear. But neither was it clear within the broadsheet or tabloids. Perhaps he was confusing it and speaking of the first group, though she had heard next to nothing about them since she had first heard the whispers of the new – the Resistance, that original one, though most knew better than to ever speak that name out loud. Perhaps there were more groups that she was unaware of, or it was easier to report them as an amalgamation than the complicated reality. Then there was the possible involvement of –

She exhaled a long breath. Fingers twitching against the desk.

If all of this was the case, Genfee concluded, then should Oz reunify and all the incidents continued, the problems unended or worsened, then the discord would spread. The general public, as a larger sum, currently unaware or holding their tongues, would likely panic. They would know how deeply the troubles in Oz ran, the severity of them not caused by one group alone and solved by blame and punishment. They may see that there were people who were opposed to the Wizard’s continued rule. People who saw the plights of Oz and could no longer stand by and watch the situation worsen. That they may stand up too. To turn the blame and believe to rid themselves of his rule would be the solution.

We are the scapegoats.

The final words of his letter.

No, she thought bleakly, not the scapegoats. They were not alone in that.

It all did make an alarming kind of sense, one that left her chilled despite the sunlight still spilling in over her. It, and everything else she had read added to a growing doubt. It started to make her see that perhaps the man they were raised to idolise was not as benevolent as believed. Or at least, encouraged to believe, for reasons that were starting to become clear to her. Her belief not strictly the same as others, but she had been exposed to much of what they had, and she had assumed the best of him. And why would she not?

Her breath hitched, memories she had shut away rushing back. Those she had consciously turned a blind eye to. Conversations she both enjoyed and yet dreaded at times, if only for that fire directed at one she could not picture as described. To a possible truth she could not face.

To walk through life wearing blinders

Her fingers trembled against the page. Swallowing difficult with the dryness in her throat.

A truth that terrified her.

His words, spoken with bias and separation, could not be taken as completely factual. Her own understanding, too, shaped by distance from witnessing such things. From her own conscious and subconscious choices.

There were those suffering; struggles she had glimpsed in Munchkinland and the Emerald City both. To believe that was all was too foolish even for her. The impact of such issues would spread to all of Oz, even with what little she did know of them – or rather, could allow herself to admit.

It made sense, too much sense, and perhaps her fear was what made her not want to see it all. To accept the possibility as the reality – even now. To still not condemn, but to consider. After all, what would that mean for the future if all was true?

To be in such a role, to have such responsibility over so much, it was not unfair to say perhaps the Wizard was simply doing the best with what he had. Events transpire without you having a hand within them, the impact of his simply further reaching.

Those in power sometimes had to make unpopular decisions for the betterment of the many.

But of one thing she was certain, as she folded the letter and secured it in a drawer. She had disregarded the words at the time, had deflected and closed her ears. She had refused even the memory of them, but now she saw the increasing likelihood of the harrowing truth held within them.

Elph – Elphaba had been right.

If not in complete reality, then in not blindly accepting what they were told. In viewing things with a distance of a different kind. For bearing a mind that was open, even if quick to burn with fury at the injustice she saw.

Perhaps her abandonment had been for something greater rather than…

No. She daren’t.

Now, after all this time, the woman she had – she still cared for so ardently despite her efforts to shut off those feelings, to protect herself – she was gone. Elphaba had not returned to her, nor her family in the years that had passed. Why would that change now?

Even if the claims about the Wizard were untrue, Elphaba had believed them with such conviction and fervour – Glinda had thought it before, and little had changed, her belief the same; many were convinced of the certainty of the words, unaware of how wrong they may truly be. It offered little in the way of reassurance as it once did.

Whatever had passed in the intervening years had only served to further reinforce Elphaba’s perspective. That would explain what she had heard, and what she had seen during their too brief reunion.

Elphaba had not been the same. That could not be explained by grief alone, nor Galinda's own impact upon her – demanding, greedy thing she was.

It seemed unkind to claim that Elphaba had been corrupted and damaged, but those were the only words to come to her in the now waning light of day. The reality of their world – Elphaba had experienced everything Glinda was learning of second or third-hand, first-hand had she not? If not fully back then, by now, unquestionably. She had been driven by that desperation, felt forced to extreme measures, to see those changes she believed they all needed.

But one person, a few, they could not make a difference. That opinion had never changed.

And yet, here she sat alone. Trying to make a difference. Believing there was hope while it steadily slipped from her grasp.

And not for the first time.

She picked up her cold teacup. Placed it down. Pushed back her chair, in no right mind for sorcery.

To make such changes peacefully was the only way. To help the greatest number. To help Elphaba too, wherever she was.

But when your calls were not answered?

Actions speak louder than words – if used carefully and cautiously.

In that, at least, she would have her confirmation.

Chapter Text

Ella squirmed in the seat opposite. The young girl – though Glinda supposed young woman would be more accurate – still looked unbelievably ill at ease in something she should long be accustomed to. It was not all that surprising in all honesty; Glinda rarely requested her aid, in presence and in duty, besides the obvious requests for things she could not obtain herself or did not have the patience or energy to retrieve. Or for her help to dress in the more elaborate styles when required. Having once been forced to take up so much alone, it perhaps seemed most strange for her not to grasp the return of such assistance.

Appearances, as always, had to be maintained, and Ella was not that bad a girl. She was quiet and rather simple, both good things, and willing to do more – or less – than she should to serve.

The carriage had been rolling forward for a good length of time now, the superfluous ostentatious sights had long ago ceased to catch her eye. Even those architectural one-offs she had once so greatly desired to see.

With a slight turn of her head, she glanced outside, fingers drumming silently against her leg, movement barely visible. Feasibly, it could not be much longer until they reached the Palace, even with a build-up of traffic slowing their progress. It would almost definitely be faster to walk; if not for all that entailed, she surely would. Always one to be prompt, even if not always overtly obvious, she was confident they would still arrive with plenty of time to spare.

This was her last-ditch effort to receive some sort of response. Her action verses words.

While it had now become evident to her that the Wizard was not someone to be revered – not if he was unwilling to fix the problems between Munchkinland and the rest of Oz, not with the rest rumoured but unconfirmed by her eyes, not with what had been shared with her so long ago – there was still a part of her that wished to cling to the image painted of him in her youth. Even if that came more from others than her parents. To think otherwise, to know, a most chilling prospect.

She was simply unable to hastily cast it all aside. To jump to believe such a serious accusation was unquestionably unwise. And, really, was it not a logical step to ensure something completely before rushing into action? It was the sensible thing to do, was it not? Not that she could completely confirm what was happening, not in the slightest. She could, however, ascertain his dismissal of her; of settling tensions between Loyal Oz and Munchkinland. And, with everything that also encompassed, she would find far more in that than merely her being disregarded.

The vulnerability of her position was not something she was unaware of, and while also confident that nothing would befall her, she had still found herself penning a quickly written and concise letter. Nothing more than to state her intention, containing little other detail than that, but if Genfee did not hear from her again he'd know the basics at least. And have some awareness of what may have occurred.

She could not rightly completely condemn an individual unless she knew conclusively, or had as much knowledge as she was able to. It did not settle well in her stomach to do so, she had to keep an open mind. Ironic, considering how closed minded she had been, how quick to listen to the opposite – how swift to disregard and deflect, to hide away.

If she had listened back then; properly and absolutely – if she had asked questions, learnt more, been brave – would Elphaba have told her? Would she have explained her actions? Would she have stayed? To address the issues in a better way? Would she have asked her –

The tightening in her chest was long familiar, that constriction around heart and lungs. She assumed it well covered if not for the wide, concerned eyes on her.

Ella's lips parted, brows drawn up, but Glinda turned away; distracted herself from company, thoughts, and emotions, by observing herself in the glass of the carriage window.

With a careful touch, she rearranged a few errant curls thoroughly and unnecessarily, ensuring her hair remained in the intricate chignon she had spent a good portion of the morning styling. The glittering imitation jade gillyflower hairpin emphasised the green in the teal of her dress and in the rest of her accoutrements. It settled unpleasantly within her whenever she saw reflected back what others would, but looking down at herself she saw only the blue.

She had suggested a complimentary, if slightly more muted affair for Ella. The girl had chosen well, a narrow silhouette compared to her bustle, a high neckline versus her off-shoulder style, flat shoes to her heels. A pair they needed to be, and a pair they were. Her companion’s presence only further enhancing her own, to draw the right eye and the right attention. To give the best of impressions.

Pleased with herself and feeling rather more collected, she lost focus on her reflection, eye captured instead by something outside the window.

Paper from the looks of it, an immense disorder adorning the brickwork opposite. Her nose crinkled in distaste. What an absolute eyesore, never seen before in this part of the city, only in those rougher areas she had once scoured in safety. She tutted, unable to make it out clearly as they moved steadily onwards.

A shout cut through the silence inside.

Jolted, she was thrown forward. A crash resounding.

Glinda somehow caught herself on the seat and wall. Breathing seized.

The sudden impact left her dazed. Her righting of herself not as speedily as it should be. Ella was scrambling against the seat opposite.

Glinda’s frazzled gaze darted to the window just in time to see vegetables of all colours bouncing and rolling into view. Outside, the sound of whinnies and Pearson's muffled voice.

Her heart thundered beneath her palm, her other still pressed against the carriage wall beside the window.

She battled to compose herself, managing after a few too long moments, but her brow remained pulled up and the rise and fall of her chest was still rapid.

“What a most abrupt stop,” she said as if in need to speak, to focus upon something else, to gather her wits if only for that.

“I’ll –” Ella gasped finally managing to right herself properly. “I will see what is happening!”

She pushed herself towards the door, only stopping at the lift of Glinda's hand. But Pearson's voice still sounded, lower now and in conversation. Important enough he did not see fit to check upon them. Not ideal, and certainly not like him.

Satisfied there was no danger, and truthfully needing a moment to herself, Glinda lowered her hand and gave her permission with a curt nod, sending the girl clambering out of the carriage with a whoosh of cool air.

Glinda adjusted her silk shawl over her shoulders, using her fleeting moment of privacy to draw in a calming breath. To allow her touch to linger on the smooth texture.

A few minutes passed with no sign of movement, but the voices filtering back through to her were amicable enough. Pulse closer to settled, Glinda pressed her hands together, twisted them, running her fingers against their backs. Considering whether to slide the window open, she returned her attention to the vegetables in the dirt, to that chaotic disarray on the wall which had caught her eye only moments previously. Sat close enough now that she was almost directly opposite the wall. If she thought to tut disapprovingly at it again, the sound never so much as rose as a hint in her throat.

She stilled as sharply as their stop. Breath as if lodged within her lungs.

She could not prevent the cut of her teeth into her bottom lip, or the lift of a hand to once again rest beside the windowpane.

The papers pasted on the wall were overlapped and weather-beaten. Illustration more than writing, but there was no doubting whose face was supposed to be represented by those lines. The images crude and sharp and rageful, not at all representative of who they were meant to detail. Nor was there any denying the stark cut of green paint sloshed across the tattered surface. Noxious and wrong – not the soft lush green of a new spring.

A caricature. An aberration. A villain.

The rumours were just that, rumours…

The newspaper reports, long targeted now.

That moniker.

She knew the reality of it. Knew what it all meant. Knew what it all led to.

But not this. Plain and unmistakable. Bare and blatant in front of her.

A wanted criminal.

Worse than that.

Oh Elphie, what have you done?

What, in that desperation?

Like a moth, she leant closer to the lone point of brightness on the dirtied bricks. A hand torn between mouth and heart; that hollow torn anew. That persistent ache.

She had to do something.

No longer could she reside in inaction, hoping for what had never come, or trying to no end the little she could do.

Despite her thoughts and decisions on the matter, despite the distance she tried to enforce from her own self, she had to do something.

But where was Elphaba?

How could she help if she did not know where she was?

How could she help, if she had not a clue on what she could do to help?

What was this but fanciful dreaming once more?

She squeezed her eyes shut, fingers pressed to her lips. A mournful lament beneath her breast.

She was supposed to be helping all she could, not just Elphaba.

She had a country relying on her, whether they were aware or not, and an impact that would be felt among many more. She could not split herself in two; one to follow her duty, one to follow her heart – though once she had wished she could, and she had known which one she yearned to be.

Even so, even with all of that, things were worse than she had thought.

Glinda’s eyes fluttered opened, and she found herself almost reaching for the image even with the cruel, inaccurate, wrongness of it.

Glinda had not dallied in thoughts of what it could all mean, those reports and warnings. Had dared not dwell on the possible repercussions – arrest, had once popped into her mind, and now as her vision refocused and her hand fell to her lap, she realised that had been inexact. Not just arrest, but a halt would be brought either way. Elphaba’s very life could well hang upon a thread.

The sound of the door opening snapped her attention away.

Another short burst of air hit her as Ella hopped back into the carriage; her cheeks redden by the chill of the wind or the content of the conversation outside.

“A cart carrying goods lost a wheel, Lady Glinda, it shouldn’t take long to move it out of the way and pick the vegetables back up.” The carriage rocked as she settled.

Glinda tried to think of something to say, some pointless string of words that would show how irritated she was by this unexpected event while not being too sharp, but her mind was too busy for it. Instead, her nose scrunched up as she muttered, offended, “I do hope they do not plan on still selling the spilled goods.”

“Um, I don’t suppose they would,” Ella stammered, her voice pulled high at the end.

Glinda had witnessed people eat worse.

With much effort, Glinda forced her eyes fully away from the brick wall plastered with papers and paint, folding her hands primly in her lap. The skin between Ella’s brows was crinkled, her eyes jumping away when they met.

Good, she had not dirtied her skirts outside.

Silence reigned over them once more. Ella busied herself by checking the papers by her side were still in place and in order. Clever girl.

The sooner they continued their journey the better. The sight to her right, with little more than glass separating them was far too great. Like a lure, calling out to her.

She had to concentrate on the reason she was sitting there, where she was going and what she intended, not be waylaid by her escalating consternation.

If this had occurred during her younger days then, without a shadow of a doubt, Galinda would have huffed her annoyance and stamped her foot in impatience. She most assuredly would not have been shy in her displeasure. Instead, Glinda remained filled with perfect grace on the surface, while Ella was doing a fine enough job of struggling to cover up restlessness enough for the both of them.

Glinda had sent word well in advance of her arrival, as was only polite. A date set, she deemed a reply not necessary in this particular situation, not that she would have expected to receive one.

After all, one could not send away an intended guest once they were before your door.

At her stated time they had been greeted at the Palace with no sign of surprise, and promptly escorted, not to the antechamber of the Throne Room – still called so though their royalty was long gone – but to a gaudy waiting room decked in a nauseating, blinding and most offensive green.

She cast a bored eye over her surroundings, the decor seemed fit only to tire the eye. Sterile, somehow, despite it all. Though she had never set foot inside the Palace, she did not allow herself to tarry on any details. She knew very well how she would appear. Such observations could not be witnessed.

From the moment Glinda had sat, the hard backed chair dug into the base of her spine. She remained poised, even with the sharp twinge having long formed.

An open archway sat to their left, off-centre enough from her direct line of sight that only the straightness of her back and slight turn of her head enabled her to see through it. She had observed a number of people passing along the corridor there. At the start she had paid them little attention, but with the room and wait threatening to exhaust the mind, she began mentally piecing together the arrangement of this section of the Palace. While this was her first visit, that did not mean she was clueless to the layout of the publicly available areas. She read, after all, and unless there had been some extremely unusual and unpublished architectural work commissioned, the Throne Room was located in the direction that those people were walking to and away from. Near enough to be of no coincidence.

Naturally, that did not mean that was their destination, but it was enough to capture her subtle eye. So, after that deduction, she had paid closer care to the small number of people who passed.

Some staff members of various rank, smartly dressed officials, and only one man who stood apart from the rest. Dressed in the finest clothes, the emerald garish, a bundle of documents held securely under his arm and a concentrated crease to his greying brow. There was no question that, like her, he was also a visitor of importance.

Though her mouth wished to curl, her jaw to stiffen, she maintained her composure and turned her chin away.

Ella fidgeted in her seat, the bundle of paper gripped firmly in her lap as if they were something truly precious. Though, Glinda supposed, that really was the reality of it.

The ticking of some tiktok device had seemed only to grow in volume with time, gradually becoming a vibrating thrum in her temple.

The longer she sat there, the more worn her hold on her temperament became.

Her form had cracked at some point, her hand rising to push her thumb between her eyebrows, as if to smooth away the furrow that had appeared and seemingly become stuck there. A childish action that had her hand drop as if burned. She rearranged her skirts instead, unnecessarily appearance-wise, but undoubtedly needed inside.

Ella, shifting in discomfort, thudded her heel against the herringbone tiles, yelping out an apology with red ears.

At long last, the man who had greeted them – not the Commander-General of Audiences, not even a social secretary, but a simple attendant – re-entered the room from the side door. Glinda looked at his face and neatly groomed facial hair with barely concealed disdain. Her pretty smile distracting enough.

They hadn't even been offered a drink.

She rose to her feet, ignoring the jarring of pain in favour of etiquette. The man bowed his head, though there was something rigid about his movements. She fought back a frown, less suspecting and more knowing exactly which direction this was heading in.

From sound alone, she could tell Ella had risen inelegantly to her feet, coming to stand just at her heel.

“He is not accepting any visits today,” his words were blunt and snappy, as if he was uncertain how to voice them in any other way and only wished to speak them as soon as possible.

Thankful for her years of practice, Glinda did not let the swiftly building heat of indignation show on her face. Her smile remaining fixed.

“I suppose that rather neat man who left his chamber mere moments ago was an illusion I conjured up.” The smile softened the bared edge of her sarcasm. “How easily the mind does so with such tedious waits.”

She had caught him unaware, and he was unable to hide it, his brow shooting up and eyes wide. His reaction enough to please her considerably with the confirmation alone. “Err… he has had no visitors today, I –”

“I rather you not try to deceive me. It is in no one’s best interests to continue such a thing.” His throat bobbed just above his high collar. Her words still as pleasant as her smile. “There is no harm in honesty.”

She heard the shuffle of Ella’s feet behind her, but Glinda paid her no attention, her gaze unwaveringly fixed on the man whose face was growing as red as his hair. It clashed horrendously with the emerald of his pressed official dress.

“But it is true.” The attendant lost his polite composure, spreading his hands as if in a plea, his face so earnest that it was far too easy to see it as the falsity that it was. “He sends his sincerest apologies, but you must understand he is a very busy man.”

Her face warmed in a way that could only come from vexation, her hands wishing to curl tight. She kept them folded neatly before her instead, thumbs pressing into her palms. “I understand, of course, for as you must understand I, too, am a very busy person.”

“Of course, m...” he fumbled, as if unsure what title to land upon. He brushed a hand down one of his sleeves, choosing the simplest address. “Of course, madam, but I am afraid there simply is no time.”

Her battle to control herself appeared to be rapidly failing as the next words fell from her lips with a venom of infuriation that had not graced them in a very long time, “You have had us waiting here, for hours, just to inform us he is seeing no one? Even with the prior arrangement?”

Her imposition, often expected, and often the only way. The greeting enough to show it had been accepted.

“I cou – could not receive a response for some time.” He tugged at the front of his starched collar, sucking in air as if his breathing was restricted. “He is a very busy man.”

Her brow quirked at the repetition, though it likely gave the impression of mild astonishment instead. She reined herself in, displeased at herself for her minuscule loss of composure. Her following words cool, pointed, but still spoken disarmingly, “Because he was too busy entertaining other visitors?”

“No!” the attendant answered far too hastily.

“A rearrangement then,” she said, making it clear it was no suggestion. “Or, still today, to speak to a minster or a representative in his stead.”

She, without any question, was worth at least that. Had heard meetings were more often done in such a manner nowadays, the Wizard seeing fewer and fewer. Age or illness, those particular rumours truly scant.

“I'm afraid –” The man straightened, tensed, as if braced for a feared and awaited reaction, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple “– currently, that is simply not possible to arrange.”

“You are no fool –” she tilted her head just so “– I am sure you must genuinely understand that this is far too important a matter to be dismissed.”

“Not a dismissal.” He shook his head impolitely. “It simply is not possible at this time.”

“I would prefer honesty,” she repeated. Felt a muscle in her jaw twitch with the effort required to remain as she was. To smile still.

“There is nothing dishonest about it. He is a very busy man.” Another fumbled excuse of a lie – not his business, but his inability to see her. Though, as she regarded the attendant’s shrinking form, perhaps it was not a lie to him. He was but the messenger, even if he did not fully respond to her own words as he should, he was only parroting back what he must.

Glinda, surely appearing far larger to him than her rather average height would suggest, allowed a look of cold regard to cross her face, smile turning icy as, with a tilt of her chin upwards, she turned on her heel.

Enough was enough. She was having no more of this.

“Come, Ella.” She was positive she heard the girl squeak at her tone. “We are leaving.”

As they made their own way out, likely quick to be shadowed by some guard or the other, the attendant muttered something beneath his breath that she could not quite pick up on. Not that she cared to, not anymore.

“Are you quite well, ma’am?”

Glinda waved Pearson off with a polite thanks, before accepting his help back into the carriage.

The thrumming in her temple had not turned into a headache, instead it whirled, circling, building like a fog in her mind. Like her racing thoughts so often did.

They were moving before she realised, the blinking of her eyes sluggish. A distinct feeling persisted that she had lost some time, not wholly in the wait, but here and now. Ella peered at her, face pinched with concern.

“Are you certain you are well, Lady Glinda?” The documents were clutched to her chest, her eye contact unusual in its steadiness. “You look rather pale.”

“Quite well.” The insistence she intended faltered, her words teasing towards slurring together. She blinked again, tried to refocus, but it was as if the edges of her vision were blurred. Not enough to be concerning, but just enough to be noticeable. “Just the excitement of the day, and that hideous chair, unquestionably not fit for purpose, that one. Nothing to concern yourself with, dear.”

Merely the stress of it all.

Ella’s lips parted as if to further protest, but she closed her mouth a moment later. Her chin dropped, her eyes slipping away.

They rolled on, the impact of the day’s events fading, a fog had settled upon her mind that she could not quite fully shake. A rest, that is what she needed, then to plan her next actions. But what could she do now?

Should she have stood her ground in the Palace? Surely they would not have escorted her out if she had? But she was no longer certain of anything, could hardly hold on to the thoughts in mind.

Her nose wrinkled up, assaulted unexpectedly with a distinct and familiar smell, like that of a blazing open fire. It brought her startling back to the moment, mind instantly swept clear, as if waking from a restful sleep.

A peculiar feeling washed over her, body pulled tight as if bracing for action. Her gaze darted outside, saw dense, ash thick smoke wafting past the carriage’s window. A tugging grew in her upper chest, a force pressing at her back, something urging her forward, like the desperate actions of an almost faded dream.

Had she slept?

A thump on the roof of the carriage brought their journey to its second sudden halt, Pearson only rolling the carriage forward for a few moments more before deeming it safe. And likely in order to position the carriage to offer some protection from the wind carrying the smoke in their direction.

“Lady Glinda?”

She rubbed at her smarting fist, not realising how hard she had hit the roof with the side of it. Done without thought. Driven by an instinct she did not understand.

“I have something I must attend to. Wait here, I will not be long.”

The crinkles still marring Ella’s brow deepened, but she knew better than to question her employer.

With the grace of practice, Glinda exited the carriage. Pearson seemed surprised to see her rather than her maid, but he did not vocalise his thoughts on the matter. He did, however, jump up to assist her, but her shoes were already to the pavement.

“I will be back shortly, Mr Pearson,” she informed him. He sat back, not speaking to even question her being unaccompanied. Though his mouth was likely pursed beneath his whiskers.

Shortly... she had no idea where she was going, let alone just why she was going there. Only that she felt a compulsion to. Not a sign, she hoped, of a slide backwards.

Pearson climbed down from his perch, pulling the collar of his coat up to shield his face. A shine of concern in his eyes as he watched her. For a moment she thought he meant to follow or impede her, a hand worried at his side.

She hesitated for but a moment before following the impulse forward. Perhaps that, itself, was the most troubling sign of all.

The fading blue of the sky was slowly being consumed by a glowing orange as she walked briskly down the street, the scent of burning wood and something else she could not identify strengthening with each step.

The lampposts popped on as she neared the end. She knew Greensward Square sat opposite her and just ahead. She dared not glance back as she followed that inexplicable guiding drive.

Her eyes had begun to sting, and she with no fan to clear the air. With no doubt, the smell was going to cling to her dress and hair. Something that should distress her, yet was barely a distracted consideration in her mind.

Something existed beneath the unusually subdued sounds of the city, something indistinct and unknown, an almost rumbling roar of a sound.

The orange in the sky seemed to have grown brighter still as she stopped on the edge of the square, eyes on the Central Library of Oz to her right.

To her left, she found the source of the smoke that irritated her throat and eyes. The sound familiar now. The source of the glow blatant.

A massive bonfire, tended to by men in green uniforms – oh how she was growing sick of that particular shade.

While it had been growing colder there were still a few months until they celebrated the coming of winter. Though that itself seemed to commence earlier each year, but not by such a considerable margin that they would be starting the bonfire now. And never tended to by the Home Guard. Or was this another celebration she was unaware of, locked away in the townhouse as she had been?

The pulling intensified, something wrenching inside, demanding the return of her attention, back to the uncomfortable yet indescribable sensation. In a daze, she looked back to the library just in time to see two more uniformed men carrying a cart down the steps, their faces red with the strain.

Glinda watched them as if in a trance, only coming back to herself when, with a thunk, they placed the cart down. Fingers now pressed to her throat, she felt it move with a hard swallow. Felt the ghost of her quickening pulse beneath her fingertips.

Though the distance between her and the men was significant, as they wheeled the cart pass she could see its contents clearly. Books. Papers.

They marched onwards with purpose, not ceasing until they reached the fire and the others stationed there. Two soldiers turned from the towering fire to wheel an empty cart back towards the library. The still red-faced soldiers reached into the cart and, with no hesitance or pausing for thought, began throwing the contents into the flames.

The touch on her throat tightened, a shocked breath parting her lips.

She tore her gaze away, forced her fingers to slip free.

For the first time she became aware of the few others watching proceedings, and the many more who were rushing about their day, heads bowed, or strolling about oblivious to or unconcerned with what was happening.

It took no time for her to copy the sleepwalkers, to appear outwardly unperturbed as she looked to the Central Library like it was her intention. To leisurely drift towards it, aware of the eyes at her back. That foreign feeling within her remained, clamouring now. She followed it up the numerous steps of white stone, paying no mind to the soldiers and the cart that passed her.

The grand doors were open, and at the sight of typically dressed people milling about, at no shout or stern-faced guards halting progress, she entered through into the lobby.

She was perhaps a tad overdressed for a visit to the library.

She had been a few times before to study the impressive arches and their decorative keystones, the reliefs and bosses, and the few Ozma era murals that remained untouched or mostly so. She had not made as many trips as she would have liked, but today was not the day to rectify that.

To her surprise, she found the magnificent lobby was strewn with haphazardly placed piles of books, like an incompletely built fort. The sound of steps and thumps of movement echoed beneath the glass domed roof. A number of neatly dressed people were piling the books up into tall towers. Glum faces held low as a single solider watched the proceedings, his expression unreadable as he glanced to her, then back to the labouring people.

One of them, a bespectacled gentleman kneeling to start a new pile, registered her presence – or perhaps the hard glance of the solider informed him – regardless, he jumped up and rushed over to her with hard eyes and a determined frown.

It was only when he drew closer, pausing to wipe his glasses with the bottom of his shirt, that the expression fell. He placed his glasses back on his nose, eyebrows turning up in what could only be in askance of forgiveness.

“Ah. My apologies, madam,” he spoke quietly, in a way that only someone accustomed to always speaking as such could. “We have had trouble with ruffians attempting to lift books.”

“Lift?” Glinda asked, aware quite suddenly that her brain was not quite up to speed. That it had not been so for quite some time. That long wait accompanied only by occasional shuffling and that constant ticking had affected her far more than she had realised.

To mistake her for a ruffian! Either his glasses were truly that dusty or his mind worn as thin as hers.

“Umm,” the man hummed out the word, cleared his throat. “Steal, my apologies again, madam.”

The librarian – she realised, it most obvious – chuckled to himself, as muted as all his words. It lacked any genuine mirth.

Her eyes slipped to the solider at the opposite end of the lobby, but his own were fixed on the other librarians.

Instinctively, her voice had dropped as soon as she had stepped into the building. Even so, she let it fall further, words but a whisper, “Why are these books being taken to the fire?”

The librarian rubbed the edge of his glasses with one finger, then pushed them up his thin nose with two.

“I can certainly see if I can assist.”

She caught the sound of a turning wheel and heavy boots; two soldiers entering through the door at her back.

“Please, if you could,” she responded, voice pitched up, "only if you can spare the time.”

With a crude complaint between them, the soldiers passed by, stomping across the marble lobby. The one steering dropped the cart with a thump. They paused only long enough to drag their sleeves across their damp brows, before they began throwing books from the piles in. Noisily and uncaring.

The librarian motioned with the slightest of hand movements, and at her tiniest of nods, stepped closer.

“All libraries and private collectors in the city are being sent lists of books that must be removed – banned, you see. If any of those books are found in our collections after next week we will face penalties.”

“Banned books? Whatever for?” What harm could honestly come from a book?

From experience, she knew enough regarding Unionist thought on books perceived as immoral or profane, or whatever else they claimed. The most, however, that resulted in was a refusal to have those particular books in their homes, even those meant for children.

The librarian made to answer, but then moved his head in the smallest of shakes instead.

“May I ask which?”

The librarian fiddled with his glasses, rearranging the arms over his ears, he glanced to his left, over her shoulder, then back to her. “The same lists will be sent to everyone who resides in the city come two weeks’ time.”

Glinda almost pressed the matter, only for the look in the man’s eyes to silence her outward curiosity. They were wide behind the glass, a quiver to his lips, his fingers in constant motion. It reminded her of where she stood. Such brash tactlessness such a rarity to her.

She threw a glance back to the soldiers carelessly throwing the books. Each subsequent bang rebounding sharply in the lobby.

One of the other librarians excused herself as she squeezed past them to place an armful of books on the pile nearest them. It was a wonder the cart pushing soldiers had not taken those first, being closer to the entrance, not that she would bemoan the good fortune.

Glinda’s attention was stolen by a book on top of the pile. All else fell away. Something propelling her forward without thought.

It was in her hands.

She had barely taken it in. Had not even considered picking it up.

The female librarian had scurried back, her eyes wild, only settling now as they took each other in, as alarmed as one another. The male librarian was calming his colleague down with a reassuring hand on her upper arm and hushed words.

“May…” She cleared her own throat daintily, felt the heat of embarrassment warm her face. Understood just how much risk was in her question, her demand, for her and them, how perilous her very thinking was, and yet still could not help but voice it. "May I look at this?”

How unbecoming she was acting.

Her fingers twitched minutely against the leather, acutely aware of the chilling absence of that peculiar feeling inside with the book in her arms. Not vanished, but replaced now with something else altogether, something almost fulfilled. She did not know what she would do if they said no. The thought of returning it roused something akin to grief into her chest. An unfathomable fear entwined with her long-known loss.

There was something about the book, something unprecedented, something indefinable that sent her senses tingling. That coaxed her innate sorcery, that made it prickle beneath her skin.

The man nodded to her inexplicable relief and surprise, his eyes dropping as he spoke, “That one is only there because it is untranslatable. A soldier noticed it and insisted it be thrown in with the rest, just in case there was anything suspect or inciting within it.”

Shakily, the woman slipped away from him with a grateful smile and a faint word, returning to the others.

“We've had it on display for...” His moustache shook, brow crumpled. “You know. I cannot quite recall. Certainly a long while, I apologise, the stress of the day, you must understand.”

That she understood more than he could ever realise.

“They did not believe it is untranslatable?” Glinda queried, her arms and fingers had curled tighter around the book, cradling it to her chest like something deeply treasured.

“Yes. It’s such a shame, it is one of a kind. Or so I believe.” His lips pursed, a slight watering to his eyes. He glanced back, the soldiers with the now full cart exchanging words with the other standing watch, their deep voices booming. The librarian met her eye, gestured subtly to the passage to his right. “If – if you want to look at it…” He glanced back over his shoulder, then back to her, something passing over his eyes. His words almost telling of something else. “Read it in the back. Then return it.”

He seemed genuinely upset at the prospect of the book being destroyed. It seemed odd to Glinda that someone could grow emotionally attached to paper and leather, the impromptu thought hypocritical. Did she not have such books in her own possession? Had she not once admired another who was much the same?

“Of course,” she replied.

Why take such a chance? Why did she ask for it?

It mattered little.

He turned, arms spreading as he peered at the pile nearest to them, hands on hips in thought, or as if to shield her. The soldiers, still occupied, she took the chance though she still could not say what drove her.

As she followed his indicated path, her brisk steps and the soft rustle of her dress grew in volume as all other noises faded the deeper she went. Intent only on finding privacy and see just why she seemed so compelled towards the book. Her pulse pounded with the risk, her grip white-knuckled.

No one called after her. No one paid her any mind.

Untranslatable. It would not be the first time the unknowing had mistaken the language of spells for such – but for a gentleman in his profession to also mistake it seemed improbable.

The book was rather beautiful to look at, but seemed no grimmerie to her. Not purely in appearance alone, but in whatever surrounded it. Books on sorcery were just that; books. A grimmerie was little different from a cookbook. They did not have this feel about them.

But time was soon to tell.

Past the towering satinwood shelves, in a room taken up more by tables, aged leather chairs, and the occasion lectern, the scent of paper still heavy in the air, she found a secluded corner beside one of the arched windows. Not that it was truly needed for her to hide away as there appeared to be no other visitors in this part of the library save for herself.

The carriage was waiting. Ella and Pearson out there, but some distance away. Guilt should be a burdensome weight on her chest; for leaving them there, for not giving word of what she was doing, nor even a guess for how long. For disappearing off on her own. Yet it had not surfaced, though she knew she should be feeling it.

Shifting on the cushioned seat, a twinge raced up her spine in memory of the day. The discomfort had all but been forgotten, but now, mind clearer, the ache return to burn at the small of her back.

The window seat overlooked the square and the fire opposite. It had grown greater, a beacon in the night's sky, the smoke curling off the flames like a signal.

Again, her hand jumped up, fluttered against her sternum. Heart and body unsettled.

She tore her attention away.

With more time allotted to her, away from the unsettling atmosphere and with a clearer mind, she could now study the book that had fascinate her so.

It was a large, thick volume bound in a rich chestnut brown leather, the engraved writing on the cover a brilliant gold. She could not read it, nor identify the language, nor even recognise the lettering as just that – letters. The edges of the front and back were embellished with an intricate pattern of leaves on thin, bending branches, enhanced by careful use of gold tooling. It reminded her, vaguely, of the hairbrush her father had carved her, but far more elaborate. There was no question as to why this book had once been on display.

It would fetch a pretty price, she imagined. It would clearly be a prime target despite its size and heft – though she had not noticed the latter until she placed it down upon the table. She could understand why the librarians were worried about people stealing the books; if thieves could make a profit on something then they would take it. Though whether the punishment for not destroying a listed book would fall on the thieves’ heads or the librarians’, she did not know and did not care to theorise.

Turning the heavy cover, she flipped through the book. The pages an appealing ivory, a few bore more incomprehensible words at the top – titles, likely. But besides that, the rest were strangely blank. Like a newly brought dairy.

Had the librarian not said the book was untranslatable? Her speculation proved false, and now she was left thoroughly bewildered. Unless, Glinda considered, it had been some sort of jest on his part, for how could one translate something that did not exist? By its very nature, that meant it was untranslatable. He, however, had seemed sadly serious.

That prickle though. And that odd pull she had felt towards the book. That feeling that may very well have led her here and now. A feeling she had not felt for a very long time, but knew. Was there some sort of spell upon the pages? An enchantment? It was a possibility…

Closing her eyes, she emptied her mind. Concentrated. She lightly rested a hand on one of the pages with an unreadable title, the paper smooth beneath her fingertips. Focusing and stretching her senses outward, reaching forward in an attempt to detect any sort of sorcery that may be present around or within the book. A glamour, perhaps, to hide or disguise its words. Most untypical, not a use she had heard of, but possible, potentially, by someone truly skilled.

So close, the thread of connection easy to form, to grasp –

A spark –

A sharp, jolt struck her, stealing her breath for a second. She gasped, not in pain but shock. It more a harsh shove against her front than anything else.

The spark tingled still within her hands.

Her eyes had shot open at some unknown point.

Nothing had changed on the pages.

Flexing her fingers, she waited until the tingling stopped.

She could press harder, seek more, but then that jolt could very well turn into something far worse.

It could well have been a warning.

This was beyond her. Whatever it was.

Caution, foremost.

If only she had applied herself as she wished, if only she had done her upmost, this entire situation could have progressed oh-so differently. What a fool she had been, what a fool she still was.

The brass light to the right of her seat flickered, catching her eye, freezing her as if in pose.

Her hand dropped back into her lap, shoulders shifting and shawl slipping.

Her gaze fell back.

Breath hitched.

The hand still on the book quivered, her other landing on the opposite page. Her shawl pooling in the crooks of her elbows.

More of that unreadable writing had appeared where before there had only been blank space.

“What…” she murmured, her voice small yet cutting through the silence like the crack of a whip.

Her fingers glided across the pages, curled around the edges of the book. She lifted the bulk of it, squinted, as if it were merely a failure of her eyesight that made it unreadable.

As if responding to the intensity of her observation, it changed. The letters seemed to twist, or morph, whirling across the page, putting to mind a colony of ants reforming themselves or sent scattering. Transfixed, she could only watch. They continued to contort and dance before her eyes until finally, at last, coming to an unexpected rest.

The title was one clear word.

Life

A deep crease furrowed her brow, first perplexed, now in awe.

She glanced at the first line.

Struck, as if by a slap.

The book tumbled from her grasp.

A loud thump like a thunderclap in the silence.

The noise reverberated in her ears, her breathing ragged.

Her whole form shook, heart resuming its heavy thudding pace at those first two words...

Galinda Arduenna

She pressed a trembling hand to her forehead. Took in air as if suffocating, as if that awful constricting ivy had curled fast around her lungs, choking her once more.

This was some gross trick, surely. Someone was trying to make her feel as if she had lost her mind, or was losing it, someone was trying to terrify her.

A spell, perhaps, cast to lead her here.

She fought to regulate her breathing, grappled to retain some sense.

There was no spell. What purpose would there be in that? She would have felt it, had been near no one close enough to even attempt such a thing. Spells to affect the mind unknown, disallowed and reviled, regardless. She was not bewitched. There was just the sense of sorcery – an enchantment – on the book in front of her, clear when she touched it and reached out.

But something had led her there, she could not explain that away. A deeper sense, an intuition. Fortune of a different kind, perhaps.

Breathing more steadily, no longer shaking to such an obscene degree, she cautiously pressed her fingers to the edge of the book like it were an animal poised to lash out.

She felt no spark.

The noise…

The realisation. She cast a look around, a sudden tremor of panic surging through her, tingling in her limbs, muscles tensed for action. To grab the book, to run.

All was silent.

No one was coming.

Luckily the distance the book fell was short and its weight significant, it remained on the same pages. Hesitantly, her eyes fell to it, but found the writing was much the same as it was before. Completely unreadable.

Maybe her overtaxed mind was merely playing tricks on her. All that stress was bound to amount to something, her worry of a slide not new, but still, imagined happenings was a completely new occurrence for her – in reality, not in her desirous mind alone. Unsettling and frightening to see before her own eyes. But she had awareness of it, knew it to be not right, that had to mean something.

She drew in a breath, tried to calm her ever pounding heart.

As she stared at the page, she felt relief of a bizarre conflicting kind, when the words seemed to shudder. She rubbed a knuckle in her eye, fluttered them opened and closed, watched as the distortion grew, saw clearly as they began to swirl again.

She blinked as if to clear her vision, but the shapes continued their waltz. Paired up, split off, twirling and reforming across the page.

When at last they came to a rest, she did not move. She waited, heart thumping and a quake running through her. Trembling as she tried to remain stock-still, as if the slightest of movements would send the words scattering, like a puff of breath to a dandelion.

The jittering within escaped, a slight jerk of her knee beneath the table.

The page remained as any other book.

Still battling to take a steadying breath, her eyes struggled to focus on the words again, to comprehend what was in front of her. To fight through the shock, against the fright.

To do something as simple as read.

Galinda Arduenna born to Larena Arduenna and Highmuster Upland.

Below; where and when she was born, a bout of terrible sickness, her earliest childhood memories.

Her fingers twitched against the edge of the book, straining with the desperate need to slam it closed. Cast it aside. Think no more upon it, blank it from her mind.

Another part of her urged her on, needed to investigate further – to figure out what was before her, why she was sat there and now.

She drew a clammy hand over her skirt, pulse a constant physical present in her neck. With an intake of air, and perhaps partly out of hope or fear the writing may fall away, she turned over some pages on a whim, and sure enough, it continued.

Flipping through the pages, her chest heaved as more details of her childhood were listed, growing older with each turn – her life laid out and plain before her. The time she had been bitten by a cow of all things; the time when in her stubbornness she had climbed a tree and became stuck only a few feet from the ground; her war with the ducks that lived around the pond near her school.

She leafed through the pages, faster and faster, her heart beating a rapid tattoo against her ribs, each breath pulled in shallower than the last.

Suddenly, the end.

Sometime in the middle of her childhood. The rest, what came after, a recollection of memories flickering across her mind – clear as anything – but was absent before her. Missing.

A blank page save for the singular word title.

Departures

She closed her eyes. Screwed them shut, mind floundering as it tried to catch up to what she had seen. What was happening. What this could mean. How it could even be.

Sorcery could do much, but it always had a basis. For a book to draw upon her so – to detail so much… was it pulling from her own memories? As before, she still could not feel anything out of the ordinary; could not feel the influence of a spell or another’s sorcery. An object could not cast a spell, nor could a failsafe or the like generate such an effect. She did not feel spell-chilled.

Aside from the fright of it all, she felt herself.

She opened her eyes, shook her head, wincing at the motion.

Though the ache had returned to her temple, other than that, all was as it should be.

The discomfort, as with much else, was pushed to the back of her mind. The single word in front of her still present and understandable.

She trailed a finger over the edge of the page, took it between finger and thumb with care. She turned back a couple of pages, intending to read closer, to puzzle out what was being shown to her and why, but as soon as she began reading, she realised it had changed. Detailing, now, events when she was older.

Unthinkingly, she read on without even a moment to ponder it all. Her etiquette lessons; that mortifying failure of a horse riding lesson; the visits to and by Aunt Eileana that she had so looked forward to.

She was aware now of how the room filled with the sound of turning pages, swift and determined, as if searching for something she was unaware of. Her life playing in reverse; days and weeks, months and years, until she landed once more upon the page that started it all – Life. The start as abrupt as the end.

It was too much.

Her head fall back, the thump jarring nothing aside from her building headache.

She remained there, head resting against the alcove wall, uncaring of hair and pins. Unconcerned of being discovered slouched.

Her mind raced as she tried to make sense of something that, truthfully, made absolutely none.

No spell or enchantment she knew of could produce something like this. Nothing within her knowledge of sorcery deemed it even possible.

No one could have known all of what she had seen. Even her parents were clueless to some of the events detailed in the pages, and that was just what she had seen while hurriedly skimming through it. Sweet Lurlina! What if it was her Ama playing a trick on her from the afterlife?

Of all the thoughts to finally bring her to a pause!

“… Perhaps that was a little foolish of me,” she muttered to herself. An afterlife, nothing was as simple as that image painted by Unionism – it was far more complicated than that, too simple a term. A twilight before returning to start anew.

She turned her head, distractedly observing the magnificent and vibrant ceiling fresco. Two shapely women posed as if in recline, red and blonde waves and curls tumbling down, a pair of Pfenix curled around them as if to frame, branches of hyssop detailed the opposing corners they did not quite reach. The flowing robes looked a later addition, unnoticeable to most.

Many believed in a realm separate from their own; a Beyond, an Other Land, an afterlife. A number of those further still that thought there could be interaction between the two. Always, or often, or just on specific days under particular conditions.

Even so…

She pulled her shawl back over her shoulders, turned away from the painted women to the darkness that reflected her exhausted image back to her, the burning light behind seeming to halo her. Her fingers brushed over the smooth leather and paper. It had almost been thrown into those flames.

What would Elphaba make of it all?

The contracting, winding tangle of emotions made a sudden departure, seared through by a flare of overwhelming and unanticipated anger – frustration at herself alone. Her reflection’s expression growing taut. How many times did she have to tell herself not to defer to Elphaba? She had done so well – perhaps not, well, as such – but she had managed, for so very long. Had buried it all so deeply – locked it away so securely. That brief, fraught reunion had brought so much forth, had caused her to lapse with such speed and so drastically. Leaving her forlorn once more, or rather, preventing her from casting it away as she had ultimately learnt to do.

The bubble always burst, eventually.

They had not even known one another for that long. Not truly.

And yet, if Glinda was being honest with herself – completely and utterly honest as she could never allowed herself to be – their short relationship was the most fulfilling one she had ever, and likely would ever, have. She wanted no other, for none could ever compare. Be it merely companionship, or something more.

She turned from the fire, from her image, pressed her hand to her now closed eyes.

It was absolutely pathetic.

No, she was. Pitiful, but deserving of none.

Her hand fell from her eyes, the vaulted ceiling blurred. Blinking bringing no focus.

Besides, this was out of Elphaba’s areas of expertise, this was something only someone who was an expert in sorcery would understand. She was well aware of that, and yet still so quick to think of her, to wish to hear her advice. To simply listen to her voice.

This mysterious item, this unknown spell or enchantment needed someone else. Perhaps one who had studied the very history and lore of the subject as deeply as anyone possibly could. Not someone like either of them, but perhaps someone like Locasta. She was an Adept after all and to be of such prominence, naturally she would have far more substantial knowledge than she – one who had allowed herself to lapse so terribly at university. Who fumbled like a child to desperately try to make amends now.

Or perhaps it was best to keep this find to herself. Who knew just what it could do? What effect it may have upon her with time – it had appeared to take from her memory – but, then, would it not be better for another to be aware?

It was something altogether different.

It mattered not, she realised as her mind drifted back and her vision cleared, whether her and Elphaba's knowledge reached that far or barely touched it at all. If Elphaba were there, Glinda would have adored the opportunity to bounce her thoughts off her, to be the one to ask the questions for once, to draw what she could from that brilliant mind. And to show Elphaba what she knew, to reveal and share more of herself than she had, to see that appreciation in those warm eyes. A mirror of their treasured and gratifying exchanges from so very long ago. Conversations that should have continued onwards for many years, in both ways – with Elphaba leading, with her leading – not silenced so abruptly with nothing but a spotless room and an absence of even a whisper of a word of farewell.

She righted herself, jaw tight and hands curled, her aching back protesting. She had been gone for too long a time now; it was a wonder neither Pearson nor Ella had come looking for her. Unless they had – her stomach turned at the thought. Tucked away in her corner, and in a rather private area, she may as well be completely hidden from sight.

That was if Ella made it that far, even if she had somehow concluded Glinda was within the library, the sight outside would very well have sent her careening back to the carriage. She rather Ella not be exposed to this, to rove about on her own, or be left at the carriage while Pearson sought her instead.

In truth, it was not the first time Glinda had wandered off alone, both were well accustomed to her and her capriciousness by now – and to her peculiarities. Regardless of all of that, she needed to get back to them, and the sooner the better. Not remain here, enveloped by what she had lost.

She shifted her feet, the sharp clack of her heels against the floor muffled by a strategically placed rug, pressing one hand to the table to brace her rise.

Her eyes dropped to the book.

Elphaba Thropp –

Glinda blinked. Dropped back into her seat. Her haste to depart vanishing in an instant.

She dragged thumb and finger across her eyes, uncaring of her likely already affected makeup. Her hand falling beside the book. The words unchanged.

 It was no figment of longing imagination.

 – born to Melena Thropp and Oscar Zoroaster Phadrig –

Glinda stopped short. No one could possibly have a name that long, not even some of the more extravagant, pompous people she had made brief acquaintance with. Was this all some sort of odious joke? An errant spell made only to agonise her mind? Now, targeted purely to cause her even more anguish?!

She pinched the bridge of her nose. An action unlike her, but needed as she dragged in a harsh breath.

She had thought that very thing before and had dismissed it all. And very rightly so! She was being absolutely ridiculous. Completely illogical.

But what was logical about this?

Whatever was before her was something else, something more. It had known so much about her life. Recorded her every key moment. She knew that what it now showed, as with her own, would be the actuality of it all.

And that included, as she reread the first line, that Frex was not Elphaba’s father.

Who was the man it mentioned? Did Elphaba know or suspect Frex was not her father? Doubtful. She knew Nessa was – had – not been his, or held the suspicion, but had never hinted that she was not as well.

Without a doubt, she must be unaware. Though Glinda could not claim to know if Frex knew, (or Nanny, who always knew more than she ought). There had always existed that sense of tension between father and daughter – something both chose to leave undiscussed, Elphaba keeping such words close to her chest. That inequality of treatment, Galinda had begun to see it, to understand the effect, as she and Elphaba had drawn ever closer. But even then, she had no right to ask about it, had feared recreating the distance between them. Whilst at the same time she had so desperately wished to soothe Elphaba, to help her in any way that she could have. She would have listened, if Elphaba wished to share with her – to that. To everything.

And then her grasp on what she was learning, on what she needed, had been so viciously severed.

If a part of her still suspected the book was drawing from her own memory, that first line was confirmation enough that could not possibly be reality of it. No. Somehow this book knew the truth itself.

It was wrong of her to continue reading.

When it was her own past detailed in the pages, there was no shame or guilt in it, for it was about her. This, however, was not. And furthermore, this was about someone she cared so deeply about despite everything that had occurred. With the distance and the time that now existed between them.

It was inexcusable, and yet she found herself unable to turn from the book. To lift her eyes from page and word. To stop her fingers from seeking the edge. From lifting the page.

To her minor relief, however, her eyes refused to focus properly as she quickly leafed through the pages. It was not her place to snoop in someone’s past, it always best to learn through what they wished to share with her.

This person’s past, especially.

What a contrast to who she had been so long ago – and still was if her hunger for any detail was indicative. Invading privacy was not new to her, and she still recalled just how disastrously that had gone. Here, though, there was no chance of a repeat of that incident – oh, if only there was.

The writing was cut short by the beginning of the next section, the one titled Departures. Eyes flittering over the page, avoiding taking in as much as she could, she sought for when it was. Elphaba at six years of age, or there about. It ended in much the same place as it had when it was her life detailed upon the pages.

From seeing her own, she had roughly concluded that the events mentioned seemed to be only the most important ones, though that was a tenuous assumption, others seemed truly inconsequential – at least so far. Who knew what the future held? Or perhaps those were only significant to the person it spoke of, and that was why they were mentioned. Though she could not claim to be haunted still by the fear of plants sprouting between her toes – though she still did avoid walking barefoot in the grass...

Glinda gave a short, very Galinda-like huff. The jarring end a most irritating of annoyances.

Then a thought occurred. Like the switching on of a light. The jut of her lip disappeared.

Turning back to the beginning of the section, she recalled how the book had changed before.

She had not tried to pin down why, too swept up in the shock of what she was seeing. But something had prompted it to detail the time that followed, to show her life when slightly older, and then again when it shifted from her to Elphaba.

In all things there was a reason.

Had she been thinking of Elphaba at the time? She undoubtedly had. Frankly, it was an unnecessary question, rarely was Elphaba ever truly far from her mind, even when she tried so hard to suppress her awareness – so perhaps if she…

She closed her eyes – it truly did help with focus! – and turned her thoughts to Elphaba. It took no effort, like a sluice gate rising, it all flowed forward swift and as determined as water, held back for so long. This time she did not stiffen, did not feel the sting, but warmed as she welcomed it.

Memories from shortly after they met, of the Elphaba she remembered and had known. Not tainted by Glinda’s own qualms and uncertainties, or twisted by rumour and woe. But the woman she was.

Opening her eyes she turned her attention back to the pages, catching this time the words as they shifted and whirled about the page, parting and joining to reform anew. Engaged in a dance she was starting to understand, at least in part.

It seemed she had found the key to working the book.

Again, she did not allow her eyes to linger as she skipped through the pages at high speed, clueless of what it was she was searching for, only that the pull that had led her there in the first place had returned. Different somehow, but running parallel to what had been.

Had that been what led her? That sense she would not name – that knowing which had returned to her back in Colwen Grounds? That which had truthfully never left her.

At one moment, then a few, she swore she saw her own name, or the name she once had, and was tempted to stop and read. To see what they had shared through Elphaba's eyes. To gauge the genuine extent of her importance, or the lack of it.

She did not. Though with all that had passed, the anguish and the irresolution, sitting there and then, she realised – or perhaps was recalling – just how profoundly she trusted Elphaba. How assuredly she believed what she had told her, and what she had felt from Elphaba. Though she said little of her feelings, her actions were proof enough for Glinda, and actions often spoke louder than words. She understood that now.

It had never changed. It had remained, and was undeniable.

What they had shared was real.

Of course, after their last encounter, after a promise not kept, after everything, she knew she should not be thinking that way. Elphaba had said some – many – things to the contrary of what Glinda, in her honest heart, believed, but Elphaba did have such an acidic tongue that only grew more caustic with temper. In sorrow. In guilt.

And, at the end of the day, if the truth was contrary – if she was again deluding herself with her falsehoods – she would rather live in her ignorance, believing a lie that brought her some comfort, that brought her some joy despite the pain. Sometimes it was easier to accept a simple lie than a harmful truth.

She reached the end of the section, skimmed the page and turned to the front once more.

She repeated the process a number of times, her shoulders a little lower, her eyes a little heavier with each change. A few times the writing jumped to different ages – the wrong direction, something told her – she had to refocus, clear her mind and try again.

And try again she did, over and over, a fuzziness in her mind. And with each attempt it became a little clearer as to what it was she was seeking, though it was not until a split second later – after so many tries – that it became starkly obvious to her. The force that had been pressing at her skin dispelled in that moment. It had been a constant presence she had not been completely aware of, only its absence making it most evident.

Closing her eyes, she copied her previous actions, thinking this time of Elphaba as she was most recently; dark and glowering, pulled taut with grief and ire. That too short moment of what had been, that pull of Elphaba’s lips into a smile, the way face and eyes had softened. The crinkle beside her eyes. The flutter of her own heart.

From the start she turned towards the end, taking no words in, finding quickly where the writing ended long before it could reach the beginning of the next section. Current events. The most recent. It had to be.

This time she read, but just the last few lines. Only two words stood out.

Kiamo Ko.

A person? A location, perhaps? The foreign words held a vague familiarity, as if she had seen them some place before. There and then, however, she was unable to determine just where.

If it was a location – Glinda breathed in slowly, head bowed as her trembling hand pressed against her tender heart – then she knew where she was.

A light in the room flickered, the same one that had disturbed her before. The brief sputtering buzz brought her back to herself with startling clarity – to where she was and just how long she must have been sitting there for.

Lurlina! Pearson and Ella! What would they be thinking? As familiar as they were with her sporadic eccentricities, and as confident as she was that they would keep it to themselves, today – tonight, was incomparable to most. Her gaze shot to the window; to her reflection and the glow of the fire beyond it.

She leapt up to her feet, stumbling on her heels, catching herself on the table when one of her legs turned out to have grown numb. She barely paused, closing the book and pulling it close to her chest, giving her leg just enough time to regain some feeling before she was rushing across the room – the library, heels hitting the parquet with a rapid click and pins and needles shooting up and down her leg. Her mind awhirl.

She knew where Elphaba was, all those years of seeking and hoping only for it to come so unexpectedly – improbable, unbelievable, but there – but what to do with that information?

Well, first things first, it was best to keep it steadfastly to herself. Not that it had at all occurred to her to share the information, but it raised another most crucial matter. The book – what if someone else found it? What if they figured out how it functioned much as she had?

The possibility that they would think to use it to track down a so-called terrorist was slim if they were a typical fellow. It most unlikely that they would have the ability to use it at all, she was certain of that, after all, it had stirred at what rested beneath her skin. Even so… it was a powerful object, one that had the potential to cause a lot of harm in the wrong hands, and quite possibly a lot of good in someone else’s hold. Unfortunately she did not fall into the latter, but she could secure it so the former was an impossibility.

Breathing quickened, she paused briefly beneath an immense oil painting of the Wizard's arrival, his impossible flight, noted it only from her periphery by the tremendously great blot of red glaring out amongst the green and blue.

Fumbling with the book, she tugged her shawl off in a rare, rough motion and wrapped it haphazardly around it. An undeniably poor attempt to hide it, but she was no thief.

Shifting the bundle in her arms as she pressed on, she tucked it into her side with one arm, the other across her torso to steady it. Her fingers tapping a pattern upon it, her pace increasing down the echoing corridor. For once, she wished for stronger arms. It seemed more cumbersome than before.

Voices reached her, rapidly growing in volume with her speed, raised or seemed that way with the fluttering of her stomach and the prickle of anxiety at the back of her neck.

Her fingers stilled on the book, her pulse seeming loud enough to take over the sound of her rhythmic drumming.

Hopefully to any onlooker the bundle would appear to be nothing more than a folded shawl, or a few of them kept soundly bound together, though if they were to look even slightly closer... if they had actual sense – she shook the thought away. Pressed her lips together tightly. Why should anyone question her on a book? Even if stopped by a solider it should pose no problem; it was not one which was listed, not one the librarians were being forced to cross off. And she had a higher place in society and a lack of wit they would surely understand. She was nothing more than a pretty lady.

The choking scent of smoke struck her next, catching in her lungs, wafting in and steadily filling the building.

The lobby was less cluttered with books, but crowded still, finely dressed people taking the place of many of the towers. The lone solider had a suited man to the floor, an arm twisted behind his back. The librarians flittered about, trying to force others out the entrance, the man she had spoken to leading… her eyes darted away. Head bowed.

Glinda stuck to the outside of the room, pulse rapid and muscles tense, as she made for the entrance as directly as she could. The book was digging into her side, clutched tighter than was comfortable, her arm bearing the brunt of the weight straining.

No one stopped her. No one raised a question. No one even looked towards her.

As she slipped out the monumental doors, past curious loiterers, a bang startled her, almost made her flounder. Two soldiers had dropped their cart at the top of the steps, rushing by her with a shout, hands reaching towards their belts. To what was held there.

Swallowing down the jolt of anxiety in her throat, reaffixing her mask, Glinda hurried down the steps, gasping when she almost tripped down the second to last one with a twist of her ankle.

The square was no longer as vacant. Voices tumultuous against the furious roar of the fire. A couple of people were motioning wildly at the soldiers in the midst of an argument, others drew closer, joining them – joining in. Glinda reached the bottom of the steps, turned on her pained heel towards the road, could not quite pull her eyes away –

More soldiers faced them, appearing from somewhere. The voices rose higher, grew more agitated.

Her heart hammered beneath her breast, the tension hitting her like a wall, one that felt fit to topple with the smallest push. She knew well enough when something troublesome was about to break out, when that strain in the air was on the cusp of snapping. However, the fights she was accustomed to were filled with veiled insults and snide comments, not yelling and screaming and fierce gestures. And definitely not physical exchanges.

The sting against her eyes, the smoke billowing about, did not mask her sight. Did not act as a blinder. Could not offer something to hide behind. This plain and clear before her eyes.

A solider reached for his belt. Struck out. A man crumpled.

Others descended on him, weapons drawn.

A scream.

Breathing was a challenge, a lump obstructing her throat, her lungs fighting – desperate – to draw in air that was not tainted. To stop her awareness fading.

This could not –

Flight found her, pushed her on, racing now forward. Sweat beaded across her brow. She did not glance back over her shoulder, could not, as what lay behind her turned into something else entirely. Cries and yells and sickening sounds she could not name.

Around the corner. Down the street. The carriage still sat where she had left it so abruptly. Pearson, rigid beside the door, arm outstretched towards her, brow knitted, his focus at her back.

“Lady Glinda?”

Ella leant out the carriage, confusion pulling her voice and brow high, Pearson’s head whipped towards her, ushering her back in with a frantic movement of his other arm.

Glinda reached them, barely reacted to the press of Pearson’s hand and arm as he guided her urgently into the carriage. “Swiftly, ma’am?”

“Naturally,” she said, so short of breath she was unable to utter a word more. The sounds still heard in ear and mind, impossibly she could still feel the heat at her back.

Ella scrambled backwards, stumbling in her haste to sit and make room. The door closed behind Glinda, the carriage shifting before she had sunk into her seat.

They were off, Pearson true to his own suggestion and her agreement.

Her heart pounded in her ears, the commotion in her mind throwing her into turmoil, calm not finding her with the same speed with which they were travelling the roads.

Ella shook, wringing her hands, wide eyes on Glinda as if afraid of what may befall her if she were to look anywhere else. “Is – are you, well, Lady Glinda?” She squeezed her eyes shut. Tried again, eyes dropping down. “Would you like me to take that?”

Glinda followed her line of sight down to the clumsily concealed book cradled to her heaving chest.

“No,” she said, still fighting to catch her breath, “it is quite all right, as am I. Though I appreciate your concern.”

Ella finally looked away, turning to the papers still kept safely at her side, a feeble attempt to hide the further widening of her eyes and the colour on her cheeks. Glinda could not claim awareness that such simple sentiments could cause such a reaction, in truth, she was more a little bit shocked herself. Fear had an odd way of affecting people. At least this seemed to settle the girl’s nerves. Better for her mind to be on that than what was outside, if she were even aware.

The low lighting, regularly brightened by the passing lamplight spilling in, hid too little. The traffic sparse now, nothing to impede their speed.

In that moment, she desired nothing more than to slump in her seat, the exhaustion that had crept over her before returning with a sudden ferociousness. She pressed a cold hand to her damp forehead, as if that would soothe the building discomfort behind her eyes. The book a noticeable presence against her chest, in her lap, one arm still curled around it almost possessively. Her back protesting again.

So much had occurred. So much she had experienced. So much she had seen. All in such a short span of time. It filled her mind, leaving no space, yet it stirred and boiled within, threatening to spill over the edge. So much – to think over, to ponder, to leave her deeply troubled, yet she could firmly grasp none of it. Could not begin to try to unburden it, to relieve her mind of at least a minuscule portion of what besieged it.

Glinda rubbed at her temple, fingers little warmer, waving off Ella’s concern before she could begin to voice it.

The pace of the carriage took a noticeable dip, her attention shifting. Seeing the silhouette of the townhouse through the window was already acting as a slight balm to the pain. Bizarrely, a first for all things. She could think when she got back. When she was alone.

Or, she thought as she lifted her heavy head in a listless motion, perhaps after a much-needed rest.

Chapter Text

Glinda smoothed a hand over the warmed leather of the book, her chin resting on her palm as she gazed out of the balcony doors up to the overcast sky. Curled up in her chair, the heavy weight in her lap was both helping to anchor her and yet also filling her mind to the brim with a multitude of unbridled tumultuous thoughts, most of which stemmed from it. No other effects had come, her concerns of such unfounded.

Her focus should be elsewhere. But she also knew if she fought what was occupying her mind, forbid herself from dwelling upon it all, the thoughts would not be replaced with those far more important matters. She was fully conscious of where her mind would fall, despite her best efforts and her wishes.

It was both a curse and a blessing.

Those attempts too only grew ever more feeble, or maybe she was allowing herself at least that.

Once it was over – that day, that night – once she could breathe easier and the pain had fled, she awoke, not quite refreshed, but with a clearer mind. Only then was she able to reflect. To finally begin to try to sort through everything crowding her head before it could burst forth and overwhelm her entirely.

Her eyes dropped to the book with a brief break in the clouds, the morning sun creeping through to catch at the gold detailing, glittering almost impossibly bright. The press of guilt for taking it had never come – after all, the librarian had appeared rather distraught at the prospect of it being destroyed.

She had not stolen it. She had saved it.

Perhaps worryingly, it was with a surprising ease that she found herself able to excuse her underhanded and potentially – definitely – criminal actions.

So caught up in the moment; driven by that sudden compulsion, then the need to keep the book safe, she had offered herself no opportunity at the time to truly contemplate her actions. There may have been no need to do what she had; she could have offered to buy the book, though it would no doubt be beyond an amount she could easily spend without question. And the funds were needed elsewhere, her access restricted, and savings unlikely to cover it. But it was not unfeasible that she could still have arranged a deal with the librarian somehow. Only he, and presumably just the one solider mentioned, knew of the order concerning the book, it was not on a list, and she surely would have been able to circumvent any questions as to why she would want a book in – on the surface – an unknown, or completely dead, language (if it was only she it had appeared bare to, but then, how had it appeared to them? For surely it would not have worked as it had for her). Bluffs came with little effort, she could have simply explained that she purely appreciated the appearance of it, that she had a taste for the pretty and the beautiful, which was no lie.

Though, possibly, it was better to have snuck the book from beneath his nose than risk implicating him specifically.

The others that had loitered, lower and upper class alike, she could see them still. Those looking to steal to make a profit, or maybe endeavouring to nobly save some of the knowledge that was soon to perish, willing to risk the punishment there or later. Or many may have been there for no other reason than to witness what was occurring.

Witness.

Overthinking came naturally, her mind not always quick – rarely, it seemed – to focus on what was paramount. A fear she dismissed but was perpetually reoccurring; that Pearson and Ella may think she had been involved in the conflict in the square.

Used to disappearances and wanderings as they were, assumptions perhaps of some illicit liaison – even if she had never been shy about her very low opinion on such things. People so vocal in their judgment about such were often the biggest hypocrites. But not her. Never her.

The outcome of an old consideration had never changed; what she and Elphaba had shared was something far greater than that, something immeasurably more profound. It was incomparable. It was no mere dalliance.

The yearning pull in her heart forced her to turn her mind away. To look back to her present.

For her to have been gone for so long, to come hastening back to the carriage when a disturbance begun, she knew it would undoubtedly look suspicious. Her evident exhaustion, the loss of poise on the ride back, her possibly conspicuous guilt may have made them think such things when before that would never have crossed their minds.

The conclusion thankfully came without too much internal quarrel – what was to say they were even thinking anything of the sort? Was it not far more likely that the added pressure put upon her shoulders was slowly guiding her back to her bad states? That was far more likely to occur to them, and was far more of a likelihood than she wished to admit.

She had confidence in their silence.

As she returned to herself, her attention moved back outside, this time down to the canal. Unusually empty, the blue of the surface barely stirred.

Only a few days had passed since her impromptu visit to the library and her exposure to the atrocious events that followed. Her distance from it, her lack of involvement, mattered little. She still had yet to decide on just what she should do. Had not written a word of any of it to Genfee, either to inform him or seek advice from those available to her – her words a simple statement on how her meeting had not taken place as planned despite her efforts.

That whole day, everything that had occurred, it was far greater than she. Far greater than her capabilities. Entirely far beyond her. As with much else that had found itself placed upon her, she had not been raised to deal with situations like this. The most she had been taught was how to shrewdly retaliate to backhanded compliments and seek the favour of those around her. To climb, to better herself and her family. To observe, to adapt and learn. With political dealings, she had already felt out of her depth, was trying with all her might, had found seemingly that she was more capable than she had envisioned. At least, on the social side, but that had always come readily, if not also tiring in the aftermath.

She knew nothing of potential riots. Of violence. Of fear.

But, that was not entirely true, was it? She had knowledge, no matter how faint or distant. Had been given it, had she not? Long ago in a dining room after the same bland breakfast. The first rumblings she had dismissed with the rest for the weight of the reality they held. Of what it meant.

She had chosen blindness.

Shortly before her visit to the Palace, all those realisations and notions that had come to her, dismissed swiftly in favour of certainty.

The press; newspapers and tabloids alike, had explained away the events in Greensward Square with little fanfare. The men and women were working against the interest of the general and honest public. Those that had not died in the brief yet violent conflict had been rounded up and arrested. Homes raided and further evidence found. Terrorists. The lot of them.

The fire, a brief mention, was for the destruction of immoral and radicalised texts and propaganda. The lists to be sent out would surely reveal the opposite, but who would think to question it? Not the sleepwalkers she had joined so willingly. Not the blind.

Not the fearful.

Not the oppressed.

She had seen little of it, but enough. Had heard more. The sounds and sights replayed in the dark. Her throat tightened at the memory, her muscles coiled tight.

The glimpses of those people – normal everyday individuals. Not hardened criminals or anarchists. Just regular citizens. Those who could see, those who were concerned, those who could no longer hold their tongues.

The claims, confirmed by a representative of the Wizard’s, by a commander of the Home Guard who had been present. The questions it raised came along with the involuntary spit of excuses – why would the Wizard confirm those claims? Was he truly cognizant of what was occurring? Was it on his orders? – but they did not settle in her mind as steadily as they once would have. Awareness no longer deflected, no longer dismissed. Blinders gone.

Genfee’s words came back to her, had never altogether left for they had already been present, beneath it all, a word long known; Scapegoats.

Those poor people… behind bars if they were fortunate, both their lives and families left to tatters. Meaningless, collateral, nothing to those above.

It was easy to lie through lack of knowledge and awareness, just as it was so easy to believe those lies for the exact same reasons.

The turn of her stomach brought with it a wave of nausea. Pressing her knuckles to her lips, she swallowed it back down.

So much for the book grounding her, the physical reminder only serving to add to her consternation.

If only she had better control over herself, but her grip weakened with every day that passed. Incapable, it seemed, to allow herself to think on what she needed to without her mind drifting to what would surely soon utterly consume her.

Her hand dropped, a finger trailing along the edge of the book. Uncovered now, her lips twisted into a slight grimace.

A soft knock on the door offered a thankful reprieve from the circling of her swarming thoughts. The opportunity not debated, but instead grasped immediately.

She shifted in her seat, feet to the carpet and back straight. Her ankle only slightly tender now, having kept it elevated on a pouffe and rested at its worst. Easing the severity of her expression, that crease she had not noticed marring her brow, she slipped her house slippers back on.

“Yes?” she called, eyes skyward once again.

The door opened slowly, barely a whisper on the hinges, and she, poised and graceful, turned towards it.

“I have brought some tea, Lady Glinda, and the morning paper.”

“Oh,” Glinda allowed the sound to escape from her, one hand still upon the book, “is it that time already?”

A slight delay followed, Ella’s eyes on her face and brow turned up, the furrows deeper than even the norm, as it was more often than not the past few days. Finally, she gave a small nod. “Yes, Lady Glinda.”

Ella nudged the door closed in an action that was supposed to appear incidental, and brought the tea tray over, placing it precisely on the side table. The paper was absent, a plate of lemon biscuits in its place, but when Ella poured her tea from the hand-painted Frottican teapot, Glinda saw it tucked in the crook of her elbow, pressed tight against her side.

“It’s that Gillikinese blend –” Ella blinked, the name obviously escaping her “– with the additional lemon balm and rose. I thought it would help.”

It was expected for her to not recall it, Glinda supposed, what with her being a Border girl; not quite Gillikinese, not quite City – or so most considered them – an in-between, or not sufficient for either by others. The distinction meant little to her, common sense found on any map.

“I did not bring milk or sugar, but can fetch them if you wish. Though I did bring some lemon biscuits, I thought you could use a bite to eat.” Had she had breakfast? Yes, she was certain she had ate... something. “I did not mean to presume.”

Regardless, Glinda smiled her gratitude, less perturbed at the presumption than was typical. She could appreciate the thoughtfulness, and still had enough sense left to pick up on the anxiety unmistakably simmering beneath the surface, greater than even Ella's typical fluster.

“That is quite all right, it is much preferred this way.”

With a slight tremble to her hand, Ella turned the teacup handle towards her. Satisfied with the colour, Glinda picked up teacup and saucer and gently blew a breath across the surface of the tea.

She did not allow her eyes to drop pointedly to the paper, but did notice how it was now clutched tightly in Ella’s hand. The girl's bottom lip was tucked between her teeth, her head slightly bowed, but as Glinda subtly observed, a shift took place, an uncharacteristically determined set rising across Ella’s features despite the tremor in her fingers.

“Ella?” Glinda questioned, her voice even and without a hint of impatience. Mulling over her thoughts had mellowed her somewhat it appeared, or maybe she was simply entirely drained. Sleep had been hard to find, and even more difficult to maintain. “What is the matter?”

“Umm…” The sound was a mere hum in the back of her throat, Ella's eyes darted up only to fall back down to her hands a second later. A motion she repeated a few times while Glinda watched and waited. Finally, Ella managed to keep her chin mostly up, though with a quiver to it. Her gaze, however, still flittered around.

“Ella?” Glinda repeated gently, trying now to catch her eye. She debated whether to place her untouched tea down, but knowing how skittish Ella could be, remained sitting primly and unmoving, treating her in part like an easily startled animal.

“There’s… there is something you should be made aware of, Lady Glinda,” Ella said in a rush, words catching the end of one another, her eyes squeezing shut. Apprehension was not uncommon to see upon her face or hear in her words – a deep-seated agitation, fear, was something entirely new.

Glinda pressed the pads of her fingers more firmly against the handle of her teacup, rubbing miniscule circles upon the bone china. A steady, repetitive motion to try and soothe the sudden prickling of disquiet in her own chest.

“In the paper – the newspaper.” Ella paused, either to collect her thoughts or out of trepidation for Glinda’s reaction. Her eyes squinted open unevenly, the paper shaking in her hand.

Previously dismissed concerns came hurtling back, the pit of Glinda’s stomach dropping as if the ground had vanished beneath her feet. Her throat instantly dry, she took a sip of her too hot tea, swallowed it down with her rising panic. Rather the burn than the ache.

Her free hand swept across the book as one would a pet, fingers curling around the top of it protectively.

Someone had seen. Had assumed she had been involved with the trouble, or knew she had taken the book. Not Ella, or Pearson, not them. All this because she could not control herself, because she had been thrown back to her temperamental youth – how the flare of emotions had her leaping into actions and letting ill-considered words burst forth before she could always sensibly pause and think it all over. Later to be frozen instead, by overthinking and inaction. She was supposed to be better than that, she was supposed to have struck a healthy middle ground, a fine balance, but one which was far more fragile than she wished to admit.

How was she supposed to fix this? She could fire Ella, then if anyone connected the pieces – if officials turned up at her door and she was questioned, it would be simple to dismiss it as the girl spreading such viciousness out of spite for losing her job. But then Glinda would also have to rid herself of Pearson, and that may be what triggered them both to speak out. Such abrupt dismissals – she could not possibly get away with ridding herself of two employees and then hunting down anyone else who knew too in order to… well what could she do? Blackmail them?

No, she could not do that. Still, she had to do something, and that was better than nothing even if she would rather not. But Ella said it was in the paper. What if someone from the Palace had followed –

Ella continued, those thoughts flying through Glinda’s mind in an instant, in such a miniscule stretch of time.

“About the head terrorist’s name –”

Head terrorist? So swift to heedlessly infer, she had not even known what she was referring to, and her confidence in both of them had not shaken. How could she even think that of either of them? To allow her mind to lurch so –

 “– that she shares your name.”

She.

Throat still tender, her knuckles pale, a cold sense of foreboding crept down her spine. This was an assumption that was safe to rush to, for it could only mean one thing. Only one person.

“I am an Arduenna.” Few, if any, there knew enough to be offended by it, or the politeness of society held their tongues. It was different elsewhere, of course, her insistence on continuing to use her own name – the refusal they were not privy to – was greeted by a number of confused, and in some cases outrightly offended, looks and the occasional overheard uncouth comment. The explanation was clear, and true in a way, her name held more weight amongst the Gillikinese – those that had not forgotten their ways, and respected even the middling families. Legally, of course, her name had changed – in Munchkinland, on some insignificant slip of paper in the name of traditional values that were anything but. For a marriage she had no say in. For something she did not want. She had continued to use her name, even in the direct wake of it, and still now even if it was not absolutely identical. It was how she signed all of her correspondences, until recently when needs changed.

A decision born from self-importance and pride and a need to cling on to her past. To have a choice if only in that alone, if only for herself. Now her name afforded her a level of anonymity, that other one; a level of importance that was never meant to be hers to hold.

“Oh, Lady Glinda,” Ella sighed, her shoulders high and a quake running through her as she edged closer to round the table, her voice dropping to the point Glinda had to strain her ears to catch each word. It held no suspicion or anger, was instead pulled low and long with sympathy, but it was the look in her eyes that rested most uncomfortably upon Glinda. A gentle concern that struck harder than the accusation which she had foreseen was to come.

What had Ella concluded in that mind of hers? Glinda's gaze dropped to the paper, felt as if on the very edge of a great fall, a simple brush of the wind and she would plummet and be taken with it – so mistaken before to think she felt the ground fall away, this was what that truly felt like.

If she were not sitting...

Her lips parted, the words catching, heart clenching at the assumptions racing through her mind, but she just aware enough to let none settle, to avoid glimpsing what they held. To acknowledge them was to break – never before another.

The paper was a portent, a sense of foreboding enveloping it and wrapped within. What did it contain?

“Your husband...”

“What of Shell?” she said briskly, casting herself from her mind – leaving herself behind, favouring the discomfort of the reminder of that. Clasping on to it rather than the mention of… the fright of... “You know how husbands are,” she said dismissively, could not manage even a light lift to her tone, “forever something questionable occurring.”

Some more than most.

Ella’s throat moved in a difficult swallow. Her mouth opened, closed, then opened again. Words tumbling out. “He is related to the terrorist, the leader, to the Witch.” Ella ducked her head, leaned closer, brow crumpled and voice taut. “He is likely working with her, and you...”

Glinda’s expression did not falter as she tried to separate what she knew and what Ella believed, but she was struggling to make sense of any of it.

Relief, at least, that she brought no news of harm or worse. Glinda pried her fingers from around her teacup, carefully placing it back on the tea tray. A mistaken action, her hands jumped to clasp together on top of the book.

Ella believed Shell was a terrorist? Glinda felt the press of her nails, sucked in a subtle breath. The cool wash of a dread of a different kind running over her.

Such suspicions were dangerous. What if Ella thought to report him? What if she already had? Panic, like a vine, curled around her chest, compressing her lungs. That would not look good upon her. That would had the potential to worsen relations between Loyal Oz and Munchkinland, to cause so much irreparable damage –

With all that had occurred, was it perhaps safer to leave to –

And you...

“I know what you are doing, Lady Glinda.”

Subconsciously, one hand had found its way to press its palm against the book once more, the other on the outside of her thigh, fingers digging in. Which was most grounding, she could not say, too swept up to puzzle it out. Glinda forced herself to still, in mind just as in body. She had already seen the folly of jumping to conclusions a multitude of times, had done so moments prior, she needed to remain calm, unaffected, and wait Ella’s words out. Then and only then, should she act.

“What is it you believe I am doing?” The steadiness of her voice was a blessed reassurance. As with all things, a skill long practiced, yet one that seemed to be slowly slipping from her hold along with so much else since the tragedy of the storm.

Ella straightened up with a lift of her chin, filled with a confidence like Glinda had never seen in her, subdued only marginally by her fleeting glance back to the closed door. They both knew they had no company, as was typical, save for Cook considering the time of day.

“There is no need to hide it from me, Lady Glinda, I will not breathe a word to anyone else. I swear on it.” Ella lifted her hand to press three fingers together over her heart. An action which accompanied the promises of Glinda’s childhood, though never to one her own age.

The resolve was not quite undermined by the hushed way Ella spoke – as if they were sharing a secret, though one Glinda could not yet recognise. Her silence, possibly, the prompt Ella needed to continue.

“Your letters to the Wizard, you being in the place of the conflict a few nights ago. The item you returned with.” Ella gestured with a nervous shake of her hand to the book. Glinda cursed her inability to think on the spot – to think at all! She should have hidden it better when she had taken it. Should have contemplated on and chosen an explanation, just in case. As she would have easily done not so long ago.

“It is simply a book. Loaned from the library.” The firmness of her hold may feasibly betray more, but Ella's gaze did not so much as flicker away from her face. The steadiness uncharacteristic. Glinda held her tongue on the rest, a part of her curious perhaps at whatever it was Ella had convinced herself of. Surely she was well acquainted with what her not so new role entailed. “What is it you are suggesting?”

Ella smiled, her eyes shining with her typical genuine warmth along with something more intense – an idolisation Glinda had seen in the eyes of others – directed at those of a greater calibre than they, at those they were encouraged to adore. Likely, once, viewed in her own eyes. It unsettled her, and yet a miniscule part of her felt something else entirely. To bring about such emotion, such happiness, lifted her, an old habit all but forgotten, but still realised without awareness. Ella had always looked on her with admiration, but never to this extent.

“You are helping the Wizard –” Glinda’s mood soured in an instant “– that is why he could not meet with you, he didn’t want to risk ruining your cover. All those times you ventured off unaccompanied… You are helping to stop the terrorists that are a threat to us all, and to bring all of Oz together again!”

Her bafflement was maybe too evident, though Ella appeared oblivious to or misunderstood it entirely. Glinda’s brow had furrowed deeply, and she left it, too occupied with trying to fathom out just how Ella had come to such an assumption, but failing spectacularly at the attempt. Reading people came readily, a necessary talent to progress, but she had never been too skilled at getting into the minds of those of a lower rank than herself. And even those of the same rank was a struggle at times, particularly when her own mind was so beleaguered or harried from it all. Though, conceivably, there was not as much truth in all that as she claimed to herself. Who she was now, after all, was far removed from who she had been. Who she still –

Ella thrust a hand forward, holding the paper out, crinkled from her vice-like hold. Glinda had all but forgotten. How quickly this all could have been cleared up, her agitation eased, with merely a glance at it.

“That is why I had to warn you about your husband.” Among many other things, Ella had picked up on her dismissive attitude towards him on the rare occasions she brought him up. This not a habit Glinda cared to correct. “You could be at risk –”

Glinda unfolded the paper with a concealed hitch of her breath, not allowing herself to linger on the caricature or the name that accompanied it, beneath that moniker however...

Elphaba Thropp.

An order. A directive. Splashed across the front page.

“They say she may return –”

“To take the Eminenceship,” Glinda finished absently.

“Yes, your title, and that she will be far worse than Miss Nessarose.” In the corner of her eye, Ella's nose scrunched, as lost by the claims as Glinda was. But it was swiftly replaced by widened eyes and alarm in her voice, “To wage war. So, you see, you could be in danger.”

“Knowledge of her name is not new, Ella. Nor her relation. To Nessa too. Do not tell me you truly never realised that?” But that directive was new. Glinda rested the paper on top of the book in her lap. Her motions careful, her pulse urging her to rush. Looking up, she realised the sharpness with which she had spoken.

Ella had tucked her chin low, looking pale even as her cheeks flushed red. A tremor in her tightly held shoulders. Glinda softened.

“There is no need to fret, Ella,” Glinda said gently, trying to ease the girl’s mind, and if Glinda was honest, using her gullibility to her advantage, falling into the role with a remarkably typical effortlessness and a mild stirring of discomfort. “I have heard that rumour – that claim before. I can assure you there is no possibility that will occur. We are in no danger from the Witch.” That name left her with a bitter taste in her mouth, nausea rearing again – at it. At the implication that clung to every word. “And Shell? He may be many things, but he is no terrorist.” Glinda ran her palm over where she had runkled her skirt, her thigh stinging beneath the slight pressure. “Shell is no threat.”

She considered, too, correcting the misconception of her own actions, of her role, but stayed her tongue for the moment. Allowing this first to sink in.

Appearing partly distracted, Glinda watched Ella's face closely. The turn of her eyebrows lessened, mouth slightly parting and her tightly held shoulders dropping.

“Oh…” Ella breathed, her spine straightening and the crease of her distress fully lifting from her features. Glinda returned her smile for entirely different reasons, an unpleasant twinge in her chest. “What a relief,” Ella said on a breath, pressing her palm to her cheek. “I was so worried. But, it will all be over soon and we will no longer need to be afraid of the terrorists or the Witch.”

Because she was wanted. Named. Or...

Glinda tensed. Chilled by the abrupt return of that wash of dread, that icy shiver down her spine. All still kept restrained within. Asking a question that tried to catch in her throat.

“And why is that?”

If Ella regarded the query as odd coming from someone who she believed was aiding the effort to stop the so-called terrorists, she did not show it. But really was that any surprise with this one?

“You needn't be coy with me, Lady Glinda. It has been announced now –” she nodded towards the newspaper, levelled a look at it “– covered on the very next page.”

The paper wrinkled beneath Glinda's fingertips. Heart drumming beneath her ribs. The relief she once felt had by now evaporated completely, a drought left in its wake. Skin and eyes burning, throat raw and constricted.

She could not open it.

“They won’t reveal who they are until the eve of their departure, but to know that specialists are being sent – and so soon – it is such a reassurance,” Ella continued obliviously, somehow both helpful and not. “Do you know who the Witch Hunters are?”

Witch Hunters!

The ice ran through her veins now, battled against the burn on the surface. Her heart hammered harder despite the freeze, each beat accompanied by a stabbing shard of pain, like it had cracked and splintered the ice, not freeing but trapping itself in the debris.

This would be for no arrest. This was no Home Guard campaign. No Gale Force raid. Fears that came to her so abruptly left behind with the tattered papers pasted to brick.

They were going to kill Elphaba.

Kill.

She needed… she needed to do something.

How many times had those words entered her mind recently? And just how often had she dismissed them, or be unable to decide on any course of action? Unable to even let herself think?! Even with her promise to her dear Ama – to herself! Left, perpetually, in a state of inaction.

Maybe, she hoped with a futile desperation, Ella was mistaken. “Is the point of sending… assassins –” for was that not what they were? Or would executioners be more fitting? “– not to kill someone without anyone else being aware until it is too late? If ever at all. The target most of all.”

Ella flushed, ears pink. “I – I am just retelling what I heard – what I read! I thought you would know.”

“Or it’s for show.”

They both jumped.

Glinda caught herself somehow, managing to hide her own surprise, but Ella was left hunched up, eyes screwed shut.

As one, they looked to the source of the voice.

Shell had, at some point, slipped into her room. Like a snake through a crack, entirely unnoticed, so engrossed was she in their discussion. She did not care to hide her displeasure, eyes hard and lips pursed. He knew better than to enter her room. Was making a habit of it and she was in need of stamping it down.

“I did not know you were home?” She composed herself before Ella turned back, expression hidden now but voice cool. Ella bowed her head, shuffling a few steps away from Glinda’s chair, nearer to where she had started, but twisted now more towards her. If it were not for her presence, Glinda would be to her feet.

“No need to be so pleased.” Shell smiled, the door almost closed behind him, propped ajar only by his heel. “I had just returned and came straight to see you, dear.” He pressed a hand to his heart as if enamoured, let it linger for a moment too long, though any time at all was too great. "Discussing the news, I see – or should that be, I hear?”

It took no effort to ignore his nonsense, this no matter for jest nor taunt. Her back teeth clenched hard together, the tension resting in her jaw. “What do you mean it is just for show?”

He arched an eyebrow at Glinda, gesturing with a flourish as he began to explain, “Scare her into giving herself up, make her concerned for her life. That way he can extract information from the woman.”

“If she gives herself up,” Glinda replied, conscious that they were speaking of her as a stranger. A natural habit. They never spoke of her alone, and before another – though exceedingly rare – never shared words in a way that could reveal their connection. Even if the pieces could, or had been, linked, they would never be the ones to do so for another. “If she is even aware.”

Elphaba had known of Nessa somehow, she would know of this too. Yet, that mattered little, Glinda still felt the need to – to…

Scared for her life? Elphaba? Terrified to the point of handing herself in? Absurd. Surely he must know that. So what was his intention?

“How do they know where she is?” Ella piped up, immediately realising she had spoken out of turn, her hand jumped to her mouth. Her eyes darted to Shell, as if in fear of a scolding, but were quick to return to Glinda. She shuffled closer, hip catching the table, hands shooting down instead out of concern for the bone china.

“They must do,” Shell answered with a shrug. Impassive, unaffected. “Or the threat would hold no weight.”

He had clearly known of this, and it was no recent discovery. Ella fussed unnecessarily with the teapot, back to him, Glinda levelled a look at Shell that perhaps bordered on showing too much.

He had known. And yet he had not shared it with her. He was not there because he had come rushing to tell her the news, was likely only home because he needed something or had done something. She knew better than to believe the words he said in front of another, and the ones shared in private more infrequently than not. Was she being unjustly harsh? No, she knew him more than well enough.

Why would he withhold it from her?

With effort, ignoring the sliver of uneasiness in her stomach, she met his eyes directly. Beneath the sparkle they forever held was something else; concern? Fear? Acceptance?

Nothing struck true.

He knew – and he knew exactly what she was going to do, didn't he? Or assumed he did, believed he could sufficiently predict her, though in this regard he may have succeeded even if he did not know the specifics.

“We will know soon enough.” He toyed with a cufflink, looking just as disinterested. His eyes darted down to the paper and back. “With them leaving in just under a week.”

A week.

She was clueless how to answer Ella’s question, though if she were to give it deep consideration, she was certain to come to some conclusion either way on the matter. How the Wizard had accomplished what she had failed was apparent, however, he had such resources to hand. And regardless of that, it had still taken him so long, which was not something she was ungrateful for.

It did not matter. The Wizard knew, but he was not alone in the knowledge.

If she knew Elphaba, which she was no longer confident was as true as it once was – though, she had not truly known her then nearly as well as she had believed she had. Trust and belief were not one and the same.

She cast that distressing thought aside.

Knowing Elphaba, Glinda knew without a doubt, if the goal was to have her surrender as Shell posited, it would fail. Elphaba would never submit, had not done so before, had not revealed herself – had not come - even for family until it was far too late. Elphaba would rather wait for her inevitable death than give herself up. Rather be a martyr than give up her principles. Her stubbornness a gift at times, and a blatant curse.

Somewhere in which they mirrored.

There was more to it than that, this was not just an empty threat. A ruse to catch another off-guard and unprepared.

It was selfish of Glinda to feel terror over that occurring – an arrest or death. Not for those themselves, though of course she feared it, but rather for what it stirred within her. The overwhelming compulsion flooding her chest, filling her completely. Greater than some urge or instinct, greater still than what led her the other night to the book hidden beneath the paper on her lap.

The want to stop it. To need to. To cast everything aside when so much rested on her, when there were many looking to her – everything thrown into a state of dubiety they were unaware of. The reality of those concerns, the perceived threats that she had so hastily and blindly dismissed, favouring official word in papers she knew better than to trust. Little more trustworthy now than the tabloids she claimed superiority over. To push that aside was unjustifiable, was reprehensible.

But she would.

She could do nothing else.

Filled as she was, led by heart over head. What had been unburied, what had been released, could not be pulled back. It was free now, unrestrained, seeming more immense than it once was or feeling that way for how long as it had been held deep inside and away from her.

There had been a time, in little actions and large, where Elphaba had provided her security. A sense of safety. Separated from her own reality, a bubble just for them. Within it she had found something genuinely desired, that she had once believed unachievable – an impossibility. Within it, with her, she had felt sincere contentment, a sense of belonging she had not realised she could craved. Had dared, even, to imagine a different life.

Now, it was her turn. She would protect Elphaba, but could not do so here with what was afforded to her – not yet.

To sit there knowingly and do nothing was inconceivable. To sit there and wait – to sit there and let her die. Even if it was within Elphaba’s own sense of righteousness that her own death would find her.

She had to go to her.

In the growing disturbance of sleep, in the twisting and turning and escalating frustration, it came to her.

By soft lamplight she scoured her bookshelf; where those that were truly for her and not selected with the eyes of others in mind were kept. Fingertips trailed over the titles along their spines, her damp brow furrowed as she fought to remember. To fully grasp that little flicker perched on the very edge of her memory.

She shivered, pausing for neither house slippers nor dressing gown. The chill was growing more severe with each passing night, though the light layer of sweat clinging to her skin helped little.

Her touch and eyes stilled, for just a moment, on The Architectural Heritage of Oz: A Comprehensive Account. Her eyes, already heavy and sore from the need for true rest, stung that little bit more.

She drew a breath.

Pressing on, it was a scant few titles later when she found herself hesitating for an unknown reason.

A slim volume, the smallest there, so much so that the spine was bare, the ungainly title unable to fit upon it, but she recalled it; A Rare Glimpse into the Settlement Patterns and Housing of Winkie Country. She eased it out from between its neighbours, opened it intending to turn to the index, instead it parted where she had last left it, marked by an old blue bookmark.

Stunned, her breath hitched.

A sign? Did she believe in such things? Certainly she believed in some things having no explanation, knew there was much that was simply unknowable.

She brushed a fingertip over the silk bookmark like it was the most delicate of fabrics, and slipped it from between the pages with great care. Casting a fleeting glance at the pages, the memory felt closer.

It was quite some time ago now, she realised, just before news of Nessa's death. At one of the smaller bookshops she frequented when she felt able, one where they questioned little. It was the only book she had ever seen on the subject, few wrote of the sava– The people of the Vinkus. Fewer still that studied the culture in such a way. Naturally, she needed no time to contemplate the decision, snapping it up with no question of price – for my husband, you see – had devoured it enthusiastically, until that had been cut short by tragedy.

The hand holding the book gripped tighter, heart pained as if it was in her hold instead. Thumb caressing silk.

Recollection came freely now; how she had been surprised to discover that some of the nomadic people had permanent structures to tide them through the difficult winters. That there existed settlements that could almost count as towns and villages, infrequent as they were.

There it was. Amongst paragraphs on the Yunamata and the Scrow and the Ugubezi; a mention of the ancestral castle of the Arjiki; Kiamo Ko.

The small diagram opposite denoted the approximate locations of the known sites.

The Vinkus. Of all places for Elphie to be, that was not one that had been high on the list. In fact, it had not been on it at all.

Not her home country, nor the one she was raised in, nor the one she spent a cursory year or two. Not even the City; not anymore.

Handling it as the precious thing it was, she placed the bookmark back between the pages, but did not close the book, her eyes lingering on the image. On the name. The blue acting as a bridge between them.

Her determination only grew, enclosing around her, closer now than just hours before. But there was no struggle, no suffocating within the press of it. Acceptance lifting the burden that should be, each breath easier than the last. That, too, encumbering if only for what it meant.

The snap of the book was like the striking of a match in the dark of the night.

Teeth pricking at her knuckle, feet no longer able to remain rooted. She placed the book on her bedside table, was back before her bookshelf for a moment, then back and forth in a physical mockery of the unrest in her mind. On the thoughts she was forcing herself to consider, as she should.

To the balconet in the end, through a sliver in the curtains, up to the empty starless sky.

She knew in her heart the decision was made. Irrationally. Impulsively. Selfishly.

The arguments fell away almost effortlessly, or perhaps it was more that they were overwhelmed, squeezed out and barred from returning.

It was set.

Her hold twitched on the light summer curtains, the voile beneath.

She was set.

She need only a map.

Glinda paused to observe herself in her mirror. Despite its lack of sophistication, the dress was actually rather flattering. Or, potentially, the lack of all the accoutrements, the simplicity of it, was precisely why it was so.

It reminded her, in a way, of the more flowing dresses of her youth – though plainer and more formfitting than those, and the long sleeves and higher neckline were more akin to those of Munchkinland sensibilities. Maybe those memories, of her younger days, were part of the reason it brought such a smile to her lips, or maybe it was simply because she had been so afraid that it would leave her looking much like a sack of vegetables. No crinolettes or bustles or the like, simply not practical for this kind of trip, her hair tied up but not elaborate. Just because she was travelling in such a fashion, did not mean she could not display some style. Even if lacking compared to her preferences.

It was easy to focus on such things rather than the restlessness inside, the gnawing anxiety biting at her nerves, the constant motion of her feet. It was preferable to throw all her attention on the superficial, to keep herself occupied, and she truthfully did care for such things. There were just others that meant more.

There would be plenty of time to fall into the depths of her mind on the journey, if she could not maintain her slackening grasp upon it all. Though she hoped it would not be too far a descent, out there, alone, it would not bode well at all.

After sorting through her dresses in the dead of the night, it was both a swift and expected discovery to find that few were actually practical for what she had planned – not that she precisely had a plan as such. Rare as it was, preparation always preferred. The string of actions that followed that night were rapid and rushed. Only yesterday, she had sent Ella away with a decent amount of money from her savings and some very specific instructions.

And Ella had done well, very well. The dresses were pleasing to look at – well as pleasing as they could be – and more than capable of functioning as she needed them to. Which in this case was to simply not get in her way, keep her sufficiently warm, and not make the journey any more difficult than it needed to be.

It was absurd, honestly, absolutely foolhardy. All of it – what she was doing, having no set plan, dropping everything in the way she was.

Eyes fluttering shut, Glinda tried to compose herself. She needed to remember why she was doing this, needed to tell herself that she was doing this for a good reason.

She could not say that, though, could she? Saving a life was good, but when it was born from selfish desire? When her attention and efforts should be concentrated elsewhere? When so much relied on her?

It should affect her more than it did.

Her disappearance would be noted, but it would have little to no impact on anyone of importance. She remained all but unknown to them for now, the difference in name having a hand in that, though her lengthy wait at the Palace unbalanced things. Left that more of an uncertainty, though only one undeniably saw her for any significant length. The majority of Loyal Oz paid little attention to the goings on outside of their own lives, even in their neighbouring countries. Gossip was beloved everywhere, but rarely completely reliable. That which they did know, stemming mostly from tabloids and newspapers – little difference in them now. All the attention on Munchkinland was in regards to the supposed acts of aggression, the threat of war too, now it appeared all was placed at the feet of the individual who was once the heir of one of the titles Glinda now held. The true heir of both, rightly.

Glinda had been remiss to so readily disregard the fear of reannexation. Looking now with hindsight, her vision no longer hampered, she could view all she read and heard and that which was shared with her with an open and understanding mind. Events that she had viewed one way, now turned completely around. Nessa’s initial seemingly kneejerk instruction to destroy the road just one of such memories, now viewed conceivably as an attempt to ensure an invasion was made more difficult; to slow and impede. That preferable despite the impact on the country itself. The choice that offered the largest benefit and the smallest loss.

Book and location secured, she had penned an urgent letter that night explaining, as much as she could, that she would be departing for an unspecified amount of time and the reasons why – though not the truth of it. She had listed some items of concern, some things that needed actioning. Hopefully Genfee would receive it in good time and understand just what she was warning him of beneath her veiled words. She could not trust that it would reach him unseen.

With things as they were – with the things she was now conscious of and suspected – her mail, as well as others, could very well be monitored. More so if the letters were travelling across the border to Munchkinland. Far more likely, now she had made herself known with her visit to the Palace. It was best to be as cautious as possible. Something she should have been conscious of from the very beginning.

It was paranoia, perhaps, but now she saw that such behaviour could be, within reason, beneficial.

The letter had been sent with Ella, posted yesterday as she obediently followed Glinda's orders. Ella had helped her arrange much of what she needed in such a very short time, had been as unfailingly diligent and discreet as always beneath her fluster. Even with the urgency Glinda had been careful to monitor just how much Ella was aware of – the reality of what Glinda was doing. It turned her stomach, persistently nauseous, made her feel more than a little bit of discomfort, for was that not what the Wizard was doing to all of them?

It was for Ella’s safety, Glinda reminded herself, yet another mantra added to the list. If Ella knew where she was going, what she was doing, who she was seeking and just why – she could very well become a target if ever such a terrible thing were to happen. Never mind how she may react herself. Glinda was positive it would not happen, could not, but one could never be too careful. And had her confidence not already been misplaced?

Besides, judging from that adoring look that still resided in Ella’s eyes, she had already come up with her own conclusion as to what Glinda was doing. Had voiced more than a sufficient amount of it that day the news came. A brief moment had come when Glinda considered correcting her mistaken belief, but it lasted for just that – a brief moment. Let her believe what she wants if it made things easier for them both. And safer for Ella.

The few belongings she deemed necessary enough to take with her were packed in a single carpet bag, beside it sat the book. She had yet to understand what the title claimed its name to be, that never grew clearer, and she sadly lacked the imagination to think of a name for it herself. Or rather she felt, strangely, that was it wrong to name it – to misname it. As if it were alive. Conscious. Sorcery could do much, but not give life to the inanimate. Such things held the trace essence of what they once were, but not as a human or Animal did.

The caravan train was leaving that very day. It had been with little difficulty that she had pinpointed the location of Kiamo Ko, a somewhat detailed map of the Vinkus showing it as a prominent location, and more fortune found in the prompt opportunity to get there.

The caravan train had a stop at a nearby village, part of a long trek up and down the mountain which surely had some indeterminable benefit for the one leading it. Glinda hoped from there she could find someone to take her the rest of the way. Though, if she found she must walk, then she would walk.

Madness, for her to even consider such a journey! But it had to be done. Even if she could do nothing to help, or more importantly prevent what was to occur, she could at least allay the agony that stretched between them. Some peace could be found in at least that. Though whose she would not say.

She knew plainly how selfish it was, had told herself enough since it had all come crashing into her awareness. Was, potentially, precisely why she dared not allow herself to think upon it. As much as she told herself Elphaba needed her, she knew truthfully that the correct phrasing was the opposite. It was she who was the one who needed.

Doubt was never truly discarded, that voice in the back of her mind that whispered of the inequality of feeling. That the heartache that infused her when she permitted herself to think upon it, or failed to stop herself, was not mirrored.

It had been a fear then, one that still remained across the distance of time. Fear that it was she who cared more, fear that the depth of feeling was hers alone. Memories of gentle caresses, the softest kisses, the tenderness in the warmth of brown eyes that stole away her breath. Recollections that brought such sweet pain, warped possibly within her mind by the weight of her own emotions. A question brushed against her skin, her answer incomplete and touch too telling. Too desperate to push forth her own feelings such that to voice it was rendered impossible. Those words secured so deeply within her heart.

Later, keeping a promise she believed was shared between them so long ago. One she truthfully had still yet to let go – one she knew she never would.

Maybe she was simply delusional. Had sought what comfort and security that she could in faulty remembrance.

And yet, when it came down to that fine line, she could not quite decide where she actually stood. Realised, quite desperately, that she would rather remain wrapped up within what she wholeheartedly believed; hurt and all. And, in spite of that, she was still choosing to leave in a mad rush to face the reality of it – was willing to subject herself to having those misbeliefs plainly revealed if it meant she could do anything to stop what was to come.

Even if that was the truth of it, even if she genuinely was alone in her devotion, she could not simply sit there, in the City or after fleeing to Munchkinland, and do nothing. To remain as she was, watching events playing out. It was indefensible enough of her before, but now with her awoken and eyes fully open...

Not just the events concerning Elphaba, but those that were occurring in the very city where she lived. That were occurring all over Oz. Turning a blind eye to the suffering before her, turning a deaf ear to the claims. Choosing ignorance until it was upon her doorstep; her dismissal, the night in the square, the threat to Elphaba.

Selfishness.

Her things were long prepared, but Glinda stood before the bag, lost within her mind, biting at her thumbnail. Her knuckle red and swollen. At last, she dropped her hand away, unlocked her muscles.

One last look around her room, checking again that all was in place. To her ensuite, where with a shaking hand she ensured the bottles on the side where arranged properly, her soaps and lotions and scents. The ones in the cabinet too, her hand knocking against an old bottle, markedly dissimilar and stark against the rest. Her breath caught, the tremble worsening at the sight of the poppy flower extract.

Hesitation.

To forget –

She shoved at it, sending it back clattering into its hidden corner. With a bang of the cabinet, she returned to her room, the sound still echoing in her chest.

There was no return from this. She could not change her mind halfway through the trip and demand to be brought back. If she left, she had no choice but to follow it through to the end – whatever that end would be. There was no going back, and not just physically.

Ends could be shaped and moulded, if a person knew what they were doing. Did she? Not truly, she had not thought that far ahead, could not bring herself to picture what was to come. The reunion had not been as she dared to dream, though there had been a brief moment – at the start – where it was closer to it, where she believed things would fall into a place that she could understand. A brief moment where things were as they once were, or at least a hint towards it.

Then the rest had followed.

A cry torn free from her lips only to be left unanswered. Not for the first time, but this the sole occasion where Elphaba had been within her sight, the words patently known to her ears.

No. She could not just sit back. This was something she needed to do. To do anything else frankly an impossibility.

This was a decision of her own choosing, something that was so rarely afforded to her. For once, to be the one in control of her actions and her life, and the result that fell upon her would be one purely of her own creation. And she would face it with her chin raised, all consequence her own doing.

There could be no room in her mind for doubts, no time to let them fester. No time to even acknowledge them. For once to be single-minded. To be driven by her own decision – not those of others.

Her eyes fell to the book, a note of apprehension filling her.

Quickly, she located a second cushioned bag for it and placed it inside. Plain and leather, it was once to be a gift, brought on a whim she could not quite explain as hope. Secured in her room, the book should be at no risk, but the thought of leaving it behind troubled her. A twinging of unease at the back of her neck, a jitter to her hands that was different somehow.

She placed it next to the carpet bag.

Shell was not there, had disappeared with much the same unexpectedness as he had reappeared. It barely crossed her mind to leave a note or a sign of some kind, however small, informing him of her actions. He likely already knew or suspected as much regardless – not this precisely, but something. Maybe not, she could be giving him too much credit, he may think she had left for Colwen Grounds without a word. Ella advised simply to state she was away on business on the off-chance anyone enquired.

Regardless, for all she knew, she could very well return before Shell did or before he even noticed she had gone. Were there any events coming up?

She shook her head, pinched the bridge of her nose, a habit she needed curb. She let her mind remain set and her determination – desperation – lead her actions, this time on a path of her own choosing.

A knot of anxiety had slowly formed around her heart over the course of the last day, entangled with everything else. She could not loosen it, could not remove it. Could do no more than she could for all the rest, so she pushed it to the back of her mind. Concentrated on what needed to be done, what she was doing, as she retrieved her bags.

Pausing only to glance out to the undisturbed water of the canal, up to the pale blue of early morning light in the sky, she turned, back rigid. She passed by her carefully chosen furnishings, her treasured possessions, clothed far simpler than she ever had – save for one lone noon in the woods – knowing, as she finally took her leave, that she would resolutely face whatever was to come.

Chapter Text

There were to be only a handful of people on the journey with her, so few that Glinda doubted the caravan leader was making enough money to justify leaving the Emerald City. Surely the woman could have waited until there was a higher demand – more people equals more profit after all – but the season was changing, and Glinda was in no position to complain. If it were not for the caravan train then it was most unlikely that she would be able to get to the Vinkus in time, or maybe even at all. She was just focusing upon what she could rather than fall into her mind or the fidgety wringing of her hands.

Pearson had taken her to the corner of Oz Deer Park; still called so though it had seen neither deer nor Deer in a lifetime. He had not queried her simply styled hair and dress, or even the presence of a carpet bag, but his eyebrows had drawn low and his lips grim by the time he bid her farewell. She had paused as she began to walk, considering how he lingered beside the carriage door, then turned on her heel to wish him well and earnestly promised to see him soon. That seemed to ease something and, with an uncharacteristic look in his eyes and a lessened crease to his forehead, he wished her the same and tipped his hat.

He had remained still on the pavement afterwards and, for a moment, she wondered if it had been his intention to stop her – to question after all, a suspicion she held that night of the square – but her reassurances appeared to win out, and at last he had turned to climb back up to his seat.

Once he had disappeared into the distance she hailed a public cab to take her the rest of the way to the Westgate, through a part of the city she had not frequented for quite some time – where the shine faded swiftly, the buildings with distance beginning to crumble beneath the weight of being forgotten, where one could not hide from the affecting sights of the destitute and the forsaken. All of it had only grown more grave.

With all the happenings it would seem departing from the Munchkin Mousehole was no longer feasible. It was fortunate that the pieces had fallen into place when they had, that the caravan was present, that it was leaving just when she needed it to. Like it was all fated, or part of the design of the Unnamed God if she believed in such a thing.

Only a sparse number of wagons and carts were present; some belonging to other passengers, others to the company, and a few more to be met on the way. Glinda had paid more than her fair share and secured a place in the wagon second from the front.

The brisk early morning breeze sent torn scraps of paper skittering across the cobblestones, bringing with it the nose-wrinkling scent of refuse. She cast flittering glances to the dilapidated buildings surrounding them, the cramped alleyways heaving with refuse, the makeshift homes erected beneath propped up tin sheets fashioned into roofs. Where bodies were huddled and belongings and debris littered was impossible to differentiate, all an indistinguishable, wretched mass.

With trembling fingers she drew her wool cloak tighter around herself, sinking into the fabric as if it could protect her.

It had yet to be even two full days since she had heard of the group sent to… dispose of Elphaba. Each day that passed was a day closer to their own departure. If they were indeed leaving, if all was as it had been announced in the papers. She had only been able to bring herself to read the rest late that same evening long after she had been left blessedly alone. She had poured over it, had tried to see the truth beneath the claims and the implications, with each loathsome word another rending of her heart. A once uncomplicated task was now unachievable. Was it not conceivable for there to be no truth?

Though, if Shell’s suggestion that this could all be a scare tactic proved false, who was to say those being sent had not already left? That the pronouncement was a distraction, a deception. That, possibly, the small group she would be venturing forth with may even include those very same people? After all, she had not considered how those Witch Hunters were travelling to Kiamo Ko.

Such a peculiar, blindsiding thought. One which came from nowhere so abruptly and keen, striking her sharply in the chest. And in the disconcertion and paranoia it brought with it, she kept her distance from the others, standing neither too far away nor too close, observing them perhaps a bit too intently.

Concerned for even that, the unnoticeable pointed shifts of her gaze, and still of where she had been only days before, of the potential of being followed, her eyes jumped to the sky – conscious of the time as much as the place and the people.

At last the caravan leader signalled to them. All stationary for so long that now, as if tied, they moved together as one. Glinda took her place with both a relieved gratitude and a rapid thumping of her heart. There would be no turning back.

Nestling in amongst boxes and sacks, she stowed her carpet bag beneath the narrow bench along one side of the wagon, pushing it back as if to keep it locked behind her feet. And, even though she was alone in the supply wagon, Glinda kept the strap of her book bag over her shoulder, pressing the bag itself tight against her side with a protective hand.

Unsteadily, with a slight shifting of the bound boxes and a clinking of glass, she started her journey wholly committed. Utterly resolute.

The sun was sinking into the west when, with a shout, they came to a stop. Their first day coming to end with a speed that caught her by surprise.

She retrieved her other bag, ensuring both were firmly in her hold and nothing left behind, before climbing out to find that they were before a building she had only ever seen in books.

The Cloister of Saint Glinda in the Shale Shallows. She had never visited, in part due to apprehension that people, being as they were, would claim she was conceited for visiting any place with which she shared a name. People would latch on to whatever they could, purposefully choosing ignorance if it meant they could gain a step over another.

There had been talk shared with Nessa about a visit on one of her trips to the City. With that Glinda’s qualms would have lessened, but it was yet another thing never to be. Nessa had made the pilgrimage on her own (well, with Nanny of course). Glinda’s own desired visit was naturally not for any suddenly held Unionist views, but purely for the majesty of the Cloister itself. And yet, despite her want and living relatively close, despite her caring less of what others thought with time, she had never made the trip.

It was refreshing to allow herself to take it in, anonymity offering her the opportunity to examine the building in a way rarely granted to her in life, for who was she but another common traveller? If she had her paper and pencils, there would have been no better moment than then to allow herself to become utterly immersed in her observation of it. No freer occasion.

The smooth grey stone of the crenellated curtain wall matched the building protected inside, the blood red tiles atop the Cloister still striking despite their natural fading from age. The mauntery a grand building that dwarfed all who stood before it, imposing that sense of insignificance at the feet of something much greater. A striking structure standing proud in the wilderness, a contrast to the shrines and temples of her youth, those merged into nature – those truly hidden ones that had escaped destruction.

To see it only briefly, a regret, but to return someday a hope. To unreservedly and thoroughly study it in all its glory.

A man – boy, a smattering of fine hair on his upper lip and dressed in a homespun shirt and trousers, granted them passage across the lowered drawbridge.

In the distance, as they entered the walls on foot, one could just glimpse the curve of the Gillikin River on its way to Restwater. A portion of it, long ago, had been redirected to surround the Cloister walls. A fortress in more ways than one. Her nose wrinkled at the realisation – to have taken from that river, from that water, to protect Unionists. The thought was dismissed as quickly as it came, there was no place for it now and, honestly, she was starting to sound ever more like her mother.

Even so, what did they need protecting from?

The orchard swept like wings from its start at the front of the mauntery, wrapping around the sides to spread out further beyond sight. The air fresh and clean.

The necessity of the short walk became evident as she noted a number of those housed there surveying them. To see the religious look upon others with a suspicion for their own safety was not something she could have anticipated, at least never in these followers.

The woman that led them conversed with a maunt who had stepped forth from the few others gathered upon the steps, the monumental oak and wrought iron doors open at their backs. Somewhere a bell tolled as the sky turned a deeper orange, their shadows stretching ever onwards.

She could just glimpse a water spout, modelled vaguely on a man’s face, snarling mouth agape in a constant scream. Dry for want of rain, though here the green was natural, the ground healthy. Lower, perhaps, sat grotesques shaped as women, but from their viewpoint they were hidden from their eyes.

A beckoning motion from the caravan leader drew them together, the maunt who she had been in discussion with began giving them all strict instruction Glinda feared many present would not understand. The caravan leader passed her, whispering words she, herself, did not comprehend to the others.

Her chance to appraise her surroundings was restricted by more than just time after all. There was little where they as travellers were deigned to tread, the majority of the mauntery closed off to them. Even if only to the eye.

As the horses were led away with the wagons and carts and they guided inside, Glinda cast a glance back. One of the male passengers remained, enraged with hard foreign words falling from his lips, the caravan leader was trying to calm him.

They ate a modest meal of bread and stewed vegetables at one end of the refectory, and were ushered away soon after to the small reception building designated for travellers; pilgrims and not – separate from the guest rooms within the main building itself, those saved for the notable. They were led to an austere dormitory that brought forth memories of her first time at university, though the comparison save for the shape and size was admittedly lacking. An absence of a fire left them wrapped in clothes and cloaks beneath scratchy blankets on top of straw mattresses.

They awoke to the blue light of dawn, were offered a chance to wash with bowls and cloths, then given a morning meal of bread and porridge and fruit that was adequately filling – if not abound with memories. Granted, then, a little time to themselves while the caravan and horses were readied.

As if woken by the permission, Glinda found herself led once more by an uncharacteristic compulsion. One with which she did not quarrel as she walked through the long slats of light cast through the tall windows. The mauntery and grounds were filled with an activity that was absent the day before.

Novices passed as she followed the directions given, a band of similarly dressed children at their heels. Her eyes caught, for a moment on one of the girls where no one else’s looks lingered. Almost perfectly positioned to welcome those from all four major countries of Oz, it was only expected to house such diversity.

She had never seen a Quadling in person before. For a brief moment she was struck, torn between memories; they were indeed more pinkish, as Nanny had once said, rather than the brilliant red she had always imagined. The wider, rounder features tugged intensely at other, different recollections.

She pulled her gaze away. The girl, though dabbed in the clothing of the church, gave the impression of being misplaced. Unionism was no more their religion as it was that of the Gillikinese, or truthfully, most of Oz if one were to look to the far past. To foist it on another, on one so young…

Yet, she continued on, letting it slip from her awareness like so much else.

She halted at the entrance by the side of an attending novice, and took an unembellished cloth veil from the woven basket that sat beside her on a squat table.

Dutifully, Glinda covered her head. An expectation or exception for travellers to move within the walls without one, but forbidden at the heart of the place.

Candles flickered, the scent of burning wax strong. A woman not much older than she, clothed elegantly but with signs of wear at cuff and collar, whispered into her prayer beads, oblivious as Glinda passed.

She avoided the nave, taking a seat at the very back of the side aisle. Unable to help herself, she cast an appreciative eye over the arcade, the decorative columns and their intricate capitals, the stone sculptures, but found she could take little in. Sunlight filtered through the large glass windows, a shimmering array of colour cast down on the altar through what was most certainly Quadling glass. She still held tight to the bag at her side, her carpet bag safe under the polished pew.

The icon of Saint Glinda held a familiarity yet was a stranger much as any other. Wrapped in strict religious garb, rather than flowing white, gold and purple cloth, the warmth of the imagery of her youth was replaced with a detached distance that was conceivably not there for others, but for her existed plain to see. Snowdrops, at least, an evident commonality, as was her role as a guardian of women.

Pressing her clasped hands to her chest, she bowed her head in practiced but always unnatural feeling motions. The words fell from her lips with a lack of habitual knowledge, only recited at such events at specific times of the year as was required. It was not that time of year yet, so she did not recall the exact wording for the prayers she felt compelled to offer, basing them on those rehearsed words and remembrance of her time in Munchkinland. Words spoken for the memory of dear Nessie, who was taken too soon. Wishes for Frex’s health and to lighten his burden. Then, as her eyes dropped from the not quite familiar visage of Saint Glinda, to see that she was alone in her corner, whispered words to Galinda – a Gillikinese prayer that came readily – for her safety, for what she was about to face.

Finally, a prayer of her own making to no true figure though she knew where it leant, still in the old tongue – for Elphaba. She would not appreciate the sentiment of Unionism or Lurlinism, so something of Glinda's own creation felt somehow apt. Though the undeniable presence of any such notions weighted toward religiousness, even of the fabricated or misdirected, would have Elphie’s lip curling in displeasure – a thought that brought an upward curve to her own. Regardless, Glinda felt soothed with the action. Encouraged, and with a freshly born feeling of hopefulness held like a growing ember within her laden heart.

A jumbled assortment of actions and words that was surely all manner of blasphemous to someone – many more than that, presumably.

“Curious choice of words.”

Heart lurching towards her throat, she immediately reached beneath the pew, curling a tight grip around her carpet bag, and straightened, her hold on the other unchanged. She rose with a lift to her chin, her turn more tentative than she would have liked, coming face to face with a maunt.

She brought to mind Nanny, though somehow even more ancient, and apparently had the same habit of silently appearing from nowhere. And eavesdropping. Perhaps it was a gift that came naturally to all elderly women.

“I was merely offering a prayer,” her typical haughtiness was likely ill-suited with her homely appearance and unelaborate heavy linen dress.

The woman waved a wrinkled, uncaring hand. Not much of a maunt then. Possibly a turn to faith at the end of her days, a decision she would never be alone in.

“If you will excuse me, Sister.” She tried to move, but was pinned in place by the maunt’s shining blue eyes. They peered at her with a depth of inquisitiveness, a perceptiveness, Glinda had not truly seen in another since she had first glimpsed it within a pair of warm brown eyes so long ago.

“Peculiar thing, to find yourself here. Unexpected, I suppose, for most, and for you beyond question.” Glinda found her words stuck in her throat, lodged there along with her heart. “For me too. But we should not question fate. Nor contrived coincidence, though those are much like the sea.”

Glinda was pulled back to her very own thoughts the day before, a tremble to her hand and her voice. Hiding, almost, within the borrowed shawl. “I am sorry, I fear I do not quite understand.”

“You understand more than you claim. I see that.” The maunt smiled, teeth placed as if at random in her mouth. “It leads as where we need to be, though the clarity of that is often lost on us until much later. If ever at all. Fate, that is.”

Glinda’s brow furrowed at the maunt, uncaring that it was so apparent. The woman still looked as if she were dissecting her, peeling back the layers one by one – seeing to a depth of her that was unseeable. The reaction it roused unlike that of another, her stomach tight with a chill seeping to her bones, but the understanding was the same.

The maunt nodded to herself, as if reaching a conclusion that Glinda would never be privy to.

“Keep those books close, poppet.” Glinda’s hand twitched against the warmed leather of the book bag, wide eyes on the back of the already retreating maunt.

Another habit of the elderly it seemed.

Her heart pounding in her ears, she barely had a moment to breath.

“Pay her no mind.” Another maunt approached having emerged from behind a column she had clearly been dallying behind to listen in. She focused on Glinda's face, on the expression she could not school quite right. Obviously, the young woman had been watching the mostly one-sided exchange. The maunt’s voice dropped to a whisper, a playful tilt to her lips, “Senseless biddy, she is. Half-blind and half-mad.”

Glinda offered her a weak smile, pressing her bag closer into her side, the book a solid presence within but offering no grounding. Such reassurance meant little, she was fully cognizant of the look which had passed through her; piercing and keenly insightful, not the bleary disorientated eyes of someone not quite seeing. A look that left a shiver trailing down her spine as if it belonged there.

“I should be on my way,” Glinda said, heart and words finally freed, leaving a quiver to her tone in their wake. Her fingers itched to return the shawl to its basket.

“Safe travels, may the Unnamed God watch over you,” the maunt bid her as Glinda inclined her head in a gesture of appreciation and hurried to hand the lent shawl back, and then swiftly retraced her steps out.

She was at the main entrance, caravan in sight, when her pace came to a stumbling end.

The feeling inside seemed set, unable to be shifted, and though she wanted nothing more than to leave, she found herself unable to.

The maunts asked for nothing, and though the hospitality was lacking compared to those who sincerely had nothing, she saw it for what it actually was. Even with her unpleasant encounter. She sought the donation box and found it nearby, a starkly bare thing compared to the heart of the place. She slipped a decent amount inside and left for the caravan.

The breeze gently stirred her curls, cloak and skirt. Pretty birdsongs filled the air, the return of something long missed made their prior absence more pronounced. A sense of peace permeated the surroundings, not the same as Frottica, but not so dissimilar a faint comparison could not be drawn. Startling, it was, after what had transpired in the church. Nerves agitated and something far deeper left unsettled.

She kept her distance, as yesterday, hovering this time beside the wagon as a few more crates were loaded by a couple of young boys. She regretted, slightly, her choice of the light blue cloak. Amongst the drab colours of the others and the inhabitants of the Cloister, it set her noticeably apart. Now, more than ever, she wished to blend and hide herself within the indistinct mass of people.

It was not lost on her, to be so isolated when being in the midst of it all. Following the flow of conversation, leading it, had always been so effortless. Filling the air with trivial, vapid words a long-mastered skill. Here, she was not her, not bound by those practices nor restrictions, the bindings let loose and leaving her free yet floating almost aimlessly, riddled with trepidation at the lack of direction. At not knowing who she was without it all.

Even more now, after a gaze that penetrated so easily through to the very essence of her.

Needlessly, she adjusted her cloak around her with her free hand. Seeking comfort in the mundane.

It appeared a couple of maunts and a novice would be joining them, though they said nothing, wordlessly huddling together nearby.

“Almost done.” The caravan leader was observing them all, but her words were directed at Glinda. They had not spoken since their initial discussion and exchange of money. “Needed to stock up a bit extra.”

The woman turned fully to face her now, closing the distance between them with a couple of easy paces. Glinda turned only slightly away from the Cloister to indicate her acknowledgement.

“Seeing as you weren’t exactly prepared with your own.”

Glinda looked to her more directly then, her stomach flipping with the shame that came with the realisation. The more fixed look an effort to stave off the heat that wished to warm her face – food, such a basic necessity that had not once crossed her mind. What an idiot she was! Where did she expect the food to come from? How did she expect to be fed? This was no retreat.

It had been with less difficulty than she could ever have envisioned to strengthen her accent and maintain it, much as she had often done before, but never in this way. Never towards her natural intonation. The country clear, sounding more like her dear Ama, sounding more like herself than she had since she was a very small child.

“If you require more payment…”

The women snorted, shook her head with an amused quirk of her mouth. “Already added it on.”

Ah, of course she had. Still, some appreciation had to be held for her not trying to wring more out of her, even more so when Glinda had made the offer so freely.

“Well, I’m glad that is already settled.”

Glinda looked back to the mauntary and the woman followed suit, her arms crossing over her chest. Birds fluttered down into some of the trees around the front.

“… Miss…”

No one had exchanged names. She had noticed that immediately. Not a choice from language barrier alone. The lack of introduction, the following of manners, rearing an inherent offense. It was not expected nor wanted, it seemed, and she understood with more clarity than she could have imagined.

Standing there, before the Cloister, it was no challenge to give a half-truth that would undoubtedly be taken as a fabrication; if the woman was as worldly as she claimed.

“Galinda,” she said with no pause. “Of the Lowlands,” she added as if an afterthought, as if unsure the woman would understand. It only solidified the lie all the more. And, if she was indeed that seasoned, the misplaced accent would only reinforce it further.

Their leader hummed, barely an arch to her brow.

“Right. Galinda,” she muttered, gaze falling from the Cloister to regard her from the corner of her eye. “I want no trouble.”

“And you shall have none.”

“Good.” She turned on her boot heel, leaving Glinda alone with the wind and the birds’ songs.

They were ready to depart only a short time later.

A number of maunts had congregated near the entrance, and when Glinda glanced back just before climbing into the wagon, she thought she saw the ancient one from before watching, the shiver racing in recognition. But she blinked, and saw no eyes turned towards her. In their formless black and white and grey, the maunts all looked much the same as one another.

Glinda pushed herself up with a huff of effort and a strain in her arms, and settled back amongst the boxes and sacks. More cramped than before.

In no time, as she clutched the book bag to her chest, as the chill refused to fully ebb, they were off.

As the days passed, despite her previous unanticipated disquiet, it became evident to her that all there were, without a doubt, just travellers. A gaggle of drawn-faced women with a cart that was never uncovered – natives she assumed from appearance, though they journeyed with no man; a greying fellow – an adventurer – with a strong Munchkinland accent; the maunts and novice who said nothing – vows of silence seemed impractical on presumed missionary work; a small family with their belongings in a cart the father defended fiercely and unnecessarily; and finally an old man forever smiling toothlessly.

Ulterior motives there may be, but none that posed harm to her own. Those presumably returning home, others feasibly fleeing to where they believed was better – though she could not imagine why they believed so. Then again, something had made Elphaba choose the same, and Glinda was now afforded the time to ponder it.

The lack of association perhaps, though the north or south of Gillikin were much the same in that regard – in purely that choice, the practically of it was far different. Maybe that was part of it; much of Gillikin was so readily accessible, so easy to transverse. But Elphaba could have vanished into the depths of the Great Gillikin Forest or the less connected Lowlands, even the furthest points of the Border Plains. Even then, Glinda supposed, they were still far less laborious to reach, and wondered if such thinking was not more reflective of her own.

Without question, both she and the lone adventurer – though misguided tourist still struck as more fitting – were about to be in for quite the shock. At least she was prepared for as such, mentally if not physically. She knew of the danger, of the stories, but could not pay it much mind. Nothing would have dissuaded her and, now, there was nowhere to go but forward.

It mattered little how terrible her expectations were. She would rather mar herself than ever repeat the experience of the journey thus far. She had been raised to neither expect nor cope with such ordeals. She had always been so delicate.

Yet, despite the adversity, despite curling up tight on the hard floor of the wagon, head on her bag, wrapped in her cloak and draped with spare clothes – blankets, pillows; why had she not thought to bring actual camping supplies?! With the food too, her face still burned with the embarrassment of it all, of her failure. For all her failures – despite that all, she did not allow herself to fixate on it. She stopped herself falling into a dark place from hardship.

Frequently, at night when the temperature dropped so very low, as she tossed and turned, waking with a start to face the lingering phantoms of dreams – the blacker than black shadows in the dark, the glow of fire outside not within, the heat that surrounded her fading away with the memory – she wished to return to civilisation. To free herself of this building burden. Choking on tears she could not explain, clutching at the agony in her heart as if it could be soothed.

When day came, she soldiered on, her chin held high and a determined set to her form despite the sharp aches in her back from the floor and the jarring bumps in the road –though in reality, it was now nothing more than a dirt trail.

This was not for her, at the end of the day, this was not some pitiful flight of fancy like it was for the adventurer. This was for someone else. This was for someone she held so dear. The selfishness of her actions could not be so deftly masked, but why should she? Better to face it, to accept it, than continue in delusion. It mattered, of course, but far less than the best outcome. Far less, than even the worst outcome, not that she allowed herself to ruminate upon that eventuality.

Yes, truthfully, it was for her in a way, there was no ignoring that. But she was the most insignificant part of all.

This was for Elphaba. That was what she continued to remind herself as she looked over the book in the seclusion of her wagon, trying to understand why now it no longer seemed to work.

Following the words of a book on a whim was laughable at best, and if it turned out to be a dead-end – the result of some trick as she once feared – she would be left in a foreign land waiting desperately for the caravan to return after, presumably, the harsh winter. Then again, if it did turn out to be true… well then it was a chance worth taking. One she would always choose. Of that there was no question, never any wavering.

This was her choice.

Regardless of her wandering mind and rebounding musings, she was in actuality still convinced of the truth of the book. Doubt always present in all things, but so infinitesimal this time it rarely rose up.

And really, the scenery was rather beautiful. In all likelihood it was something she would never see again in her lifetime – not after she returned to the City. If not for her decision, she would likely never have experienced it at all. If not for her flare of determination, of her... bravery, for once. So why not appreciate it while she had the chance? She had little else to do other than fall into herself, trapped in constricting thoughts and entrapping fears.

So she did admire it all, with a rapidly building enthusiasm. Observed closely as they passed through a forest unlike any she had seen before, where gnarled branches heavy with pears twined together and the air was thick with the musk of decomposing leaves and wood, the light hardly filtering through the dense canopy – not as beautiful as the Pertha Hills, yet still holding a haunting beauty all the same. Then over an immense river, the bank of which was to be their camp that night. They all took the opportunity to wash clothes and the like, and she had chanced to sneak away to some hidden corner to bathe, reminded of her youth but here with the immense mountains in the distance. Later they travelled alongside the expanse of an orchard – where the maunts and novice left them.

Eventually they reached the grasslands that looked to stretch on forever, as close to the mythical ocean as one could ever reach. Where the grass swayed, like the gentle rise and fall of waves. Here they were brought to a halt by striking and armed natives in curious traditional dress, who sat atop horses – different, somehow, to the ones who travelled with them. Words and goods were exchanged, one dismounting and staying at the head of the caravan as they skirted along the edge of the vast openness, met occasionally by others – they too similar and yet not, a transaction taking place each time. Payment, tolls? They continued on, rain pummelling the canvas overhead, her cramped surroundings growing steadily more spacious as time moved ever forward. One night, the fierce beat of wings came overhead; nocturnal rocs pointed out to her by the caravan leader, irritated by Glinda’s unsuppressible fright – tremendous swooping streaks of ink against the cloud obscured sky.

So often she had told herself that the structures of man were preferable to nature, a part of that entrenched in protection – of her roots and all it encompassed. Of what was a dangerous comfort. One that, as time turned, she found herself more guided towards. Why not allow herself to appreciate both, if she so wished, as she had permitted herself to observe the Cloister.

After all, she had always found that the architecture of nature came very close to, but still had yet to surpass, some of the great works she had seen built by man’s own mortal hands.

The old man noticed her attention a few days in, when the forest was still in the far distance and she sought to creep closer to the fire in the early evening.

Maybe it was solely because he lacked the overbearing quality or guardedness of some of the others on the trip, or that, like her, he kept to himself.

Where she'd retreat to the cold of her wagon after eating, a small amount kept aside and tucked into her pocket, he'd spent most of his days, traveling and when camped, whistling while whittling blocks and scraps of various wood. How he managed not to harm himself with the unsteadiness of the wagons and carts, she did not know. The woven basket at his feet, a large hole splintered in its side, never seemed to empty. She considered later that he may have stocked up when they passed through the forest, though she could not imagine when or how, though occasionally he would use branches and sticks instead of blocks – which would have been easier to obtain.

There was something almost hypnotising about the process; of creating something from nothing – well not nothing. It had never occurred to her that she would find such an, on the surface, rudimentary work so fascinating. Not wood being shaped or interlocked to form an impressive structure, or left and integrated into one, but being turned into something else purely by itself and a single tool. Similar to sorcery in a way; to take the basic parts available and create something many considered remarkable from them.

It was an old tradition in Frottica, possibly throughout the Hills, to make an intended a token of affection – often a carved spoon, though she had never understood why. Papa had done so for her mother, an intricate delicate thing she could not believe his large hands had created. It was displayed in the privacy of their room, created long before she was born, something dear and precious shared between the two of them. Her treasured hairbrush too, created by his own hands. To find a natural gift to give had become rare indeed. She had seen practical and decorative items turned, carvers at work, but nothing like this.

When the old man had first noticed her interest in his work, he had beckoned her closer, repeating a word as if to reassure her. She smiled her understanding, of the gesture if not the word, and he grinned back gummily.

Every day after that, when their travel came to an end, they could be found seated near one another. Him with his figures and wood, she with her bag clutched tightly in her lap. She felt no necessity to hide the book from him, curiously, but the presence of others, no matter how little interest they held towards anyone save themselves, meant she kept it securely covered.

After a few days of watching his work, observing closely how he turned a simple block or piece of fallen wood into a horse, an antlered deer, a bear, and her favourite; a beautiful Pfenix carved out of some rich, red coloured wood – not rosewood or redwood, but something unknown to her – it struck her that she did not know his name. Something that previously had not affected her in the slightest quite suddenly did.

His name was Haumann. At least that is what she believed he said, his accent thick and the loss of so many teeth not helping her understanding. But he saw her expression and repeated the word, a calloused hand pressed to his heart, and when she repeated it back impeccably, he beamed at her. It was the same word he had said that first day when he noted her interest, she realised.

He managed a mangled approximation of her name, struggling in particular with the L and I, but she appreciated his attempt.

If she were still vain little Galinda – she still was, Galinda was not separate, Glinda was just different, better she hoped – his mere appearance would have led her to avoid him out of a sense of her own discomfort. Instead she was drawn to his kindness, regardless of their differences, it seemed to surround him like the enchantment enveloping the book. In a way, it evoked memories of her dear Ama's presence. Where one could simply find comfort in another’s presence and feel a sense of safety, or belonging, that could not easily be put into words. Save for them, there was only one other she had ever felt it with, though that had been slightly more, was in a way incomparable.

Quickly she found herself speaking more and more with and to him, even if he did not fully comprehend her words, and she in return did not completely understand his. Briefly, she considered her endless chatter may be wearing on him, but he appeared always unaffected. Smile never wavering. So she continued, enquiring about things that previously had never once come to her before, not even in her most droll and idle ponderings. It was not frivolous chatter made to fill the air, to make time pass, but words and questions born out of a genuine inquisitiveness.

Was it his hobby or profession? How many years had it taken to master such things? Did he whittle what he wished, or was there meaning behind the animals and the wood choices? Were they animals or Animals? Was there such a demand, she asked one day, for his items?

She could picture them, alongside others, being brought as ‘native curiosities’ on trips if one was so brave or foolhardy, or if he travelled eastwards to peddle them. Far more likely, she could see them being brought at inflated expense in the safety of Curiosity Shops back in the Emerald City. The beautiful things were unlike anything she had seen in a long while, the city fashion was for ornaments of porcelain or glass. In fact, the last time she saw a figure even vaguely similar to his work was back in Colwen Grounds. That damaged bird that Frex treasured so.

Oh.

It dawned on her like the rising sun at their backs each morning.

Frex appeared to cherish that small and, outwardly, insignificant thing. One that many would have thought nothing of disposing of as soon as it showed even a hint of damage or wear. A replacement brought, if they were so inclined, or it discarded into the fire or in the rubbish with a shrug and quickly forgotten. Not Frex. He carried it in his pocket; had cradled it like a real, living bird as he sat in the study mourning the loss of his oldest child.

She wondered…

Years of admiring and studying architecture (sadly in no official capacity), learning of and keenly inspecting all those tiny and mostly overlooked details had given her quite the eye and memory for recalling such things. Or so she was inclined to tell herself. Regardless, it was something she was both proud of and extremely grateful for, especially so in that moment. Carefully, she instructed Haumann on the aspects she saw of the wooden bird of Frex’s.

All of it based on a hunch of hers, one that could prove to be markedly misconceived. Much like the whole journey as a matter of fact. However, unlike that, if her notion turned out to be mistaken, then it was no loss for her or the whittler; he would be paid and she would be able to keep the figure as a memento of him and this adventure. Not that she was enjoying the journey in question or anything of the sort, not absolutely. Though, as they sat in the shelter of an alcove in the mountain side, their guide (protector?) having just left that day as they began their steady climb upwards, she could say it was not quite as terrible as it once had been.

Many of the details she had to speculate on and fill in herself, what with the figures condition and the distance she had seen it at. It was not as much of a struggle to fill in those gaps as it may otherwise have been; alongside her appreciation for modern and well-maintained historic buildings, she also had an eye for the abandoned, the dilapidated, and the ruined. Filling in the absences and picking up on the signs of what the decrepit building used to look like was part of the appeal after all. In this instant, it helped that it was a rather simple thing.

It would appear her privately held passion for architecture had more practical applications than she would ever have imagined.

Over the course of a number of days, as the caravan shrunk and she moved ever closer to the end of her own time with them, Haumann focused on the work for her. Many partially completed figures were discarded, something wrong with them in his eyes or due to Glinda remembering or speculating on some other small nuisance of the original carving that they lacked. Rather than just adding it, he chose to start over each time. The waste worried her, but Haumann was unfazed and laughed off her concern.

One night, while they wound their way through the sparse villages, they pressed onwards rather than settle as the sun began to sink. An enormous circle of burning light had emerged in the distance, growing ever larger as night drew in. They set up camp, deep in the dark and where the light could no longer be seen, a struggle that left her perplexed for the decision and discomposed within the darkness enshrouding her. Later, she discovered the light was a camp – a garrison of soldiers. She felt no need to question why the caravan train sought to avoid them and slip beneath their notice. Unclear who or why, but the clarification unnecessary. A danger posed, from one tribe or the other. And they no longer with their guide.

On her last day both Haumann and she were finally satisfied with the figure. They stood at her final destination, a village high in the mountains at the base of a peak. He held the product of their work out towards her, Glinda beaming at the little bird as if she, herself, had created it, which in a way she had. They both had. A true joint effort.

“Thank you so very much for doing this for me.” It was with a bit of graceless fumbling, one hand clasping the bag containing her book, the other rooting through her other for her money, fully intent on giving Haumann a more than sizable amount for his work. Having been conscious of bringing too much and yet also of not enough, she feared she may be running rather low with this and the presumed cost of the last leg. Definitely the amount was sufficient to get her there, though back was an uncertainty. At least in this, she had not been too woefully incompetent.

Haumann shook his head, grinning gummily.

“A gift.”

“No. I must insist –”

“A gift,” he repeated, pressing the figure towards her.

Placing her carpet bag down with a frown, she reached out hesitantly and accepted it. As soon as it touched her palm, she could not help but admire it. She turned it in her hands; a young sparrow in the midst of taking flight or perhaps landing, one foot lifted, the tip of the other just grazing the ground. The distinction up to the observer. Beautiful though it was, whether it was a true replica, she had not a clue. The wood, though, she was certain of; maplewood a fixture of her childhood home. She would know it anywhere.

 “I – I do not know what to say.” Her hand curled around it, clasping it to her heart. She feared she was tilting towards pleading in expression and voice. Not a customary humbleness and offer expected to be declined, but a true wish for him to accept, “I really must give you something…”

Shaking his head once more, he held out his closed fist this time. Glinda’s pinched brow scrunched down, but she stretched out her own hand beneath his, palm open and up. He straightened his fingers, a slight weight dropping into her grasp.

“Oh!”

Just to make sure she was seeing correctly, she held the figure up as if in disbelief.

He had indeed given her that small Pfenix figure she had complimented so much.

“Gift for you also.”

“Please –” she implored him, feeling no shame or embarrassment for how openly earnest she was being “– let me give you something.”

He declined with a final shake of his head, leaving Glinda feeling a complicated and perplexing mix of leaden guilt but also a shameful flushed delight that she had made such an impression on him. That he would give her not one, but two gifts, and after wasting such resources on her rash assumption.

It was not good enough.

As, at the shout of the caravan leader, he bid her goodbye, slinging his bag over his shoulder and clambering back into his cart, Glinda cast a frantic look around.

Catching sight of a woody vine twisted around a crooked tree only a few paces towards the nearest house, most leaves already shed, she slipped both figures into her pocket. Racing over, she snapped off as much of each curling vine as she could. The vines were thin and flexible beneath her fingers and in hand, good, she was not sure what she would have done if they were not suitable. Really, she should have thought of this far sooner.

Spinning around on her heel, she bolted towards the back of Haumann's cart just as the caravan began to move.

“Just a moment,” she called at the exact moment a shout came from the irate woman at the head.

Dropping her bag, bracing a foot, she tried to push herself up. Haumann – caught by surprise – climbed over and offered her a hand, brow drawn up, baffled even as he helped her climb in.

Spotting it immediately, she sunk to her knees, pulling his damaged basket towards her. It would not be the best fix, nor the most pleasing to the eye, but it would do the job just fine.

She pushed the vines against the splintered weaving, trying to calm her pulse that had jumped at her sudden burst of motion. Focusing her mind, she guided her energy forth, so long ago practiced, she needed to whisper the words beneath her breath, the vines began snaking the rest of the way without physical pressure.

It was over quickly and though rough, the patching obvious, it was a sufficient fix just as willed.

Haumann mumbled something in his dissonant tongue, the cadence carrying the harshness rather than his words.

Anxiety buzzed beneath her skin, the impulsiveness of her actions only now catching up to her. Daring not to look up, she instead moved to snap the excess off, but Haumann placed a hand out to stop her. Taking a knife, he cleanly cut and tidied the ends with methodical motions.

He remained crouched beside her, silent now as he pressed his hand to the pale, silvery mend amongst the darker weaving, and finally she tentatively caught his eye. He was smiling broadly at her, dark eyes shining.

Another impatient yell tore through the air.

Glinda got to her feet, Haumann too. He followed her, aiding her so as to lessen the perceivable awkwardness of her climb down.

“Too kind,” he said quietly, hand leaving hers. “You have gift too.”

Glinda picked up her bag from the dusty trail, her face heating from the effort or fluster or even an unexpected bashfulness. She stepped away from the rough path, glimpsing the caravan leader moving out of sight as she settled back into the driver’s seat.

“Practice,” Haumann called to her as he sat down at the front of his cart, guiding it for the start until inevitably letting the horse take over. He pressed a hand to his heart. “Like me. Every day, to be skilled. Like you.”

His words could be taken in two ways. She was undecided on which was his intention, but found her heart warmed either way.

He lifted his hand in a wave, a gesture she returned as she remained there, watching as they slowly rolled back down the uneven slope. It came to her, distantly, she would actually miss him.

It caught her unaware. She had anticipated fear, dread, and a sense of feeling lost when inevitably finding herself alone, but to miss any of her travelling companions? That had never occurred to her.

Retrieving both figures from the inside pocket of her cloak, she regarded them in the golden afternoon sun, the light warming the wood, highlighting the subtle details. Her smile soft, heart touched. Cradling them both like the treasures they were.

Finding someone to take her the rest of the way was a harder feat than she had envisioned it to be, and not just because the village appeared sparsely populated despite its size. She had presumed that the people here, a village so far from civilisation and giving the impression of being so unsophisticated in comparison to all that she knew, would be more open-minded – meaning not completely taken in by the Wizard’s words. There had been no verbal confirmation of that particular belief of hers, but why else would they be so quick to decline to take her to Kiamo Ko? To live so close, they must know who resided there, though she did consider she was potentially projecting her knowledge upon them, and they were truthfully clueless. Their dismissal for some other reason.

She stuck out like a fly in milk; smaller than the people here with fair skin and hair, free of the tribal markings that identified them, dress jarringly different. Never before had she felt quite so out of place and judged. The very worst she had experienced, ignoring the period in the city after her melancholy lessened, was back in Munchkinland at the start, but that was nothing compared to this. The suspicion and wariness blatant, no attempt in the slightest to mask it. More discomfort stirred in her still, from the men who dressed alike, peculiar weapons at their hips and backs, watching her but not approaching. Huntsmen or trackers. She shied away from them, averting her eyes, stomach knotted.

Was this how she had once made others feel? No – possibly. But she had never been intentional in it, had she? It was a lack of awareness, or worldliness, or sheer ignorance. Then again, maybe she was being far too forgiving of herself.

Communication was also a greater difficultly than she had foreseen. She had assumed they would be fluent in Ozian here. As defensive as she was when Elphaba had once referred to Gillikinese as a dead language, she had not been wrong. Yet here they clung to their native tongue in a way unlike her own people had. Though, sometimes, she wondered if the ones she tried to speak to understood more than they claimed. Her frustration, exasperation, may well be pushing her to see such things.

In the end, with no other option forthcoming, she left the village at her back and stopped at the beginning of the mountain trail. She could not see the castle, but she was fully aware it was there; from her reading, from the map, from the caravan leader – though she was likely inclined to be rid of her.

No. It was there, she was certain, obscured by an expanse of white or hidden on a turn. Inside, she could feel it, that sense of knowing.

It was impossible to tell where the mountain rose or ended, obscured as it was as if it sat within the clouds themselves. There was but one barely perceivable path climbing ever upwards, cutting through craggy rock, dotted with stones and boulders and occasional half-dead trees clinging to fissures as much as life. She steadied herself, conscious of the late time of day, and pressed on with an unwavering belief that her destination would come into view soon when the sky cleared or she rounded a bend.

High above her head she could hear the cry of an unfamiliar and unseen bird of prey, the whistle of the wind through the village. The hum of faraway voices at her back.

It would likely be a long trek, one she did not have the boots to make without a lot of blisters and discomfort, but she had no other option. Her choices in clothing had been practical, but that had been with travel, not hiking in mind.

Swiftly, a chill began to bite at her as she trekked up the steepening incline, the brightness of the day fading as she pushed onwards into the hill fog.

Who knew, it was possible she would find someone on the walk who would be willing to take her the rest of the way? Or who would at least confirm she was indeed on the right path, not that any other clearly existed.

The village, its ruined mill, was still quite a large shape in the distance, though hazy and below her now, when she was forced to a stop. It was silent up there, an eerie soundlessness enfolding everything, save for each visible harsh breath and the loose stones clattering and rolling beneath her feet, accompanied shortly after by a quickly approaching rattle.

Stopping was definitely not one of her wisest decisions, nor starting this trek in the late afternoon if she was to let herself dwell on the reality of it. As soon as she came to a halt, the pain that had built in her feet seemed to explode outwards, her muscles leaden and ungainly, leaving her struggling to remain standing. She pressed a hand to a sun-warmed rock that was almost half her size and wider than the path, wanting to do nothing more than slump down and put no more weight on her feet and no more strain on her body for the foreseeable future.

Around a bend she had not seen, for the shape of the path and the growing blanket of white surrounding her, came an ox-drawn cart. She had seen nothing but horses in the Vinkus, including a herd of wild ones at a tremendous distance in the grasslands.

The old man driving peered at her curiously as he drew closer, the wheels of the cart slowing as he did.

She pushed herself up, feeling decidedly uncomfortable for reasons she could not begin to articulate, and resumed walking, ignoring the scream of her body to let herself rest.

The rattling lessened in volume, fading at her back.

Then the sound growing closer again.

“Are you alright lady?” the man called out in clear Ozian, the cart drawing up alongside her. He had turned it around somehow.

Her hold on her bag tightened. Her arm pressing the other firmer against her side.

“Not the best day nor weather for a walk.” His accent was not as pronounced as the others, though he was clearly a native. His face free of the suspicion she had come to expect, replaced with a low brow that spoke of curiosity or concern. Free too, of the bright blue diamonds that patterned the rest.

“I am quite well,” she replied, automatically haughty, her defensiveness not the best way to convince the stranger to give her a lift the rest of the way – for the presented opportunity had just come to her. Though a prickle at the back of her neck cautioned her that before he had been on his way down.

What was this journey if not built upon questionable decisions?

She forced her grip to loosen, for her words to flow softer. “I am travelling to Kiamo Ko. I have already enquired after transport there, and despite my offering more than adequate payment, no one has been accommodating of my request.”

It was a relief, at least, to find someone who she was able to communicate with well.

“Bartering might be of more help at present.” He smiled disarmingly, clumsily, as if trying too hard to reassure her. “Though we have always favoured that. Little use for currency unless you plan to travel eastwards.”

Even if it was, she had nothing she could trade. Her neck, ears, and hands bare. The few supplies she had kept were worth little; she was positive of that. And he definitely had no use for a dress, or makeup, or the little else she had. “I have nothing,” she admitted, voice small as if to invite pity, but he was not listening. “Nothing at all worth bartering.”

The old man shifted, scratching at the white hair on his chin as he narrowed his eyes at the ox pulling the cart. He hummed to himself for a moment before nodding his head. “Can do that, most of the way.”

She perked up, even with the rumbling of discomfort still within.

Her options were limited. This was better than nothing, she supposed, and the risk was negligible. Had she not already taken the greatest in coming here?

At best, the price to pay was sitting in the open back of a hay-strewn cart which had most definitely seen better days.

“Thank you for your kindness.”

The man grinned at that, the skin around his eyes crinkling as Glinda hurried to the back of the cart. She placed her bags on first before hauling herself up rather ungracefully, a mirror of earlier on. The man had the lack of manners not to help her, but also enough of them not to watch as she made a fool of herself.

At least she was given a decent length of time to settle before he looked over his shoulder to check on her. Once satisfied, he turned to the ox, the cart beginning to move forward at a steady pace.

Rather than fold her legs at an angle beneath her as was proper, Glinda once again allowed her moment of anonymity to grant her some more freedom. Stretching her tired legs before her, she wiggled her toes in her boots and rotated her sore ankles, trying to relieve the stinging ache that was throbbing from the bottom of them upwards. It would be a swifter process if she removed her footwear, but there was only so far she would be willing to stretch her sense of propriety.

“Why it is you want to go there of all places?”

Startled by the man’s voice, it took Glinda a moment to register just what he had asked. She tugged her cloak tighter around her, the chill in the air and the lightness in her head worsening the higher she climbed.

“There is someone there I was once close to.” It was a bit of a challenge for Glinda to both answer his question while at the same time staying vague, she had already entertained the idea that the people who lived nearby may know. The Wizard knew, somehow, and there existed a far more substantial distance between them.

“Honestly?” the man asked, his voice filled with clear surprise. Glinda’s gaze shot toward him, a tension settling into her muscles as she stared at the back of the man’s dark tunic.

Why was he so shocked?

“Didn’t think there were many left.” His head tilted forward for a long moment, then he settled back. “Suppose you were allowed to make it this far.”

Confusion settled over her features replacing the tightening of apprehension, her brow furrowed in an almost childish manner. Was it a poor choice of words? A misunderstanding? The man may not have meant to convey that particular meaning. It was not unconceivable that he meant something else entirely.

Surely he meant; have made it.

Conscious of the fragility of her position, she did not wish to be rude and point out to him that he may have misspoken, even to ask for clarification could be misconstrued. If it were not for his offer, she would still be on a never-ending trek. She had ignored the night coming in, had bullheadedly stuck to her poorly thought-out plan, but what would she have done once night had truly begun to fall and she was still nowhere near the castle? Stuck on the narrow path in the darkness…

A question was needed, one that would allow her to get what she needed to know, one that would clear the air of her puzzlement, while still maintaining the amiability of their fledgling acquaintanceship.

Somewhere in the distance, rocks skittered down the mountainside. The echo like the beating of a drum.

“How many people reside there?” Another benefit from the enquiry was that the answer would allow her to know who to expect – which might help her prepare herself. To know who she needed to greet, to share her intentions with, potentially even to have some assistance in her dealings with Elphaba. But his earlier words made her doubts seep in, was there anyone besides Elphaba there?

Had she even considered, before this very moment, that Elphaba would have company? That she was not alone, that she had found… what exactly?

Her stomach flipped, heart as if in a fist.

She could not say why.

“There used to be a lot.”

She snapped from her deliberation, answer immediate, “Used to be?”

“Gone now. All of them.” The man’s shoulders raised in a shrug, his grip on the ox’s reins obscured, but looking as if it was far too loose. That too sparked her anxiety, with the narrow path it would take but one wrong step and they could very well plummet.

“You are taking me to an empty building?” For she knew that could not be the case, her hope had yet to fade. She knew. She knew.

He did not question that she should already be aware, if she was legitimate in her claims of visiting someone there.

“Well, there’s the Witch. Most folks scared of her. If you had any sense you would be too.” He looked over his shoulder to her again, but in the waning light of day she saw no fear in his dark eyes. “But not my place to change your mind. Not when you’re paying me.”

“I have never been noted for my mind or my sense.” Her posture changed as she spoke, ignoring the need to stretch her legs out she tucked them beneath herself, giving off an imposing, aloof air. A defensive reaction, but one she felt justified for. “What happened to the others who resided there?”

“In the past now. No need to worry about it.”

She disagreed, but now was not the time to press, to risk an argument. Instead, to distract herself, she watched what she could see of the village vanish into the curtain of white thickening in the air as they made their slow way to her destination.

It was dark by the time they arrived a short distance from the castle. It had appeared, some time ago, seemingly materialising with the rest of the peak and a sickle of the moon through the dense fog in the last light of day.

If not for a solitary glow in what was presumably a window high up in the sky, she would have believed, unquestionably, that it was abandoned. Around it sat so many stars, hanging low and so very close, as if she could reach out and touch them. While not exact, it still awoke memories of dear Frottica. In the City it always looked as if most had blinked out of existence. Here, and back home, it was a relief to see they were all still there. It had brought her some joy on the long, arduous journey.

Her palm had come to rest over her heart, a peculiar stirring beneath. No, not peculiar, but long last felt. Almost forgotten. Believed lost. She knew, but dared not think it, feared what would become of her if mistaken.

The man had long ago drawn a lantern from somewhere, lighting it before setting it beside him, one hand curled around the top of it. Even with the light source present on the ride, Glinda had felt that unsettled feeling return, as if someone was lurking in the shadows surrounding them, watching, just waiting to pounce. As those childhood fears had grown so did her realisation that, in spite of her concerns and discomfort settled low in her stomach and high at her neck, she had chosen to trust the stranger to take her where she wanted, a stranger in a land in which she had never set foot, nor even knew the native language.

This was yet another reckless decision, lacking her typical foresight.

Even so, she was there now, and nothing disastrous had befallen her on the whole venture, save an often sore back and aching joints. The best-case scenario had indeed been the outcome.

No. Not quite yet.

Upon jumping down from the cart, no hand offered, Glinda paid the man a decent sum while her body protested each movement. It was not as much as she originally would have paid, her justification being that he had not answered all of her questions as she would have liked, nor been too mannerly. Still, he looked pleased by the amount. She bit her cheek to prevent the tightening of her lips; his reaction annoyed her more than it should. In the City it would be offensive to only tip that amount, it a nonverbal scolding that would be acknowledged internally by the recipient. Here, however, it was not regarded as such. She should have realised that.

Eyes lidded, bags weighing her down – her exhaustion possibly the cause for her misjudgement and building temper. Everything was washing over her now she was at the end; weariness from the lengthy journey there with the caravan, her frustrated attempts to request help, her strenuous walk, and now here with the man and his ox.

With no more words likely to be exchanged, Glinda moved to take her first tentative steps towards the imposing shadow of a structure when a new, gruff voice cut in to wish her good luck.

Heart startled, forehead creased, she turned back to the elderly man, but his attention was elsewhere. Her eyes were caught, then, by movement at the front of the cart. The nodding head and knowing eyes of the Ox fixed on her in the lantern light.

Frozen in that moment, she could only stare as the bulky Animal – masked with the lack of clothing and choice of behaviour – bowed his head to her, and the cart began its return trip to the village at the bottom of the peak.

A moment later, motion returning, she wondered idly where the man and Ox had originally intended to go, but that did not last longer than just that. A number of things now making a particular kind of sense.

Shaking her head to try to shift the hefty weight of fatigue from her mind, too exhausted to feel annoyance that the man had not waited for her to reach the entrance. She turned back to the castle. The light was fading away quite rapidly along with the clattering of the cart, she hurried forward towards the sizeable doorway she had made out earlier, before she was left in absolute darkness

It seemed to take longer than she imagined to reach the curtain wall of the castle, followed by the unseen courtyard. The darkness swallowing the surrounding area as she and the cart parted in opposite directions. The hammering of her heart beat loudly in her ears; in the City there were always people around and lights even during the darkest, latest parts of the night. Frottica was more like this, where night fell like a cloak and nature grew clamorous, but different somehow – here it was uncanny, silent, night threatening to completely devour all. This was like something she had never experienced.

The darkness consumed her.

She squinted, barely able to see in the light cast by the sliver of the moon, a shadow darker than the rest, something slinking in the gloom, the padding of feet, the huffing of a breath not her own.

Jerking back, a gasp tearing from her lungs and ice on her brow. She tried, but was unable to draw on herself, to find some way to defend.

The shadow charged.

Her heart lodged in her throat. Arms shooting up.

Some terrible beast lunged at her, jumping and barking, trying to reach her face as its huge paws dug into her dress. Stumbling backwards, heels catching the ground beneath her oddly, her carpet bag dropped with a thump. Her other around her shoulder was swinging, still braced in her hand.

A wolf – no howls. Alone.

A dog? Clear, suddenly, in a blinding streak of light. Or a wolfhound. A mountain mix?

A voice cursed, accented and familiar. “Damnable mutt.”

Glinda chanced a glance up from her struggle, one hand grasping a furry foreleg, the other trying to push her book bag between herself and the wild creature.

One half of the castle door had opened, jittering light spilling across the cobblestones, trees and weeds of what she now saw was an immensely disused courtyard. A lantern trembled in old hands.

The beast, tongue lolling, granted her a reprieve, weight lifting as its paws dropped heavily to the ground and it raced to the open door to slip through into the castle.

Regaining her footing but not the clarity in her mind or her posture, chest still heaving, she reclaimed her carpet bag from the dirt. Silence again falling from the commotion that had punctured it.

She glanced up, partly bent forward and gasping for breath, head spinning as awareness slowly registered, but found she could utter only one, bewildered word:

“Nanny?”

Chapter Text

“I did not expect it to be so empty.”

What had she expected? It had not been something she had considered at all, not until she was in the back of that rickety cart and even then only fleetingly. The man had stated the place was all but vacant, but not what had occurred or why it had nor when – no indication of whether he meant days, months, or even years. She had speculated on the choice of the Vinkus, but nothing on the location itself. Nothing of the very place where she now found herself sitting. No, her mind, as if directed singly, was purely and utterly focused on Elphaba and Elphaba alone.

That surely told her something; of the situation, of herself. She could not say what. Did not wish to.

Glinda cradled a slender cup in both hands, absorbing as much warmth as the liquid inside could offer. Rubbing a thumb against the smoothest parts of its surface, she trailed her eyes over the stoneware in hand; inlaid with polished blue and gold in geometric patterns, it was strikingly distinct to all she was accustomed to. The whole place was, though only scarcely glimpsed in a lantern light too weak to push back the night seeping in.

The expansive kitchen was marginally better, as disused as her momentary and limited view of the courtyard hinted towards everything being. The fire next to the table she and Nanny huddled around was strong, bathing much of the room in a gentle amber light, the air filled with the distant familiarity of burning wood – pleasant association now distorted by fresher memories, an unpleasantness tainting it. From the drag lines scratching the surface of the stonework beneath their feet, the table had not always sat there and had been moved by no gentle hand.

“It weren’t always like this, dearie, not like this at all.”

“I heard,” Glinda replied, thumb stilling and brow pinching. Rather than further succumbing to her thoughts, she grasped the opportunity to try to receive some answers, or simply just to distract herself. Shaken still, and not by her encounter outside alone. “What happened exactly?”

Nanny chugged a large amount of her own drink – Glinda was not entirely sure what it was; possibly a local tea? The aftertaste was almost fruity, the initial taste holding a powerful and unplaceable flavour that reminded her of a mixture of tart berries, but with something strongly malty underneath. Nanny appeared unaffected by the high temperature of the drink, pursing her lips at Glinda’s question and giving a lift of her shoulders.

“Get used to it after a while,” she mumbled, as if she were someplace else.

“Used to what?” All this time and Nanny had remained the same; if she did not want to answer something she always resorted to the old ‘hearing problems’ she ‘suffered’ from. Glinda would either have to try again, insisting on an answer (which was not always successful), or wait for Nanny to randomly explain whenever she felt like doing so. Though, something about it – and about her – settled differently in Glinda’s chest, a nudge towards something in her mind. Filled as it was to the brim, she held little chance of finding clarity that night.

“The cold.”

Glinda was rather sceptical of that claim. Stepping into the castle has been akin to stepping into a meat larder; far colder inside than out. Even with how the temperature had fallen outside, even with how the air and the heavy fog had left her shivering beneath her cloak and every puff of breath visible, inside was more piercing still. Conceivably, it had something to do with the stonework. Strange though, even the oldest of buildings were built in such a way as to conserve heat, this one however…

The absence of life, maybe, had a hand to play. It sang clearly in the air.

Tugging at her cloak, ensuring she was covered to the best of her ability even with the warmth of the fire licking at her skin, Glinda regarded Nanny. Tension grew inside. The troubled feeling would not shift so easily.

“It is good to see you, Nanny.” Glinda felt her expression soften, a turn away from the tight pull of concern. “I had no idea what happened to you.” And it was good to see a friendly face. To see her.

Nanny had been there, and though it had not been apparent at the time, was still hazy if Glinda were completely honest, she knew Nanny had kept an eye on her from the start of it all. Back in that fraught period when she had been left alone, still residing at Colwen Grounds; off balanced and adrift, lost within her own distress. Nanny had kept a caring and cautious watch on and around her, looking after her in her own unique way. Always a question about how she was being treated, always an observing eye and an awareness there despite Glinda’s frequent deflections. Then and in what followed.

Glinda had once feared she would never see her again. Had realised then that she had never truly thanked her for all she had done, and quite likely would never have the opportunity again. Another instance of inaction to add to the extensive list.

It was something she should have done long ago, but as she had already discovered; it was often not until someone is lost that you realise all that was missed.

The clock could not be wound back for Nessa. What had passed could not be undone. All of it had to be left behind. But there was still time with Nanny. Still time for…

Nanny’s contented hum broke through her rumination, saving her from what may well have been a declining spiral if she misstepped.

Jitteriness had escaped in the subtle tap of her toe against stone, a sign she brought to a swift halt.

Nanny was identical in appearance to how she was when they had first met. How Glinda had always known her. Once, light-heartedly, she had considered that Nanny had reached that particular point in her life and had simply refused to age another day more. If only the same could be said for them.

“I sought you at Nessa's... when I came to say goodbye to her.” Glinda’s eyes dropped to the unusual cup, to the liquid inside. The precise colour of it was unidentifiable, but in the glow of the firelight it looked impossibly dark. She took a moment, bowing beneath the weight of memory, accompanied only by the crackling and spitting of the fire, before lifting her gaze. “I was surprised you were not there...”

“Oh Lurline.” Nanny shook her head, her expression pulled down by her own recollections, her grip shaking and eyes shining. “If only you lot weren’t so hard-headed. Stubborn, the lot of you!” Her shoulders heaved up then fell with her sigh. A sad, humorous tilt to her lips. “Runs thick in the family, I suppose.”

Glinda’s fingers twitched on the cup, the familiar ache in her chest making itself known. Always there, she could direct her mind away from it, but in time the pain would flare – like the bubble that always burst – it would not let itself be forgotten.

“They said you had left, that you had something you needed to do, or to search for.” It was abundantly clear now just what it was. Who it was for. That it had never occurred to her was a surprise, but then again, had she not misunderstood Nanny in the early days? Though the years had corrected that, some of her misjudgement must still remain. It was never so easy to free yourself of such prejudices, of what was deeply ingrained. No matter the size of your determination or the scale of your efforts. “I thought grief had a hand in it, but I see now it was not that alone.”

“They’re my responsibility.” Nanny's chin dipped, but she continued on before Glinda could think let alone attempt to speak. “Little could be done, of course, but Old Nanny’ll always try.”

“Nanny –”

“We had no idea you were coming here.” Nanny shook her head with a familiar huff, blinking until her eyes no longer shone, seeming more herself as time carried ever onwards. “If I knew, I would have put together a spread – or done the best that I can do.” As it was, Nanny had put a tangy, almost sweet tasting cheese and some stale-ish crackers on a plate and put them in front of her. Nanny had taken only one, and that was at Glinda’s own insistence.

But that mattered nothing in that second, for Glinda’s focus was caught upon only one word.

We.

Her breath seized with the clench of her heart. An unsteadiness in her grip as she brought the cup up, concentrating on taking a cautious sip rather than the agonising fluttering beneath her ribs. She had already scalded her tongue once before and was loath to repeat it. The sting, however, kept her present.

Placing the cup down with a hollow tap, she felt just about able to ask another question. Not the one she wanted so terribly to voice, that refused to leave her, had wedged itself in her throat, trapped inside as if afraid of what she had so desperately searched for. Of what she would find. Even though her belief had never faltered; Elphaba was there.

It was a known truth long before she set eyes on Nanny, before even her climb up the mountain, it existed deep beneath her breast. Assured further still when she looked upon that light amongst the stars, how that lost sense within had re-emerged in its entirety; that longing, that knowing. “How did you know to come here?”

How had Elphaba? How were the Wizard’s Witch Hunters travelling there? How had Elphaba? And Nanny in her dotage?

“How did you?” Nanny responded, mimicking Elphaba’s habit of reversing the question; of probing. Or potentially it was Elphaba who had learnt it from Nanny. Both were equally as plausible. Before she could think how to answer, Nanny lent back, draining her own cup, question forgotten by the time she placed it down roughly. “To be honest I don’t rightly remember anymore.”

“How long have you been here?” Glinda tried instead, her attention jarringly snatched away a second later by the faint sound of shuffling outside the closed door. Swallowing, throat dry, she eyed the thick wood wearily. A quiver of dread running through her, fear that the creature from before had found her again. It too was there, somewhere in the gloom. Her gaze lingered as Nanny pondered over her answer or, Glinda considered, whether to acknowledge it at all.

“Don’t rightly remember that either,” Nanny replied at last. The noise outside had ceased, may have been nothing more than a figment of her frayed and overexerted mind.

Finally reasonably confident that the door was not about to burst open in the wake of some furry beast, Glinda, with a relieved breath and a loosing of her grip, gave Nanny her full attention once more.

Nanny’s bleary eyes were focused on the ceiling in thought. She had been a little forgetful when Glinda last saw her, and often before, but there had always been a purposefulness within it. Usually, Nanny taking advantage of assumptions for her own benefit. Something about her manner now tugged at Glinda’s heart, had that uncomfortable press of tension at the back of her neck return. “Are you quite all right, Nanny?”

“As alright as I can be, Galinda.” Nanny smiled, more toothless than before, correcting herself with a familiar speed, the need to do so had at one time become unnecessary, “Glinda, dear. Just fine, don’t you worry.”

Nanny reached out, jolting Glinda with an unexpected pat on her hand. Muscles pulled rigid, she coaxed herself to relax, scolding herself for the instinctive reaction. She had not been aware she had rested it on the table. The encounter outside had undeniably left her more out of sorts than she had first realised, or perhaps it was just how overwrought she was.

When Nanny sat back, she pushed the plate towards Glinda once again.

“You need to eat more, growing girl like you.” At the undisguisable furrowing of her brow, Nanny snorted an amused sound. “Don’t look at me like that, you’ve still got a lot of growing to go before you reach Nanny’s age.”

Though her hunger had fled a significant time ago, still having yet to reappear, Glinda picked at the last of the crackers, finishing them as directed under Nanny’s watchful gaze.

Once the plate was bare save for crumbs and a splotch of soft cheese which had fallen from the edge of a cracker, Glinda drained the last of her lukewarm tea as Nanny stoked the fire. It roared in a way that had once been pleasant, joined by the creaking of wood beneath Nanny’s weight as she sat back, satisfied. A few minutes later, without asking, she refilled Glinda’s cup.

“You should have sent word. When you first arrived here.”

Nanny’s winkled forehead creased further. “So what?”

“I would have…” But Glinda found she could not finish her sentence, for what would she have done? Would she have come running? Immediately and without question?

In the vast span of her life, it had all come to ahead barely anytime ago at all. She had risked her standing, her position, everything, to fly off on a whim. But would she have done the same based on the unimaginable contents of an unexpected letter from Nanny? One that offered her an answer to all her seeking?

“I am here now. That is what matters.” Glinda’s eyes slipped shut, her words a strained rush. Revealing too much, always accidently. “To know where you were, that you were well, that is all I needed to hear.”

Nanny hummed again. A thud had Glinda’s eyes fluttering open, wincing a second later at the awful screeching of wood against stone as Nanny stood, cup abandoned. Glinda straightened, pressing both palms into the coarse grain of the table as Nanny waddled towards the door Glinda’s alarmed gaze had been trained on before. Nanny’s lantern, unlit, sat on top of the cabinet beside it.

“Old bones need rest,” Nanny muttered to herself as she yanked the door open to reveal the empty corridor. Glinda was not quite thankful for the emptiness, saw how the darkness grasped at the edges of the light pouring out. Anything could be hidden within the shadows. They always held too much.

“Where am I supposed to go?” Glinda jumped to her feet, her book bag swinging and chair almost tipping. She picked up her cup, placed it back down and picked it up once more, hastened around the table, the heat sapping from her as she moved further from the fire.

Nanny shrugged her broad shoulders as she ambled down the corridor into the consuming night, her voice echoing back with her steps, “Anywhere. Don’t rightly matter where, no one in these rooms anymore anyway.”

Hesitating for only a moment, Glinda took after Nanny, cup held in one hand, her carpet bag clutched in her other. Nanny however was shockingly sprightly when she wanted to be, and as such had already disappeared into the pitch-black, leaving not even the echo of footsteps to guide her in the vacant and freezing building.

Glinda was left alone, jumping at the faintest sound of scurrying in the distance.

That is what it felt like, she realised as she retreated back to where welcoming light spilled out into the corridor. The absence of life. The coldness. The foreboding feeling that pricked at her nerves and had the hairs on the back of her neck raise.

A tomb.

It felt like a tomb.

Unlike her exceedingly brief chase after Nanny, when Glinda finally worked up the courage to leave the kitchen, she had the good sense to grab the lantern from beside the door. Matches had been left next to it. Glinda had fumbled, no longer used to lighting such old-fashioned things. No need for them in the City.

Embarrassingly, she had, for just a moment, considered bedding down in the kitchen itself. But, no, that was a touch too far, even with all she had endued on her journey up to this point. She had managed far worse than a walk through an unknown building, and at least she had a light source.

The darkness encroached upon her. She knew the lantern burned just as brightly, the heat of it warming hand and arm, yet she felt as if any second it could be ripped away. The light and her movement made the elongated shadows she cut through dance upon the stone. What was worse, she weighed, her steps giving the impression of echoing despite the long rug beneath her heel; the still phantoms that haunted the edge of her vision, or the moving ones in the centre of it?

Pulled down, weary, it felt very much as if she was traipsing on the edge of some great fall as she searched for somewhere to bide the night.

She should have asked her question – the one that mattered most – when she still held the chance, unable now to seek who she ached for in this immense void.

Gently, with a tremble to her hand, she opened a few doors, met a few false ends; wrong rooms or ones that stirred discomfort for the state of them – even with the little she could see in the lantern light. That again raised the matter of what had happened there. Others had been present with Nanny, that was evident, and naturally would have been with Elphaba too. Neither would have had a direct hand in the happenings; she would not even consider it.

Who were they to them?

What life had Elphaba had here? And for how long?

What had she found here?

The Wizard knew where she was. Had he... why, though, would Elphaba still be there if he had? Why send more now? That made little sense – no sense. The fatigue was inarguably affecting; her mind worn the thinnest it had been in an age.

She recalled, as she tried another door, the distance light of a garrison, frazzled thoughts whirling.

The various tribes were always fighting amongst themselves. Was that not the most likely explanation?

Though if that were the case, would the man who brought her not have said? Would there not be evidence all around? Of course, she held little inkling of the when.

The dark hid much. The light of day would reveal far more.

Regret for not asking her question added to the unbelievable chill on her skin, but she did not feel the unrelenting burn of frustration for not enquiring when she could, no needling of anxious anticipation when she opened another door. A glance of more stone, a glint of a large metal tub.

Elphaba was there, somewhere, she knew. Not just in vocal confirmation, but in her heart, and if she resided behind one of those doors – just like the evening of Nessa's funeral – she would feel it.

The quake rattling through her form was not for her.

Finally, she found a room she considered suitable.

Even in the lantern light the substantial layer of dust upon the furnishings was obvious, it tickled in her nose along with the smell of disuse. The neatness of the room told that it had been – was? – a guestroom. Though it had patently seen no guests in quite some time, conceivably even long before the previous occupants of the castle had left. Or, maybe, it had been made up for someone just before whatever tragedy had taken or forced them from the place.

As soon as she touched the edge of the bed the full extent of her exhaustion overcame her.

A bed was a sorely missed comfort, her bones aching from the unfamiliarity of soft bedding. Even so, residing in a dwelling unknown to her, enveloped in frigid air and musty sheets, her mind racing without stop, all resulted in a terrible night’s sleep. Thankfully to such an extent that she was not plagued by any dreams, let alone her nightmares. Although sleep may no longer be needed for those.

The stowing away of her few belongings she left until the morning, hesitating only for a moment before placing them away in the usual places. A change of dress, that which she had travelled in marked and snagged now by large paws, but thankfully not ripped or torn. Fresher sheets and a much-needed dust could wait until later. As could cleaning her worn clothes.

How many years had it been since she partook in such chores, however distantly?

Pausing then at the foot of the bed, she could not recall.

Her book was the only exception, safely left in its bag along with the two wooden figures. She cast a surveying eye around before settling on what may well be the most predictable location; the gap between the bed and the robust bedside table. It would make a relatively adequate hiding spot.

Easing her bag into place, she pulled and tucked the blankets neat and stepped back to scrutinise her efforts.

She smiled, confident it could not be seen unless one were purposefully hunting for something concealed. She did not truly think anyone would come there and seek it, but she could not leave it be. Why? She was uncertain, she only knew that a prickling feeling in the back of her mind, a flip of her knotting stomach, encouraged her to do so.

Slipping out into the corridor, her hands itched to hold the strap of her book bag, to clasp her book firm and close to her side. The pang of discomfort growing with each step away from her chosen room.

Even with the sun high above the mountain peak, the cavernous corridors of the castle were still as if in the shade, the light struggling to permeate the space, as if the darkness itself clung too tight to be so easily shaken. The windows thick but width narrow allowed only long slits of sunlight to slant in, the stirring of dust beneath her boots like glowing orbs where they drifted and caught the light. It was a ridiculous notion, but for just a moment she entertained retreating back to her room to fetch the lantern, needed, potentially, to fight back the shadows during the day as much as the devouring blackness of the night.

She should have taken it regardless in order to offer it back. She knew full well, however, that she would be very much in need of it later. Unless she could locate another. Hopefully Nanny had one stored away somewhere. She would be sure to ask.

She was also well aware that she was in desperate need of a proper wash. She had not looked upon a mirror in too long, had not brought her pocket mirror for the worry of it shattering on the way, and the room was absent of one. Her rippling reflection in a stream the last glimpse, and yet she found she was not fretting over her appearance. A peculiar realisation as she ran her fingers through her curls, nose wrinkling at the unpleasant feeling against her skin.

With a grumbling stomach and the sudden awareness that she had not eaten properly for quite some time, Glinda sped up her retread of last night’s steps.

It was no better in the day, she mused as she descended the imposing stairs, the air the place held. The exotic patterned rugs, the unconventional contorted wall fixtures which presumably should house some source of lighting, the curious over-sized decorative artefacts, it all spoke of the grandeur expected, but the lack of care stole the wealth away.

To stand in such a rarity should have filled her with an enthusiastic eagerness to absorb it all, to seek out and note down every single detail, instead, such feeling was conspicuous in its absence as she pressed onwards. Not existing even as a flicker of want in her mind, her sweeping looks solely in case the beast from the night before came bounding out of the gloom to try to maul her again.

Her want was singular.

Ignoring proper manners, Glinda still wore her travelling cloak. Anything to gain even a little bit more warmth she told herself as she clung to the feeling of protection it granted. She wrung the edges just beneath the clasp with a hand, her pale skin growing pinker with each step.

Her assumption had been correct. She found Nanny in the same place as the night before, the most lived in area she had seen so far, apparent in the sunlight. And, thankfully, with no furry creature in sight.

Heat and the scent of burning wood, tinged with something else she could not quite describe as appetising, enveloped her as she stepped into the kitchen.

Nanny was fussing over a dented pot. Glinda, standing taller for once, could just about see the congealed-looking lumpy substance held within, not quite recognisable enough to be called porridge.

The kitchen was as just as expansive as she assumed and one would expect, strangely though the shelves were mostly empty and the pot racks bare. No ranges present, though if there were she could imagine the place being quite hot indeed, but with only the one fire lit it was an impossibility to warm the whole room.

Nanny dug out a ladleful to drop into a shallow carved bowl. The visual in front of her took Glinda back to her early days at Colwen Grounds, left her longing for something, the presence sorrowful and taut in her chest.

Nanny spun around, jumping, her eyebrows shooting just as high as her feet. “Oh!” she exclaimed, pressing a meaty hand to her chest. “I forgot you were here.”

“My apologies for surprising you.” Fair turnabout, Glinda thought with no lack of fondness. “It is typically the other way around.”

Nanny spluttered out a laugh, her expression easing. “‘course if you lot behaved, your old Nanny wouldn’t have to.” She placed the bowl down with more care than her cup the night prior, gesturing roughly with her thumb over her shoulder as she did. “Bowls are in a cupboard over there, go get one.”

Glinda did as ordered, though it took some time as there were many different cupboards and Nanny was not providing any further help in guiding her to the appropriate one.

Located, Glinda’s nose scrunched in distaste at the worn, wooden bowl she found, but it was not as if she had a choice in the matter. That was all there was. Strange, such a place surely would have housed far more exquisite things, even out here. Even for the staff. Like the cup Nanny had used for her tea last night.

She came back to the table, which was a standard basic affair seen in most great kitchens – not that she spent much time in many, save for when she had once gotten lost in Colwen Grounds. The true first time did not count, when she, sodden and muddied, had been led urgently through it.

Nanny gestured for the bowl and haphazardly spooned some of the substance into it, sending globules splattering across the stained kitchen table.

As Glinda thanked her and sat, Nanny thrust a tarnished spoon in her direction.

A cup had been placed before her and a bizarrely shaped pitcher sat between them, both modest stoneware.

Spoon in hand, Glinda shuffled her chair closer to the fire, uncaring for how it scraped noisily against the floor.

Stirring the concoction with her spoon, she steeled herself before taking her first cautious taste. Her lips pursed. It was not that the food was unpalatable – it did have an unusual aftertaste, one she could not decide whether she liked or not, but otherwise it did not taste much of anything – no, it was the texture that was the issue. It could only be described as gelatinous. With only a bite it left her feeling ill. The growling hunger that rumbled in the pit of her stomach was not a sufficient motivator for her to eat with any kind of enthusiasm. Pausing before each swallow, she had to force herself to continue eating.

She was not about to ask Nanny what it was, sometimes it was best not to know. And, just as with the bowl, she had little choice.

Taking a sip from her cup, a weak malty taste spread across her tongue. She drank more than she intended, her thirst greater than she realised. Her gaze found the pitcher, more tea, perhaps? Did they use these funny things instead of proper teapots? Nanny noticed her eye.

“For you. Thought you could do with a wash.” Nanny left her spoon in her bowl – it stood unnaturally upright – and pushed the pitcher towards her. “If you want more, you’ll need to get it from the well yourself.”

A glance inside showed it was filled with water. Carefully, she brushed her knuckles against the outside, feeling a warmth to it.

“Thank you.” It was a not so promising sign of the plumbing situation, but she would deal with that once she came to it.

It would be best to wait until they finished before attempting to ask Nanny any questions, Glinda decided, her own speed not offering her much encouragement.

She was too slow, however, Nanny’s own asked without delay the moment Glinda miraculously managed to empty her bowl.

“Why did you come all this way?” Nanny enquired, spooning another hefty amount of the substance into her own bowl, licking her chapped lips as she did. “You never seemed the type to travel so far.”

Glinda reflected on that first tedious journey from Frottica to Colwen Grounds; how she had griped and moaned. It had become laughable, what with her once rather frequent trips between there and the Emerald City. Now it was even more so.

“Nor did you.” Glinda, though still hungry, pushed her bowl away from her, careful that neither her cloak nor dress were dirtied by the spilled food upon the wood. Silly as it was, she would not be surprised if it could eat clear through her clothing.

A misjudgement now she contemplated it. Not only had Nanny journeyed there presumably alone, but had she not also lived with the family in Quadling Country? And before – after? – that... she knew too little. Only the fragments she had picked up on and clung to, and what Elphaba had shared with her one afternoon as they sat so close on a single seat. Limb to limb, almost entwined.

If she had shared her true want in that moment, would it have changed anything?

Could it have altered the course of their lives?

Was she still clinging fruitlessly to dreams of her own significance?

“Where is Elphaba?”

The question came with remarkable ease considering how soundly it had stuck within the night before. Her name fell oddly from her lips, accompanied by a shock of sudden realisation. When had she last spoken it?

The question seized her, mind turning back through the years, her inability to recall only adding to the weight. So many years ago, she could no longer remember. Elphaba’s name, like her own memories, harboured so close, clasped like a secret. Protected like a treasure. But not buried away along with the rest for her own protection, it was kept secure in her heart. Forbid herself to even think it for so many long, dusty years.

No. She did remember. Their brief, terse reunion – if it could be called a reunion – the diminutive like a foreign word on her lips. A plea in the low lantern light. The first time in an age, the last time was far sooner, yet felt just as long ago as all in the distant past.

“Oh her?” Nanny said offhandedly with a downturn of her lips, shrugging off the comment as if it was not the one unmistakable and transparent reason that Glinda was sitting in front of her. Not that Nanny appeared to be conscious of that currently, nor had she noticed Glinda had forgotten the term of address. Normally so quick, even if she hid it, Nanny seemed more on the oblivious side that morning. “Probably doing something sinister and secretive, no doubt. Don’t see her so much anymore. Always was a sulky thing.”

It was unlikely Nanny saw much of anything anymore. Glinda’s mood dipped with the thought, that concern another cord to the entanglement in her chest. One that constricted further as her eyes fell to the jug, prepared and waiting for her even though Nanny was nothing but sincere in her claim of having forgotten her presence.

She struggled as always with the reality, deflected to why she was there. To what else Nanny had said. The explicit confirmation of what she already knew.

It should have lightened Glinda, but the validation of what was shown in her book prevented it. The result of the immediate awareness that hit her, the knowledge of just how powerful the book was, what it could do in the wrong hands if they could utilise it. Even that, though, was not truly new – had she not used that exact reasoning to justify her stealing it?

Saving it. Either way, it still weighed her down. Whatever that book was, if indeed it was something else, existed in some place she could not quite reach. Like the name she could not see. The itching need to have it beside her returned in the tremor of her hand, the jumping of her knee and the tap of her heel against the stone floor.

“Where is she?” Glinda tried again, felt almost as she once had, different though in the want this time for those frustrating games of Nanny’s. For the sign of normalcy which was lost that morning.

Glinda had already wasted an inexcusable amount of time; then and now. Had lost even more since, none of which could ever be reclaimed. She had left with a barely adequate length of time between her and whoever it was the Wizard had sent. Swiftness was key.

There was only one way to and from the place.

Nanny huffed, swallowing a large mouthful of her breakfast, one of her eyes squinting at Glinda – not that Glinda was all that bothered about offending her in that moment. If anything, that look, like she was a child in need of scolding, brought relief.

“In the tower,” Nanny mumbled, gesturing with another sharp motion over her shoulder. The look in her eye changed, something unnameable within it. “The one over in that direction.”

The light amongst the stars; a tower. That made sense considering its placement, the twinkling lights that it blocked out, and the likely design of the castle. Glinda should have realised herself what it was, how easily she could have found her way there even in the darkness.

She had not been mistaken.

Nanny promptly resumed shovelling her food into her mouth, choosing to ignore Glinda, or possibly forgetting her. Either reason Glinda could accept in that instance.

Abandoning her used tableware and cutlery without hesitation, Glinda rose to her feet, cheek pinched between her teeth, and left the kitchen with brisk steps. There could be no further delay. She'd come back to tidy afterwards.

She was unsure where she was going, her faint guide her weak and grossly incomplete mental image from the previous night. But she had always been skilled at filling in the details, hadn’t she? In this at least. Confident, at least, that there would be many steps to climb, and she would definitely find the way.

The repeated echo of her boots hitting stone was as fast as the beat of her heart. This – finding Elphaba, facing her once more and at long last, felt far more like traversing the edge of the cliff than her climb ever had. More precarious than the tapered sliver of a path. Filled her with far more trepidation than accepting an offer of help from a stranger in a foreign land, greater than her concern of loose reins and a tumbling cart. Far more than even the shadows of day and night.

She was on the very verge of losing her footing.

Stubbornness and resolution one and the same.

She would not fall.

Her stomach churned.

The open rafters, the startling presence of beady-eyed crows perched atop them, the array of refuse and papers left thoughtlessly strewn around, the bottles and clutter atop the surfaces that told of alchemy…

Her swallow was thick. Lips pinching closed, her nose wrinkled at the stale, sour air.

The dull dripping patter of a leak reverberated in her ears, a prominent counterpoint to the grating scratching from above and the whistle of the wind outside.

The cold was far more penetrating than anything she had felt in recent memory, save perhaps for that brought by a piercing gaze at the Cloister. The struggling glow in the fireplace was offering little aid in combating the numbing air; spluttering as if forgotten or the occupier had grown apathetic. A door sat in the wall opposite it, leading, no doubt, to the parapet.

A crawling sensation crept up her arms. She rubbed at them through her heavy sleeves, but it was ineffective, the feeling remained.

A shrill shriek split the air. Had torn from her lips. Another drip had fallen, had found some way through her layers to slide like ice down the back of her neck. Left her shivering at it – shivering at it all.

A shadow – a heap of black cloth in the corner of her eye sent her stumbling backwards, almost toppling in her haste. Catching herself on the edge of the overladen table, she barely avoided sending the half-full bucket beneath the leak flying. The bottles at her back rattled and clinked, something dropped to the floor with a clank. She snatched her hands away, felt the intense need to wash them. To breathe with burning lungs.

The cloth grew in size, an erratic shifting and rustling of fabric, stunned and trapped Glinda was helpless to do anything but stare. Clarity sluggish, it took too long to realise that it was not something terrifying or otherworldly. Beneath the ragged material, free of the distortion created by her imagination, there was indeed the faint shape of a person. And a familiar one at that.

“Elphaba?” her voice was but a faint whisper, her head light from the rapid pounding of her heart, the lack of breath, and the altitude.

“What have I told you about using that name?” Elphaba whirled around, her words dripping with venom and joined by a chorus of caws from above.

If she was surprised to see who it was that had disturbed her, surprised to see her, Glinda could not tell from either Elphaba’s inscrutability or her own stressed mind.

Elphaba’s eyes remained narrowed, her lips pressing into a thin line. Her back stiffened, from straightening or something else. Voice lower, measured now, “Miss Galinda Arduenna.”

“I’ve already told you, I go by Glinda now.” The words were flat, habitual, as if she stood far removed from herself. Buffeted by a massive disarray of thoughts and feelings and memories she could not begin to slow down, to calm, to rearrange or sort. Just as they had raced through the night, they continued to do so now as if her mind was fevered.

“Mrs Glinda Thropp.” Elphaba’s face remained unchanging, her eyes however burned with something conflicted. A clashing contrast of emotions that squeezed at Glinda’s hammering heart, not purely in the way it once had for her, but rather twined with a sense of undeniable foreboding. Left unsettled by both the dissonance and her inability to decipher what she saw when it had once been so easy.

“Not quite.” She had to catch her breath before she could continue. “Elph –” Glinda tried only to be cut short by Elphaba’s immediate change of expression; her brow dropping down, her mouth drawn back in rage. The shiver worsened, the icy sensation that streaked down her back morphing into to a tremor that ran through her completely.

“Do not use that name.” Elphaba gestured fiercely as if the emphasis her demand, a sharp thrust of her arm towards the window. Irresponsibly, it had been left open and, as if on cue, a strong gust of wind hit them, sending hair and clothes and papers awry and an unsecured tubular device before it tilting. Glinda’s knuckles flared white where she gripped her cloak, fighting the instinct to chatter her teeth. Elphaba did not react, unblinking eyes fixed to her, her voice steady now. Plain and stark. “They wanted a witch and so a witch I became.”

What had happened to her Elphie? For the woman standing in front of her was even more fearsome than the one she had met at dear Nessa’s funeral. Was now every bit the embodiment of the Witch that Glinda had read of, had heard of, but had never believed existed. Not even after that last encounter.

Grief and sorrow, she had thought, had led Elphaba astray that day. Such things did not always fade, and if they ever did, never in their entirety. A vestige remained at the very least, lingering like the evidence of ivy stripped from the bark of a tree. A permanent reminder of how it had once completely enshrouded, a marring that could never be wholly healed.

Fingers numb and palm clammy, she clutched at her cloak beneath the clasp. Felt the tension in the fabric, but not the security.

It was a glimmer, that was all. Not a definite. It was just a glimmer. A flash brought forth by everything.

Once she calmed. Once she had more time –

“Elphaba…”

“Stop!” Elphaba snapped with a flash of teeth. “You all know who I am now!”

And, Glinda realised with trepidation and a sharp inhale, that she did.

“Why are you here?” Elph – the Witch snapped as the crows above clicked and rattled; keen eyes glaring, a mirror of the Witch’s own. The discord present within her before as if lost in a haze. Words short, but no longer spiking. “That dress. That accent, it isn’t even right.”

“Habit.” Glinda swallowed, correcting herself, “From the journey.”

The Witch shook her head, unhearing, a shift of emotion crossing her face like a shadow. Voice softer for a moment. It felt as if not for ears. “For you to appear…”

This time when Glinda’s heart constricted the cause was something different entirely. A battle of her own within. The fingers at her neck twitched, urged her to reach out, desperate to alleviate something she was not privy to. To hear that softness – to further coax it out, to be the salve for the entrapping heat of pain.

What happened last time... it held her back as much as the obviousness that it – she? – would not be welcomed.

That… that had to wait. The reason she was there, the excuse of it, was paramount.

The words that left her were only fairly coherent, an unanticipated stutter on her tongue just held back, though she found little embarrassment in that. She would rather have said what was kept so close to her chest, what she had once envisioned, but that too, mattered little in reality. “The Wizard has sent a group to dispose of you.”

The Witch's distant eyes snapped to her, a pinprick of focus returned in an instant.

“You?”

All ground to a halt. A momentary lapse, a faltering in mind and body. Limbs heavy, threatening to pull her down with all else. Stunned, it felt as if it took an age for motion to return but was likely merely seconds. Glinda’s lips parted, her eyes widened.

How could Elphaba ever think that?

“No. Of course not. I do not know who they are, only that they are on their way here.” She tried to uncurl her fingers, but her hold strengthened instead.

Elph – the Witch – she reminded herself, a foul taste in the back of her throat, the word unwelcome even when left unspoken. A term she never wished to use yet found she could not refrain from doing so now, for the woman opposite felt almost a stranger.

The Witch tilted her head back with a short bark of humourless laughter. The scrabbling from above flared, a single feather floating down to land upon the soiled floor.

She began to stride across the room, side to side in front of Glinda. And once she started, it seemed an impossibility for her to remain still.

“You expect me to believe you?”

Glinda’s free hand became a fist at her side, her lips pressing into a fine line. An enflaming burst of anger born purely from desperation. She tried to cling to it, better that than to break.

“You think I would travel this far simply to lie to you?” Dropping her grip on her cloak, Glinda gestured with a drop of her hand down to her side. Palm shown and flat. Pleading. Sharp cries from above had her flinching, but still she held firm, forced the rest of her words out, “I haven’t even washed yet!”

And that was just revolting, left her disgusted by the acknowledgement of her neglect, but she had more important and pressing things on her mind and in need of doing. Wasn't entirely sure why she saw fit to mention it, to all but babble it out loud. Maybe it was with the hope that such an inconsequential detail, but one which should matter so much to her, would reveal the absolute seriousness of the situation.

The Witch scoffed, moving like a predator sizing up their prey, her hand trailing over the cover of some oversized book on the edge of the table as she paced. Glinda could not decide on which was worse; the incessant movement or the unceasing intensity of her stare.

“Another figment perhaps, more convincing than most, and yet conversely not. Cannot keep the subtleties straight nor even the specifics. Wouldn’t be the first, but for you...” the Witch murmured to herself, voice pulled thin on the last word.

The weak hold Glinda had on her ire wavered then, slipping from her with an effortlessness which Elphaba had always managed to evoke.

“I'm here.” Her reassurance was strong, voiced with nothing but open vulnerability, meaning far more than the simplicity of its parts told. Again, her hand tried to raise, to reach towards the burning flame before her, to convey so much with touch alone. To soothe the agitation, to calm whatever was barrelling through Elphaba’s mind. But she snatched her hand back. Knew better than repeat such a thing. Mindful of the burn, conscious that she was the moth. Better to wait until permission came, to pray Elphie would see her as she always had before.

Uncertainty was choking, a coiling bitterness worse than the biting wind rushing in. Reality had cut deep into her once; she had never imagined anything still remained for it to carve out.

The perpetual motion brought forth a heartrending familiarity, her eyes tracking the sharp angles of Elphaba’s turns and pivots. The severe line of her shoulders beneath tattered black cloth. Glinda's heart a stone long sunk.

Was it not feasible Elphaba was... her mind – she was hardly making sense. No predictability or logic, not that Glinda could comprehend, in her actions.

Damaged, floated to the forefront of her thoughts. Had she not considered something similar not too long ago? Had felt terrible and ashamed for it? It was difficult to remember sometimes. A challenge to recall with a tremble wracking through her. While her head was in its constant spin.

So, Glinda did the only thing she could when confronted by actualities which frightened her. That terrified her. Something she knew far better than to do.

She disregarded them.

Pressed on with a hope as fragile as glass.

“It was not an easy journey.” An obvious fact that should go some way in showing Elphaba just how far she was willing to go for her. Belated effort or not. She brushed her hands through her curls, half-heartedly tidying them from where the wind had snagged them. “Nor I rendered the most fashionable. An utter tragedy to be seen at anything less than my absolute best.”

Her lips twitched into a waning smile, had hoped to recreate that moment they had shared at Nessa's funeral, when things had so briefly been as they once were. As if they had simply continued where they had left off years prior. To guide Elphaba back to her, as she had once guided her.

But the Witch did not lift her chin, did not cease her strides. Muttered voice abrasive and damning in its tone, “Some people will do anything to get what they want.”

The words were not what she could have predicted, but Elphaba had a habit of being a tad too coarse with her choices at times. Almost a form of self-defence on occasion, or simply that bluntness Glinda had come to appreciate. It was neither something novel nor rare to her. Though these, preoccupied and lacking clarity were not ones Glinda could easily grasp. But she tried, she always would.

“Exactly,” Glinda said on an exhale, her hope no longer feeling quite as delicate. “I needed to warn you, and…” The break of her voice caught her by surprise, the sudden thickness of the words catching in her throat. She blinked, vision blurring at the edges, the burn of unanticipated tears beginning to well in her eyes. “And you left before I was able to tell you just –”

The Witch shook her head almost violently, her lips twisting. Almost a smile. Almost a grimace. Cruel either way. “Anything to keep your precious title.”

The iciness that washed over Glinda had nothing to do with room nor building. It slipped through her, head to toe, so profoundly as to seem impossible. She tried to bring moisture back to her mouth, to loosen her constricted throat. The sting of unshed tears like pinpricks in the corners of her eyes.

“No. No, no, Elphaba that isn’t –”

The Witch's gaze snapped to her with a sharp turn of her head. An abrupt halt to her steps. Like a grass snake poised to strike. “That name is meaningless now. You should know that, residing in luxury and fear as you do.”

The eminenceship? Is that really what she thought Glinda was here about? Had she not just told her the reason? The very important, life-threatening reason? How could she not see – not comprehend – what Glinda was saying? Elphaba had always known, even when Glinda herself did not. She saw the truth.

Able at last to uproot herself, Glinda took a step forward, barely avoiding treading scattered papers underfoot. Again, she yearned to reach out, longed too. The heat in front of her searing despite the freeze in self and surroundings. A spidering crack splintering through the hope in her chest.

“The title is meaningless to me – not it itself, but the want of it. I am trying to mend what I can, am acting purely as its caretaker, if the full extent is only known as such to myself. I only accepted it to stop the position from being abolished.” Likely more a white lie than not, but was the purpose of them not to bring comfort to a person? To hide a truth that could be deemed painful? Now not the moment to reiterate that she was holding it for Elphaba – she knew. She knew.

“Still as apt at spinning a yarn, I see.” The crows called, louder now, almost as if they too needed to spit out their hatred at her – of her. A few hopped down, sending a smattering of black feathers floating as they perched on table, cabinet and chair. Hounded, Glinda took a step back to no effect. It did little to calm her rapidly fraying nerves, the constriction of her heart. In only a moment she felt so small, like a child again cornered by the remnants of her nightmares.

“It is not a lie Elphaba!” Glinda cried, her face contorting with the depth of her distress, with her despair at being unable to reach through to her. Through to that sensible woman she once knew – still knew. Not this – this bitter woman standing before her, more reminiscent of the abhorrent caricature seen on a plastering of weather-beaten paper. At the very least, Glinda needed to impress upon her just how much danger she was in. The urgency of it. How soon and deadly the threat. “That group will be here soon. My head start barely that. They will kill you if you remain here.”

The Witch charged. Glinda curled into herself, eyes squeezing shut, reaction instinctive and bewildering. Elphie would never... she forced her eyes open, the distance between them vanished, the Witch’s towering form almost atop her. Glinda had never been brave, but it was not until now that she felt completely a coward.

Words would not come; her composure reduced to a paltry meagre thing. The foremost matter shared, her body expressing more of the rest than what she had managed to say, but even that little revealing, and yet all of it was for nothing before the blaze of dark eyes.

“Get out,” the Witch snarled. And though she remained still save for the drop of her brow and pull of her lips, arms rigid at her sides and shoulders a tense strict line, Glinda found herself retreating backwards until she teetered dangerously on the top step of the stairs. “You are no more welcome here than the others are.” A flash of movement; a callous, dismissive wave of her hand that for one split moment, Glinda feared would push her. End her. “Be gone! I have had quite enough of it all.”

“Elph –”

But her plea was cut off. Barely catching herself on the wall to her left as the Witch surged forward, hand outstretched – to push her, to throw her down the stairs! – no contact came, though Glinda stumbled as if forced, retreated down a few more steps.

Mind awhirl, utterly lost.

The door slammed.

Left in darkness, Glinda’s breath came in harsh pants, her palm flat against the glacial stone. Heart beating a ferocious tempo in chest and ears, ribs surely bruised by the fierceness of it.

The only sounds present in her sudden solitude save for the shattering of her hope.

Chapter Text

It was indeed a bathroom she had glimpsed, but naturally, and sadly as suspected, indoor plumbing was not a feature in the Vinkus.

With a shuddering huff of breath, Glinda pushed away from the sink, gaze skirting past her reflection in the mirror. She dragged a still trembling hand across her cheeks, face tight from dried tears, eyes still stinging. Turning her eye to the room instead.

A fireplace sat opposite the bath, a metal construction within holding a pot, obvious to even her that it was present for heating water. It would appear significant effort would be needed if she wished for a soak.

To warm it herself was not an impossibility, but with the lingering strain in her chest and the difficultly of each inhale, now was not the safest time to try. Much exertion, still, would be needed to bring the water up before she could try to do so.

A room on the ground floor, if there were any suitable, would have been a far wiser choice.

The pitcher of water Nanny had given her was better than nothing, she supposed, icy though it was by now. She did not even consider attempting to reheat it.

Thankful she did not need to seek a washcloth, the bathroom laid out as if prepared, she finally began to clean herself up. Following the motions, removed from herself. By the end, her skin raw and pink, she donned her thickest linen dress, still unable to even begin to try to come to terms with what had happened that day.

She did not care even to utilise the few makeup supplies she had brought with her. Could not bring herself to even try to find her usual comfort in the routine of preparing herself.

Retreat. That is all she wished to do. To close herself off in her newly claimed room, to shut off her mind from it all – from everything that was so far greater than she. From the vicious gouging of reality. That, though, would do nothing to block out the agony. To ease the sharp barbs of anguish that pierced through her heart and lungs.

“Went well then,” Nanny quipped when Glinda returned to the warmth of the kitchen. Glancing up from a piece of paper, Nanny’s expression softened into something familiar.

Face plain, there was no hiding the pinch of Glinda’s lips or the red that definitely still coloured her eyes.

“Wash did you good.”

She did not voice a want for clarity, to question whether Nanny changed the meaning of her initial comment or not. She couldn’t.

Glinda’s hands curled around the back of the wooden chair, the solidness offering some steadiness for the tremor in her hands. She had no intention of sitting, a jittering energy still coursing through her, but regardless, she soon found herself dropping hard into the cushioned seat. All her practice, all her grace, seemed lost to her, almost like her ability to reach her sorcery had once been.

She blinked, the only reaction to a grating scrape. It was some time later, when she came back to herself, that she realised how low her chin was held, the screeching drag sounding again, accompanied by the appearance of a cup in her vision.

“Tea.” Nanny’s voice held a gentler note. Coupled with her previous expression, Glinda was for a moment thrown back in time. Undoubtedly that look remained, though Glinda did not lift her head to confirm. “Not as good as you’re used to, but it’s all we’ve got.”

Pulling it towards her, Glinda uttered her thanks and cupped her hands around it, savouring the warmth if not the taste when it came to it.

It was a fight to gather herself, a battle that was too prolonged, but eventually she straightened with a long exhale – if only it were as easy as that to free yourself of such things, to release it all on a breath. Nanny paid her no notice, scribbling away as if she had seen none of it.

Something, at last, that tried to lighten her heart. But the shattering of her hope had scattered its shards, and they resided alongside the penetrating barbs in her heart and lungs. Nothing could be done now. Only the palliative.

She knew what she may have face; to have her remembrance stripped away – the illusions – and the cruel reveal of the stark truth. To see all her misbeliefs plainly.

To persevere with what remained the only path left for her to tread.

“There are people on their way here.” The steadiness of her voice was a mild surprise. One finger silently tapping against the stoneware in her hands.

“Always people on their way to somewhere.” Nanny’s eyes slid to the door, the scratch of her pen halting. Tensing, Glinda glanced back – but the doorway accidently left ajar was empty. One thing, at least, to feel some measure of gratefulness for was that she still had yet to see the creature which had attacked her. Though she was uncertain whether that actually was a blessing or not, the breath as if held in constant suspense potentially worse. If she were to think on it, one side would surely prevail over the other. It did not matter which, not now, she most assuredly would not be enquiring after it.

Nanny was watching her closely when she turned back, her eyes holding something that was also so familiar. Glinda did not want to ponder that either, only wished to feel the appreciation and nothing of the rest – glad that Nanny appeared more herself now.

“Witch Hunters,” Glinda continued, the twisted term forever unpleasant on her tongue. Slowly her practiced poise was coming back to her. “It is why I am here, to… to warn her.” She could not say stop them, she was clueless as to whether that was even within her capacity to do so. She had to, and yet did not know how to.

What did she truly think she could achieve here? What realistically?

To prevent it, somehow – to protect Elphaba, she had told herself. It was her need to. Even if the actuality of it all, of what she long feared, looked to be more undeniable by the day. Had, in fact, been so ruthlessly proven.

The imbalance in their – her feelings, the depth of them impossible to describe with something as simple as words, and just as impossible to ignore.

The relationship between them had been strained, damaged in some way she could not fully comprehend. She had blamed herself; her neediness and greed. Demand and pressure. It rang true and yet not.

It should have been her, surely, who was filled with venom and bile – hurt and upset – but that was not a reflection of her. That was not who she could be, who she was when faced with her Elphie in thought or reality.

And that was not Elphaba either.

Forthright, scathing at times, a blazing vehemence at perceived injustice – but not maliciousness, not undirected volatile fury, no spite and hostility.

The beat of her finger ceased, nails pressing into the solid surface of the cup. Memories flooding in, spilling forth; unrestrained and insuppressible. A torrent of what was and is, the emotions the waves crashing over her, threatening to drag her back under and fill her lungs. To overcome her again.

But she had not yet been submerged. Could not allow herself to be. Never again.

Their connection was now all but severed. She felt, though, that one single thread still remained, and selfish as she was, she would not be the one to cut it. No matter how much despair it caused her, and her alone. Had she not already lived it and continued on? Pressed ever onwards, carrying it with her? Had shown in a way that she held some once unrecognised capability through it?

With each agonising memory and doubt, with each pressed bruise and reopened wound, came a pleasant echo.

That inequality of feeling that had once been a whisper, now so loud as to be deafening, even as her vision, briefly, was overtaken by earnest brown eyes, and the ghost of the tenderest touch against her cheek.

The words that still stung sweetly.

Her heart ached.

Yet a sliver of hope remained, almost lost beneath all else, but shining still. A reflection of the light.

“To arrest. Or kill.” Her voice cracked, just noticeably on the last word. Hastily, she took a sip of the tea even though she held no thirst. With the time she had taken, it did not scald as it could have. The indecision of whether she was opposed to the malty taste was a banal attempted focus point, something to distract as she tried to pull herself together.

The lack of surprise on Nanny’s face told of too many possibilities. Nanny needed to know, if she could hold onto the memory of it, which appeared probable that morning though it was not clear for how long.

An ember remained lit within Glinda's heart, stoked by the last remaining piece of her stubborn hope, that in one way or the other her words would reach their intended recipient. That if not from her lips, then Elphaba would believe them from the woman who raised her, who was always more than happy to set her straight or put her in her place, whether Elphaba was being a terror or not. With that Glinda prayed she would begin to see the words for the truth they were. That she would see her.

And, from that, come back to herself.

To ask for direct assistance would be preferable, but it was not fair for her to put that on Nanny. Not with how she was. She had shared her intention and, whether asked or not, Nanny would do what she always had.

“Right,” Nanny sighed, as if it were all some grand inconvenience, but Glinda noted the shake of her pen. “Best get set for a few more mouths to feed.”

“Nanny –”

The chair dragged noisily against the stone, Nanny getting to her feet with a huffing breath. Her pen clattering against wood. She plodded around the table, eyes on a cupboard at Glinda’s back.

Glinda’s lips parted to protest, to begin that pattern once more, but snapped shut at the heavy weight of Nanny’s hand landing on her shoulder.

She understood.

“Don’t you worry any.” Nanny offered a supportive squeeze before her hold slipped away. “Done enough of that for a lifetime.”

Glinda looked back to Nanny, the now opened and practically bare cupboard behind her.

“All of us have.”

The erraticness of the Witch’s behaviour, her words, haunted her much as everything else. Only worsening her concerns for Elphaba’s state of mind. Perhaps she should have asked Nanny more about what had passed, about what Elphaba had endured, but her head had been elsewhere, and now she thought it best to stay occupied – to be prepared in whatever way she could manage. Besides, she strongly suspected – knew despite her distractions – that, even with her infrequent bouts, Nanny's own mind was not in the best of conditions.

This was no deflection, though she was fearful of what she may hear. She would ask her, at some point soon.

In the light of the day, even with how little streamed in through the tall windows, she found herself able to explore a few other rooms with less trepidation than the night before. Though she avoided the corridors deeper in that lacked any hint of outside, and left those rooms that undoubtedly belonged to someone well alone, even though a thick layer of dust covered all the surfaces and great sweeping cobwebs decorated the ceilings.

With a bearable amount of embarrassment, she could admit that she had begun ‘raiding’ (for want of a better word) the bedrooms that she was sure were both abandoned and ownerless. Searching for thicker sheets – and furs it turned out – preferably those stored away so left fresher, to take back to her room.

The sandy furs, when discovered, were greeted with a start – her fingers brushing them unseen – followed by relief and a sense of disquiet. Surely, though, they were animal. The people there partook in hunting, for self-sufficiency not sport, or so the books say. Besides, leaving it unused was not about to bring whatever it came from back to life.

She took it in the end, with the sheets and blankets. Then came seeking anything else that could aid her in making her temporary accommodation more comfortable. Making this place more habitable, and not just for her alone.

There was no evidence of anyone else living there, not even a sign of Nanny’s room. The place so vast it unlikely she was about to stumble upon it immediately. Nor were there any signs of wrongdoing; broken furniture, scattered belongings, dark brown stains long seeped between the stones or trapped within tightly woven fabrics. It was as if whoever once occupied the castle had simply woken one day and walked out the door. Returned to the villages perhaps? It would explain the lacking equipment in the kitchen, but little else. This was their ancestral home, but she knew too little of the Wink – different tribes, of the Arjiki, to know if their society functioned as theirs did. If the people once here were considered tribal leaders or royalty, or something else altogether. And that was if the book that denoted the location was accurate in all regards.

Hanging up a thick blanket in front of her room’s frost-touched window had the side effect of cutting out the light during the day considerably, but it also helped to maintain the heat from the fireplace. The curtains, no matter how thick, did not feel sufficient to her. It was a sacrifice that she did not particularly want to make, but it was the more favourable of two undesirable choices in this case; giving up natural light in favour of much needed warmth.

In a strange, twisted sense, she felt like a homemaker. A life she had never wanted, yet now found herself engaging in.

Over the following few days, she kept to herself, busying herself with self-imposed tasks. Time was short and also not in a way. Pressing still, but affording her some time to breath. The caravan train she had taken was the last of the season. Whoever was on their way would either be taking a carriage of their own, with all the challenges that posed, or even walk. A mixture of both, a far more realistic likelihood.

It was suffocating to have so many sheets and furs on top of her – she had become long accustomed to the thin sheets and heated homes of the City – but if it kept the temperature bearably, she would reduce her complaints to herself to the bare minimum. Better to have that be the source of the burden in her chest, the cause of the compression on her lungs.

Glinda still had yet to discover where Nanny was residing, only that she spent the majority of her time hunched by the fire in the kitchen writing out illegible lists. Glinda offered her extra blankets and pillows, leaving them on the table even if a response was lacking. They disappeared, so must have found use somewhere.

Though her familiarity was growing, as she traversed the corridors her back remained rigid. The distinct feeling of being watched crept over her at times, following her from place to place, always found within the darkest corners and pervasive shadows. If she was not so positive that El – the Witch did not stray from her tower, she would have assumed it was her. Each time the thought reoccurred, the encumbering weight she carried grew heavier still, for was there not a time when she regularly felt her gaze? Had longed for it in its absence? Had later basked in its presence?

If she were watching, would she not know?

That could not be another cherished thing lost. What did she have left?

Could she subsist on memory alone?

Glinda did not like the foreboding, the waiting, the not knowing, but what more could she rightly do with El – the Witch not listening to her words? With time, Glinda had no choice but to believe, she would come to consider them.

It was just she had little idea of just how much time they had.

In the Witch’s stubbornness, if Glinda faced her again now, she would only further reinforce the wall rebuilt between them.

In the end, that disconcerting sensation was put down to her ever-growing paranoia, being in a strange and unknown place, and the constant fretting over the group on their way there but not knowing when they would arrive. The incessant reiteration in her mind; that it would take them far longer to arrive than she, offered some alleviation. In fact, it was a realisation that may have benefited her to come to earlier. But then if she had, while she may have been better prepared, she would have missed the caravan train herself. Then she may well have been unable to reach the place until it was far too late.

The decision to leave the Witch for a while had not come to her easily, was something she still grappled with. Not solely the distance she was enforcing after so long alone, yearning as she was to be beside her regardless of everything past and present and future, but that place the Witch had closed herself off in. Her surroundings were atrocious, hardly habitable from her glances, as centred as she was on Elph – the Witch. To Glinda's knowledge she had not left, for sustenance or any other essential necessities, and her unstable behaviour only further exacerbate the swell of Glinda’s anxiety. On many occasions she caught herself drifting towards the spiralling stairs and willed her heel to turn. Her heart lamenting. Everything resisting.

A little time, then Glinda would try again. A contradiction growing within her, the desperate need to see her battling the terror of the hurt it may well bring. But she would bear the rending if it saved the Witch from the one coming.

She would take all the pain, the devastation, every cut if it meant she could save her, if she could bring about a different ending to the one expected. She had lived with it for more than she hadn’t, what was more on top of what already was?

Let the Witch's virulent tongue scorch her, let reality take what little Glinda still clung to, if it meant the Witch lived.

And Glinda had to refer to her as the Witch, for she could not bring herself to fully accept that the woman stalking about at one of the highest points of the castle was the one she had once known. That Glinda's feelings were hers and hers alone, though the brutal truth sat before her.

That little shard of hope remained, and she was ever the fool, clasping it close even as it split her palm.

There was not much in the way of food in the stores, except for an ample supply of honey, which tickled at her memory, and assorted dried plants and leaves – the source of the tea, maybe? Or, possibly, part of whatever experiment she had seen cluttering the Witch’s table (no, she chastised herself with absolute disgust, to jump to such conclusions!). The few other jars and supplies there looked to be either nearing the end of their edible lifespan or had very little left. If she had known – or held some kind of idea or had purely thought of such a possibility – she would have stocked up on some choice foods while she was in the village. If she even knew what was edible in the Vinkus. Some of that stored admittedly did not look much like food to her, not at all. Of course, considering the difficulty she had experienced in the village, she doubted she would have been able to purchase anything; through refusal of payment, or real or feigned communication challenges. Even if she had, then came the issue of getting it there. An ill-conceived hike she may have rashly undertaken, but hampered down with food too?

It looked little better when she added the meagre supplies she had squirreled away during her journey to the pantry. Nothing much at all, just dried meat she could barely stomach but in which (as in much) she had no choice, and a mixture of nuts and dried fruit. As she stepped back from her paltry additions, she made a note to herself to keep an eye out on the road, to see if she could not find someone to collect some food for them before their supply ran even more dangerously low. She asked Nanny to do the same, though knew she may not recall.

Why someone would be up there, she could not say, but the man and Ox had been travelling down. It was not infeasible that there existed a place, somewhere between the village and the castle, from which he came. In the waning light and the fog, she had just been unable to see it nor a hint of its presence. Nor could anything of the sort be seen from her chosen viewpoint high up in a topmost corridor. The Pertha Hills had many hidden nooks and hollows, why would something so much more monumental be any different?

By most fortuitous happenstance, she sighted such a person only a few days after her discovery regarding the food. She had ran with as much speed as she could, cautious of her ankle on the steps, so greatly thankful and relieved that he had both stopped just outside the curtain walls and that she had managed to reach him before he began to move again. Her sudden and breathless appearance had alarmed him much as if he had seen a ghost, and she supposed, she rather could be mistaken for one.

After his near topple from his seat, she saw immediately that he understood her, and she offered without preamble to pay him to collect some food for them, hoping he was inclined towards that as she had not stopped to think of what could be bartered.

The sky had been obscured by impenetrable clouds, and the wind brisk.

The man had not played at misinterpreting her, nor tried to haggle. He agreed and took half with a promise for the rest when he brought the delivery, though the total he accepted was far less than Glinda had predicted – allaying her concerns only somewhat that she had offered too much. She prayed, not just for his return, but that he made sense of her request for supplies with longevity and preferably no meat. Plausibly a challenging order, but one she wished him to keep to if it was at all achievable. She was clueless as to what the typical household foodstuffs were there, and daren’t wish to imagine.

She could only trust her risk was a well-judged one and she had not be conned, for if the farmer – at least that is what he appeared to be, though she had seen no farmland, had thought they did not farm there but she had also once believe they did not settle – did not keep his word, she would have to make the trek on foot with very little money left, and not much strength to carry the little she would be able to afford.

Offhandedly, she considered if he was connected to the man who had brought her to Kiamo Ko. He was willing to converse with her at least, and seemed far more spooked by her unanticipated presence than the castle behind her. His face, too, had been bare, though his Ozian far shakier.

On many an occasion she would retrieve her book and look over it, as she had in the wagon. There was improvement, a trembling of the letters which were ever-present, but she was still unable to conjure anything. Surely her mind whirling as it so often was provided little aid in her attempts. Even more often than that, while looking at her book and when not, she would take the small carved Pfenix from its companion and cradle it, running her fingers over the wooden image of the creature she had always felt drawn to. After all, The Mother Pfenix was her favourite of the tales her mother had shared with her; blessed by Lurlina, gifted so her tears would fall and heal all wounds and all suffering, to even bring the Pfenix back when she died – to be reborn as the Ozma was once claimed to be. As they all were. The Pfenix represented life and rebirth, as well as something honoured in the belief of curing all ills.

And that was precisely what Glinda found herself doing; honouring, hoping – she had never believed in Lurlina like her parents did. Like her mother and aunt; she could not. Nor had she really prayed often save for back in Frottica, yet it was undeniable that with age she had been drawn to the hidden actions of her youth.

Now, she was reminded of those she had lost. Her dear Ama; Nessa, who she had never truly had time to grieve; and now, she could potentially lose Elphaba. Again. Perhaps she already had. Perhaps she had never in truth ever found her to lose.

The Witch who haunted the place was almost a different person entirely. Separate, and yet not, like she so often considered herself and Galinda. They were not and she knew that, and by that logic, also knew the same was true for the Witch and Elphaba – even as she found she had to think of them as such. It was the only way forward.

Her heart punctured, the hurt less severe to do so. It was the only way. It always had been.

If Elphie was lost to her, if this was to be the end…

All she would have left were her parents, and she was rarely able to visit them as often as she honestly wished. Now, with the title of Eminent and Eminence hanging over her – those responsibilities she had neglected to be there – her sparse visits would spread even further out. No longer could she keep to once every three months. And that was if she was even able to go back home at all…

The next breath caught in her lungs, fingers stilling on the ridges of the Pfenix’s wings. The realisation hitting her with the same ferocity as the bitter wind in the tower.

So wrapped up, so consumed by thoughts of Elphaba, that desire and that need – what she had to do, what she wished to achieve – she had not once stopped to consider herself.

What would befall her should she be found there?

Would she be taken prisoner? Charged for incitement or sedition, or even for high treason – something for which she could not claim innocence. Or would she be killed outright as an accomplice? Unknown and unburied in a distant and remote foreign land. Neither her parents, nor Genfee or anyone back in Munchkinland, nor Shell, nor even Pearson or Ella – who held a little more awareness – knew where she was. Would they ever know if something befell her? Or, if by some unforeseen chance, the Witch Hunters did know who she was, that would surely only worsen the relations been Loyal Oz and Munchkinland all the more. Whether arrest or death. The risk of war likely a guarantee, no longer a subject of speculation and escalating terror, but a fact. The innocents who would suffer…

Everyone she was close to – her parents – none would be safe.

Would she be treated as a traitor? Her name and image dragged through the mud, whether alive or dead, villainised as Elphaba had been. A pariah. Everything she had tried to do, and been made to do, for her family all for nothing. They left disgraced by her, their name not tarnished but besmirched, their reputation and respectability – their future forever poisoned. Left all but destroyed.

If alive, she would be unable to do anything to help, all her plans left to ruin. Shackled into inaction rather than succumbing to it. A prisoner in her home or Southstairs. To witness what came, but with hands bound.

A thud. Glinda’s head dropped back against the headboard, her eyes sliding closed and fingers curling around her Pfenix, the wood pressing hard into her skin.

The hurt in her chest only grew, flaring and throbbing with each breath. Embedded so completely in her heart, flaring with every agonising beat.

She was not made for all of this. For any of it.

What in Lurlina’s name was she going to do?

She weak in body and mind and spirit, a fragile thing with little spine. Who caved and bowed to pressure and obligation, seeking forgiveness for acts she never committed from those who were the ones to inflict them. Who grew into a woman not worthy of sharing a secret with and left behind for it. Now someone else, someone trying despite it all. More stubborn than resolute.

To stay, she knew. To turn her back inconceivable not just in practically, but in herself.

Intimately, she knew what it meant to be left behind, to know explicitly what was coming and still be left to face it alone.

To be anywhere but at her side was unimaginable.

Chapter Text

To her relief the man she hired to collect supplies returned just over a day later. No veiled snobby comment of what took him so long left her lips, too relieved and grateful that he had come back at all. Instead, she had thanked him profusely, gladly accepting his help to bring the supplies in through the door which connected kitchen to leafless orchard. She was surprised when he assured her he would help again if required, she need only to send word to the village. No need to barter or trade for he was willing to accept coin. Rather than tell her when she enquired, he scribbled his name at the bottom of one of Nanny’s lists, as if afraid she could not manage the pronunciation. The slight made her lips purse, but she said nothing, too gladdened to have solved at least one worry.

It was a most opportune arrival too for, soon after he left, the snow began to fall. The first few flakes caught her eye with the typical wonder it always brought, soon, though, it morphed. A dense and relentless flurry of snow unlike any she had ever seen. Falling like its intention was solely to bury them all.

Winter approached with shocking speed there, the already frigid temperature dropping even lower with the coming of the snow. If Glinda believed she could still fight off the instinct to shake or clatter her teeth, she was woefully mistaken. But she gave that no regard, distracted by dread for what it must be like in the southeast tower. Filled with horror for the tower itself.

Barely could she bring herself to accept that Elphaba was residing in there, though it was fact. It had been atrocious enough before. Now with the worsening weather…

The Witch would not allow herself to perish up there, Glinda had convinced herself, even with the memory of how low the neglected fire burned, how heedlessly the window had been left unbarred. Elphaba’s disposition was not what it once was, to pray that she had the common sense not to stay there – to relocate at least for the winter – a wasted effort.

With little choice, Glinda found herself pawing through more rooms in search of additional sheets and furs to warm herself. With the expansiveness of the place, she had touched hardly any of the rooms previously, a good thing for she knew there must still be things of use, though she was forever cognizant of which she chose to go in.

Her will was weak. Her resolution to grant space lasted for but a few days before she deemed it sufficient. She tried to speak to the Witch again, but received no answers to her knocks and calls save for the harsh response of the crows. The door to the room at the top of the tower locked now.

Sooner than her efforts to reach her, the temptation almost too great a challenge to resist, Glinda had begun to take necessities up. Wordless leaving blankets at the top of the steps. A short time later, she had brought up firewood and placed it neatly in front of the door.

A little later, food and water too.

A ritual she continued from that point on, and once she had begun trying to communicate with the Witch again, with each offering she would knock and inform the silence and the crows.

When she came back with new essentials, those she had left before were gone. The encouraging sign never accompanied by the noise of a human behind the door, or, later, by an answer to her voice.

It left her in a perpetual state of anxious concern and hope-filled uncertainty. It stabbed at her like fine needles, joining what was already skewered through her – the wrong move, the wrong thought, jostling them, causing them to push and twist – but it was a state she had to ignore. She could only do so much, though she wished to do immeasurably more. Fretting, pacing, biting at her knuckle – her joints still aching from the journey, her muscles still sore – allowing herself to spin and anguish over it would help no one. Only risked her sliding. Truly, she could only do what she was able. She could not hunker down at the top of those narrow, slanting stairs – to plead, to beg, to wait for what may never come.

And now, on top of it all, she had to keep as constant a vigil as she could for those coming there, the ones she lived in fear of for the sake of Elphaba’s life.

Lesser to that, guiltily, for Nanny and herself too.

Would any of them be spared?

The snow, at least, gifted them some much needed time.

The snow was thick on the ground, the branches of the trees encumbered by its weight. All sound muffled as if the entirety of Oz had disappeared. For an instant, when she first stepped out into the crispness, she thought it had honestly buried all else, and they so high up, the only ones to escape.

Her footwear was not built for snow, but she had found a pair of thick leather boots capped with fur which sat only slightly too loose, allowing her to safely trudge her way out to the well. Sunk deep enough the water did not freeze, or the ice atop it thin and easily broken beneath the bulk of the bucket, it was one thing at least that did not bring her further worry. Tasks such as this she had never before partaken in, never had need to, but were most assuredly not ones she could leave to Nanny.

A brief reprieve in the weather marked her chance that day. The wind stirred at the edges of her cloak, catching the curls that slipped from beneath her hood. The borrowed gloves prevented her fingers from burning as they had on the first few occasions, but her face swiftly grew pink and numb, her nose beginning to drip from the cold. She hoisted up the bucket, thanking Lurlina that the pulley had not yet seized in such weather, and freed the bucket. Water threatened to spill over the rim as she hauled the awkward burden in both hands, tramping her way back inside.

Not far from the door, she stamped the snow from her feet, still shivering beneath her cloak. In the unoccupied rooms she had seen no suitable temporary replacements, and she still steadfastly refused to even entertain entering those that belonged to the previous occupants. Her own cloak would have to suffice. To think, she had considered it more than sufficiently thick when she had chosen it! The truth of matters not always as one pictures, even those considered more minor in comparison.

She paused, one hand resting against the glacial stone of the wall, the light through the tall windows at her back casting dramatic slants of light across the vast entrance hall. Pulling off one glove, she retrieved the handkerchief in the inner pocket of her cloak and dabbed at her nose before methodically refolding it and placing it back with a disgusted grimace. Tugging the glove back on, she planted her feet firmly and heaved the bucket back up.

Stomping about the corridors like an echo of a memory brought a smile tinged with sorrow to her lips.

She took the bucket to the kitchen, changed her boots there and checked on Nanny, who was far more oblivious that morning but content in front of the fire, before leaving to continue her tasks.

The sight from the high windows at her chosen viewpoint allowed her to cast her eyes down the mountain; to the distant village, part of the road she had travelled up by wagon, most of the trek by foot and cart, and more of the mountain still. Unless the clouds rolled in, or she were elsewhere for far too long, she would miss no one on approach. Even if tucked behind a bend or turn, they were brief and whomever it was would reappear quickly if Kiamo Ko was their destination. Only one room there had an absolute view, but that was closed to her. The other tower in an advantageous position locked, and Nanny clueless as to the key’s location.

Glinda did come to regret raiding the rooms closest to her own so soon, for now when she found useful items she had to make an ever-lengthening trek back to her room. Just as that choice made the trip to the well all the greater. A pathetic and shameful complaint, even with tired legs from the snow and sore arms from lugging buckets about, but sometimes one needed to turn attention to something others may consider petty or trivial rather than the profound seriousness of all else in mind. This a change, at least, from her norm of appearance and style.

Relocating was out of the question. She had settled in as much as she could, and she did not know what may await her in those other rooms below. Those in the darkest depths of the place, or those even further away than the ones she had selected to search.

She stood in one of her chosen rooms now, not a bedroom, though it may have once been a guestroom. Whatever its former role, it now existed as a storage room of sorts.

Toeing around the assorted furniture and covered mysteries, she soon spotted some thick looking blankets wedged in the small storage space at the top of a rather lovely, if unusually designed, armoire. Stretching up to grasp them with one hand, she tugged valiantly to free them, but they remained resolutely stuck.

Huffing to herself and glaring at them as if they could understand, Glinda braced one foot on the shelf near the bottom of the armoire. The wood creaked, but seemed suitably sturdy. Stabilising herself with her other foot against the stone floor, she strengthened her stance as best as she could, then, clutching the blankets in both hands, she pulled with all her might.

They came loose unexpectedly.

Crying out, she fell backwards, the contents of the armoire tumbling down on top of her. A shot of pain, something solid drove hard into her back, preventing her from losing her footing. Lurching forward, she threw a hand back to use the solid surface to stabilise herself.

“Sweet Lurline!” she managed to cough out, waving a hand uselessly to try to bat away the dust that had been stirred up, but it was already firmly in her nose and throat. The impact of what had pelted her reverberated through her, the commotion in her ears steadily fading.

The fright left her legs unsteady, but thankfully the shock and the jolt of the impact to her spine were worse than the ache that remained.

She rubbed at the sore spot beneath her cloak; with luck it would form just a bruise at worst. For a few long moments she watched the light catch on the floating particles in the air, trying to forcibly calm herself with a steadying hand pressed to her heart.

When her breaths finally came readily and her heart slowed, she shook her head, lips quirking. Voice a little hoarse from the dust and the surprise, she muttered, slightly mortified, “What a fool.”

“Fool. Cool, tool.”

Glinda whirled around, foot almost tangling in the blankets, wide-eyed gaze whipping around. But save for the dust still settling in the air and the rumpled mess at her feet, all was as it had been.

Overwrought though she was, that unanticipated unknown voice was no illusion.

Tension coursed through her, that unease she had felt when she first stepped foot in the castle hurtling back with ferocious force. It had never fully vanished, only been driven down, easier to brush aside during the day while moving about swiftly and busying herself.

A flash of white caught her eye.

It had nothing to do with the weather outside.

Her arm shot up, crossed in front of her chest for what good that would do. Each breath short, she realised, caught unaware by the expression of her building nerves. The white – more vivid than the sheets around her – had vanished, the assorted furniture and odds and ends in the room creating even more pockets of darkness than she had come to expect there. They had not felt nor looked so large when she first entered the room, but now they seemed to be threatening to engulf everything.

Striving to calm her breathing, to steel her nerves, she fixed her observing gaze in the darkest spots. Dropping her hands to her sides as they drew into fists, not preparing to fight – she was no fighter – but in order to try to free herself of some of the anxiety burdening her form. Her nails biting into her palms and legs tensing.

That beast returned for her? No, she would have heard it. A charge not a stalking. A slinking shade, not a flash of light.

The armoire at her back offer some support, ensured there was one place where she felt almost no vulnerability.

Whatever it was hidden in front of her.

Movement, white once more, not a glimpse this time, but slowly emerging from around the edge of a covered legless table sat on its side. Not pure white as thought, but one tinged towards a mousy brown.

The pull of her shoulders inwards, the coiling of muscles in her legs eased as her brow scrunched, her awareness slow as she took in who had so alarmed her.

A Monkey, though he – for she was positive the voice had been male – wore no clothing. But neither had the Ox; to disguise or hide. Unlikely to be the norm there, but not an illogical conclusion. The people were so different, why would the local Animals not be?

He regarded her in turn, though apprehension rose at the back of her neck. A vestige of the panic-stricken moments passed, plausibly. But she could not deny that something about his gaze looked, well, amiss.

But who was she to make such judgments?

Glinda cleared her throat delicately, expelling the last of the dust still stuck there, and bowed her head in greeting. “Good afternoon, I do not believe we have met…” Uncharacteristically, she let her words dwindle, the look in his eyes only becoming more prominent, and she acutely conscious of his movements.

He tilted his head, his pink face showing no reaction. No recognition. His gaze… shifted, drifted around, then came back to her. Almost as if he was incapable of making sense of what was happening, her words not registering, or he unable to grasp them. More than the fault of a likely language barrier.

He had spoken, had he not? Though the few words she had heard had rhymed and made little sense. Now to reflect on them, they held no comprehension, as if they were merely parroted. It did not sit well with her, the unease growing and she again set on edge, a voice in the back of her mind screaming that something was very wrong.

“May I ask for your name?” she tried again, testing this time.

His chin lifted as he took in the question, perking up and soundly meeting her gaze, his shining black eyes gaining some sense of understanding.

“Name,” he repeated, brow rising. “Name. Ch...”

His head tipped and leant to the other side, the skin beside his eyes furrowing as he visibly appeared to struggle within himself. As if grappling against something that felt unnatural. An outward manifestation of an internal disharmony she recognised.

“Ch – Chistery,” he finally managed to get out. His back straightened, his features smoothing as pride, at what very well looked to be his achievement, swelled up his small chest.

His speech seemed awfully basic for an Animal – could it be due to a lack of interaction with his own kind? She had seen no Monkeys at all on the journey. No… actually that would not affect the ability to speak, would it now? Not if he was around humans, which if here, he surely must have been. Though she had not seen him at all since her arrival. Had he simply wandered in because of the snow?

While she was vigilant when it came to such things, who was to say Nanny had not left a door or window ajar somewhere Glinda did not know of?

Or was it purely a difference in language? After all, was her very own name not pronounced differently in Ozian? Had the gentleman who brought their supplies not refused to pronounce his own? Perhaps that had nothing to do with any reservations of her own ability after all. Maybe her offense was misplaced.

“Mr Chistery,” she greeted, smiling warmly, watching as he brightened further, “a pleasure to meet you. My name is Glinda.”

Shamefully, she could not say that she had interacted with many Animals over the course of her life, save for Ms Bellis back in Frottica. Though, sadly, she had passed away many years ago, replaced by a newcomer from Settica. Save for her, there was only the occasional Bird messenger back in Munchkinland, and of course the late Doctor Dillamond a lifetime ago – brief as it had been.

It was not an intentional avoidance on her part, but the result of a lack of opportunity – one in which she now saw a not implausible insidiousness that would never have been apparent if she had ever contemplated it before.

Then, was he not an Animal after all? Was it even possible for an animal to learn to speak?

Infeasible, they did not exist on the same plane of intelligence as human and Animal. Did not possess the same essence that they did. Was her time there, the strain upon her, really causing her to consider such utter madness?

Of course there existed birds that could learn to talk… or, rather, learnt to mimic the words they heard. They certainly did not process the same speech capabilities of the more intelligent. The differences, the similarities. It was all so confusing, and most definitely not something she possessed detailed knowledge of – or much at all for that matter. Elphaba did, and extensively so if not exhaustively. She had…

Glinda’s gaze dropped to the jumble of blankets on the floor, that familiar agonising wave of sorrow washing over her, more severe than the cold there, reaching a depth it could never come close to touching.

She battled against it, clinging desperately to her current thoughts as a way of keeping afloat. Recalled quite unexpectedly, then, Elphaba’s work from an age ago; that thick bundle of papers with a title she did not quite remember in its entirety but knew enough of. Pictured perfectly the enthusiasm shining in her eyes and in her gestures when she spoke ardently about some pivotal discovery that would alter everything for them all, how she was aiding in it. Had she continued to do so when she left? Someway and somehow? Was it plausible that, now, she was leading it? Though, here in this place and this land, that seemed as farfetched as an animal speaking.

Elphaba – she had no plans to stop trying with her, even as each failure cut at her. She needed to be more tenacious; tap into both the entitled attitude that existed more as part of her mask now, and her own innate stubbornness. Refuse to accept the silence, speak more, knock louder, actually hunker down if she must.

Beneath it all; that vehemence – the anger, the pain, the grief, along with whatever else had occurred over the intervening years, Elphaba was still in there somewhere. Buried, as Glinda buried things, or obscured by a mask that had adhered too strongly. There had been glimpses, not imagined, and that fragile hope that remained spoke to the depth of feeling that had once been so evident, that which she could not fully shake her trust in. She was still her Elphie – Elphaba. She was still Elphaba. She just needed to get through to her, regardless of her own self.

Her eyes lifted back to Chistery, a startling thought rearing; was he part of...

Something caught her eye, unmoving this time. A singular feather resting near the door. The sight jarring something in her chest.

Glinda looked back to the armoire, then down to the blankets that had so abruptly tumbled out. Those which had whipped up nothing but dust.

Nothing else had fallen, other than herself, and all that surrounded them was solid furniture. There was nothing that could be feather-filled, and those spare pillows she had found elsewhere used down. Clearly nothing unseen had burst, the feathers would have shot up and spread out, clouding her vision and filling her nose until they came to a rest. Without question, there would be more than a single solitary feather.

Perhaps the monkey – Monkey? – had brought it in with him. Glancing to the innocuous feather brought that troubling feeling back. Puzzled, she pulled her gaze away.

Chistery twitched, shaking his body, his lips drawn down. Something indeed was very off, her nerves steadily being frayed by something she could not put her finger on. That once growing sense of unease now fully bloomed and creeping down her spine.

Tension left her movements stiff even as she took cautious, measured steps forward. Cheek pinched between her teeth, wary, as if afraid Chistery would flee or charge. Treating him more animal than Animal with a stirring of guilt within her.

The Monkey remained unmoving, his eyes following her almost expectantly. The drab cloth in the gloom behind him taking shape, closer than she deemed them to be, not what her eyes had led her to believe. The reality taking shape like a faraway object approached in the fog, the sudden clarity making her starkly aware her eyes had not only tricked her initially, but entirely.

She edged around him, a part of her still convinced her mind and sight surely could not have deceived her so completely.

But they had.

It was no distant sheet covering the edge of the table behind him.

No trick of light and shadows.

It was something far less mundane. Far less believable.

Something utterly preposterous.

Wings?

Glinda blinked, rubbed at her heavy eyes with a sore knuckle, and then blinked again just to be sure.

All remained as it was.

Unmoving. Unbelievable.

Not even the dust stirred any more.

Sweeping cloak and skirt back, she broke the stillness and crouched down.

Chistery remained in place, not so much as blinking as she drew closer. Possibly she would have found his calmness bizarre, but her full attention was elsewhere. Without thought, she found herself leaning forward. Gently, she brushed a fingertip over the edge of his wing as if to check they were actually real and not some figment of her imagination. As if her perception could hardly be trusted, as if touch alone could break through the hallucination – the disbelief.

They shifted beneath her touch; she jerked back with a squeak.

Chistery quickly turned his head, lifting a hand towards her and making a cooing sound in his throat. To claim it felt as though he were trying to reassure her was no lie.

Palm pressed to her mouth, Glinda lowered it, her eyes wide.

Oh what a child she was being!

Taking a steadying breath to calm herself, fingers rubbing at the edge of her cloak, she noted alongside the feel of wool a tingling in her fingertips.

Her breath hitched in recognition.

Immediately she bent close again to study his wings. The impossibility.

“May I?” she asked this time, voice even. Shock giving way to the sensation in her fingers. How improper of her to have done so without adequate permission.

Chistery chittered, tilting his head and looking curiously at the blankets. She took it as consent.

She ran her fingertips lightly against a velvety feather, closed her eyes and reached out, sought what had left her skin subtly buzzing. Sensed nothing, but she dived further, instinctively, seeking what must be. Not on the surface, not recent. There, a deeply entrenched trace of sorcery. Barely detectable, but not consciously crafted so. Old and lacking true control, coarse and inept, almost indistinct to such an extent that it could almost be misconstrued.

It made no sense.

She pulled back to herself, used her eyes instead.

Indeed, the wings were attached to him – how else could they be? – just the acknowledgement made Glinda’s head spin.

Chistery fidgeted with a grunt, his wings trembling as if fighting off the want to flap, or they were an encumbrance that irritated him. The large things stretched out slightly, revealing to Glinda faded imperfect lines at the wings’ base where his fur was sparse. Welts, that to her, still looked angry. Almost giving the impression of old treated wounds, or as if surgery had taken place. As if…

Her eyes squeezed shut. A sharp draw of breath. She struggled to come to terms with yet another intrusive thought which had just entered her mind. For that could not be true, could it? No, it could not possibly be true, not with all she knew.

But the evidence was there, even if she was misinterpreting it. In that instant it said to her that someone had attached the wings to him. Had performed some grotesque experiment. And it had worked, aided, potentially, with the use of sorcery.

Nausea burned at the back of her throat, her stomach churning.

Surely Elphaba had not…? Surely she could not?

She cared too much. And with such fervid passion. Concerned even for the cows in the fields and for the source of their meals. Was driven to the unknown life she had led, to become as she had, by her desire and staunch will to improve their world. To fight the injustices she saw. Her eyes open, intellect and senses keen, her heart – though she would deny it – too compassionate and she too virtuous not to.

Or, she had been.

No. She still was. Though Glinda had too little chance to be graced by it once more. No matter what had transpired, no matter the tribulations and hardships, that would never have changed. That conviction, that fervour. That was Elphaba.

What good would this experiment even do?

Though, Elphaba had studied Life Sciences, for a time at least, and even with distance continued to aid in such through literature studies and, well the rest Glinda had too little knowledge of. But what she did know with absolute certainty was that Elphaba had no ability for sorcery.

Was he rescued, perhaps? That had a far greater likelihood to be the true answer. But if so, then from who?

Nessa had no talent for sorcery either. That initial reaction to the discovery of Glinda’s own still distantly stung, though amends were made. It was understandable, in that purely and strictly logical way, it went strictly against her beliefs. Even if she had, nothing would have come of it, and yet the rumours that persisted…

There was much Glinda did not know, had she not been told as such once? In the heat of another’s temper and upset she had thought. Did they not share hearsay and stories of the implausible and fantastical things the Witch could do? Nonsensical, ludicrous tales aiming only to build terror…

But had she not already, and so very recently, accepted so much she had believed for so long to be untrue? Had the blinders not been removed? Had she not looked upon events differently? Had she not opened her eyes and her mind?

In the face of such truth, could she still truly hold firm to her claims?

“Oh…” Glinda whispered as Chistery looked up at her, large bright eyes locking with her own. Unthinkingly, she ran her fingers through the coarse fur on his head, Chistery smacking his lips and cooing at her gentle touch. “You poor thing.”

Chistery had waited until she had risen back to her feet before he chirped something unintelligible, picked up the blankets as best as he could in his small arms, and offered them to her.

She thanked him, and awkwardly refolded them to lessen the hindrance of carrying them. Then, thinking for no time at all, she held one out to him. He either refused, or did not comprehend the gesture or her following words, so she placed one down on a cabinet by the door for him to take if he wished.

On her way back to her room, she was conscious of Chistery following her, the patter of his feet just behind her own, something that did not unnerve her as it once would have. Once at her door, a final glance down revealed she was now alone.

Dropping the blankets on her bed, she spun on her heel and strode with purpose back through the corridors. She would get some answers to what in Lurlina’s name had been happening there, one way or another. She felt the pull of her firm expression, knew it was almost fierce with her determination.

The Witch would not answer her – something Glinda would be quick to fix shortly if it was the last thing she ever did.

Enough was enough.

Instead, she proceeded straight for the kitchen. Nanny could be difficult, more so now with her… lost moments, but Glinda had – so long ago it now felt – dealt with the frequently frustrating and enthralling walking complexity that was called Elphaba Thropp. What she displayed now was something else altogether, was incomparable. Their interaction too short and mired as it was.

Glinda could make Nanny talk, if caught in the right mood, and she would. Coaxing words from another not a new challenge for her.

Marching across the entrance hall, the clip of her steps echoing and breath visibly puffing out before her, Glinda’s hands were fists at her sides. Her palms still tender, stinging now with the addition of the bitter air and how tightly she clenched them. It did not bother her. Too single-minded, fixated on –

A sharp reverberating bark made her falter, posture and composure lost, sending her almost stumbling.

With a high gasp, her head snapped to her right, spotting it instantly even in the weak daylight filtering in. That accursed creature from her first night there. The source of her agitation diverted.

It observed her with a cocked head, its tongue lolling out of the corner of its mouth. She eyed it with a stern glare, hoping intimidation would make it think twice. The tautness of her hands easing only minutely when it did not race at her.

Too late did Glinda realise her error, burgeoning relief short lived, as freezing to the spot appeared to signal that she was receptive to being approached. The dog (thankfully no wolf, though so near as to raise questions on parentage) bounded straight towards her. She jerked back, blood cold, fearing it attempting to maul her again, but it dropped its head rather than raise its feet, snuffling crassly, sniffing at her skirts and cloak. She yanked them away with a grimace, attempting again to put some distance between her and the dog, but the mutt was wholly determined to sully her clothes.

Strange. It looked smaller now than when they had the misfortunate of meeting, not by much, but just enough to be noticeable. Not that it affected her feelings any. Her eyes fixed on the beast, her heart already beginning to pound, feeling no less terrified of it even if in the light of day it looked to be on the older side, its muzzle thickly dotted with aged grey. She did not trust it in the slightest.

“Shoo!” she insisted, voice quavering and ineffective. She pushed her leg forward instead, trying to ward off the mongrel, valiantly doing so while trying her best to not actually make contact. For her sake, but also because she did not actually intend it any harm. Though she would not chance a guess at its own intentions.

Sidestepping her effortlessly, not even lifting its head, it circled around her. Leaving her back straight as a board when it disappeared briefly from sight, only to reappear with the same intense interest.

“I said go.” This time she gestured with both her hands, another misjudgement for the dog seemed to like that, making a rumbling sound as he jumped at her arms as if it were all a game. "No!" she yelped, sharp nails digging through her layers, the solid weight landing on her almost sending her off balance. She tried to twist away, praying it would calm down if she did not give it the attention it sought, but too frightened to let it out of her sight. A chill sweat beading on her brow.

“Go,” she hissed, the sound a mix of heightened emotion and hurt as its paws dragged down. As soon as they hit stone, it lurched up at her once more. “Stop! Shoo!”

If she attempted to run to the safety of the kitchen, it would undoubtedly view it all as another game and chase her down. How unseemly would that be? The thought alone throwing her back to her childhood, to the blasted ducks nipping at her heels.

But they had no teeth to snare clothes or flesh, just blunted, stabbing beaks.

The memory, the rising anxiety, the badgering, had her head swirling. Her heart ached, the flash of happier times always bringing a bursting confusion of pain and joy, unique to that which just the thought of Elphie called forth.

The backlash of conflicting emotions struck her with the same savagery as the lashing paws of the mutt. An awful familiarity, a worrisome sign. What was next? Erupting into laughter for no reason?

“Hey!”

Glinda snapped from her racing mind, furious motion ceasing, the dog standing still in front of her, tail wagging vigorously and she still aggressively gesturing it away.

Another unfamiliar voice.

“Leave Killyjoy alone.”

Keeping a cautious eye on the dog, arms not fully dropping to her side, she promptly turned in the direction of the squeaking voice, only to stagger back to avoid being knocked over by a young boy barrelling past her. She managed to make it look graceful, somehow, her surprise not as apparent as it truly was. The boy on his knees now, the dog wrapped up in his skinny arms.

“This is your dog?” Glinda asked doltishly, distracted, far more mystified by the more pressing question of just where the boy had come from? A significant length of time, at least by her reckoning, had passed since her arrival, and she had not seen even a hint of him before.

Well, perhaps he had disappeared into the same place the dog had, she considered, a terrible attempt to add some sense, no matter how poor, to the situation in order to lessen her plain bewilderment. And there, wherever it was, they were likely joined by the monkey – Monkey.

The boy glowered up at her, the familiar lines of his face fighting against the pudge of youth. She worked her suddenly dry throat, compelling herself to remain still and reasonable.

A child. She had never predicted seeing a child there. Well, not quite a child.

“No. Well, kinda.” The hard look in his eyes melted away as he looked at the smelly brute. “He’s my only friend.”

Maybe she did not have to press Nanny for answers after all, not solely. It was even more feasible now that she would finally get a straight answer about what had happened there. Put to rest her worries, long forgotten and quickly remembered as they were, that little voice she daren't believe, yet persisted indifferent to her distress. That her assumptions were mistaken. Another raised that very day, that possibly Elphaba – the Witch – had something to do with it. For the woman she knew would never harm an animal nor Animal, yet Glinda had seen with her own eyes the possibility of just that. It was not implausible for it to be the work of someone else, as she speculated and the faint remnants of sorcery attested, but the monkey’s fur around the… additions was still short. Could conceivably be from the trauma of it, or...

Nanny with her shaking hands and this boy with his still chubby fingers could not believably be the culprits. That left only one person.

Yet still, the question of sorcery remained. Those twisted epithets, the things people said of both.

She, of all people, would know better. Surely?

It could not be possible. She did not believe it. Could not.

Perhaps, then, it was whoever resided there before?

As horrified as she was with herself for having the very suspicion of Elphaba – how disgusted, how utterly appalled – it would not be let go so easily. The alternatives landing weakly.

Cajoling answers from a child, no matter how charmingly, left a bad taste in her mouth. Her intentions were for the best, however, so she would just have to stomach it. As she had stomached much before. To do what she must, to leave memories of such in the past. That was a simple fact of life.

“This place was not always empty,” Glinda prodded lightly. “Surely you had friends before?”

It was always with such ease that she slipped beneath her mask; her smile kind, her nature open and warm-hearted. She altered her pose minutely to bring herself more to his level. His expression towards her changed at that, softened and then crumpled with a grave sadness, yet within his eyes sat an eagerness for connection that did not conceal the distant look of one long forgotten.

“What happened to your friends?” she asked gently, words light and tone affecting a warmth she could not quite feel.

The boy stood, leaving the dog on its side panting and awaiting more belly rubs. He scuffed his ill-fitting shoes against the stone floor. Now she looked closer, she could see his clothing was well worn and everything sat slightly too loose. The sleeves of his tunic hung to just below the first knuckles of his hands, he tugged at the cuff of one, eyes fliting across the floor then not quite back to her face. The extra material should at least help somewhat in keeping him protected from the low temperature. “They were taken away.”

Glinda’s hands tensed in reflex, her nails pressing into her sore palms. Outwardly, she maintained her composure, the action indiscernible to the untrained eye, unlikely to be noted by a child most of all.

Despite the look of despondency crossing his face, the jut of a trembling bottom lip, it was fleeting. The boy shrugged, as if it were all expected, as if it was merely an undeniable fact.

“It made me sad,” he said as if it was not already evident. “The soldiers that came here were great!” His eyes brightened, shining when he met her gaze, the lost look within vanishing in a blink. “They let me practice with them, well sort of, but I did get to help them! But then…” His expression dropped again, voice shrinking, “I didn’t want them to go.”

Soldiers?

“Your friends or the soldiers?”

He did not answer, not that he needed to for Glinda to conclude the likely response. He pinched and pulled at the shabby hem of his tunic – one she was certain would take a year or so to fit him properly. Much like the trousers that still bunched awkwardly over one knee, baring a sliver of ankle and no sock. He rocked from one foot to the other, the trouser leg sliding down, the bottom of it dragging just slightly against the stone.

“Why are you here?” She was taken aback, though she was heedful as always of her outward reaction. The… servant boy’s question was as demanding as his eyes instantly were, a curiosity within them that unsettled her tremendously. She looked to his brow instead.

“To speak to Miss Elphaba.”

His eyebrows drew close together, his lips pursing. “Really?”

Glinda swallowed, her jaw lifting arrogantly.

“Yes.” Her answer was short, tart perhaps, beneath the amiability she put forth; it did not affect the boy who was staring resolutely at her.

“Why?” His tone was suddenly too young for his frame, like a toddler who would pester and pester for answers to the most pointless questions. His disbelief, astonishment, almost palpable. Briefly she wondered just how old he was, he looked to have reached adolescence, yet there was a childishness about him in word and behaviour. Either she had matured promptly as girls were said to do, or the constraints of eventual adulthood were not imposed on the children there like in Gillikin.

At least, judging from his appearance he was from there. Though he sat in someplace in between; not quite of the people there, nor of the majority of Oz. His accent, too, unplaceable. One breath an element of Gillikin, then the Emerald City, circling through to even far-flung Munchkinland, the Border Plains, and something else she did not recognise.

His Ozian perfect, the realisation greatly belated.

“Simply because I need to.” His mouth opened in question, she continued before any more words could escape him, doing so with a deftness that would leave the interruption imperceptible, “May I ask your name?”

His cheeks darkened, a few noticeable beats passing as he looked at her, before he finally responded, voice rising in pitch, “I’m Liir.”

She inclined her head, her mind whirling with questions she knew better than to verbalise. Partly for fear of who would hear, and partly for fear of the answers themselves. If she was ever able to get a forthright answer from anyone in the ghastly place. At least she had managed to get something from him, though as with most things there, it only raised more questions.

Uncharacteristically she considered, for a brief second, not offering her name in return, to just leave with a disregard to propriety. But the manners were ingrained in her, for good and ill. Irrespective of that, she could not voice it all, could not say it was a pleasure.

“I am Glinda,” she said instead, her smile still pleasant.

The servant boy looked poised to ask more prying questions, his eyes filled with a desire for interaction and a hunger for knowledge, maybe purely of the outside world. That which sat beyond the walls of the castle, for she doubted he had left them in an exceedingly long time. Seemed, in some manner, adrift from the world itself. Different from merely being from a distant land, raised in a culture jarring to most. Yet to speak Ozian so fluently, for his accent to be as it was...

Fortunately for her, the beastly dog jumped up, its front paws landing on the boy’s chest. Interest captured, his gaze shot down to it, face lighting up as he hugged the mutt, laughing with genuine joy.

Safe in the knowledge that he was distracted temporarily, Glinda took her swift and silent leave.

It was not with cruelty that Glinda could not face any more questions from the boy, nor the reason she could not bear to look at him. At least that is what she told herself as her steps took her hastily towards the kitchen, her thoughts racing just as fast as her feet.

As she always found, it was easier to turn her attention to more pressing matters. With so much in mind, it offered little alleviation. A complication existing in all things. The answers she had received made events both clearer, and yet not.

The more information one has the better for constructing an argument, convincing another of your point, or for connecting the pieces of a story.

Mind teeming, threating to overwhelm her, and yet all she found was that she was praying the boy did not follow her.

Soldiers.

Her attempts to breathe, to collect herself and relax the tension running through her, were ineffective.

They could have been local soldiers, a plausible theory she had already considered. Though it only occurred to her now that they tended towards warriors there, did they not? A common enough name to frequently decorate the covers and illustrations of illicit pulpy smut she held no interest in.

How could that have escaped her? Or was it a term they in the east had coined, and solider was actually the preferred term in the Vinkus?

She did not know enough.

Her thoughts circling. Local soldiers then? But why would they take the previous occupants? Unless it truly was nothing more than a local dispute or similar – for that made sense, the various tribes there always in conflict, or so they were told. But had she not learnt to not trust that? And why were there no signs? Had the journey not been free of the bloodthirsty foretold? Free of the danger they were to expect of the people of this land?

The garrison…

Nanny was exactly where she had left her, a cup in hand rather than a pen this time.

Glinda chanced one look behind her, finding the corridor empty. She shut the door at her back and took a breath that was supposed to steady her nerves, it doing as little as all the rest.

“Who were the soldiers?”

Oh. That had not been how she wanted to approach the topic. Not at all.

Nanny jumped in her seat, cup thankfully empty, her other hand pressed to her chest. Wobbling precariously as she whipped around.

“Really, Galinda, dearie,” she huffed with a sigh. “I have enough of that one terrifying me on the rare occasion she now wanders down.”

Glinda was relieved, at least, that dealing with Nanny did not require the subtly she was brought up and obliged to be an expert in. A benefit of the Munchkinlanders being so… different culturally. Nanny more so than most.

“Who were they?” Glinda repeated, supporting herself on the back of the nearest chair. There little point in ensuring proper manners now. Besides, Nanny knew her well enough, and the reason for her appearance this time was out in the open.

Nanny scratched at her side, making a familiar crackling sound in her throat, her murky eyes narrowing in contemplation. “Suppose they were Gale Force. No, maybe just regular soldiers. Army – Home Guard?” Nanny’s brow furrowed. The fire spat. “Not sure really, uniforms blend together so easily –”

Glinda’s grip flexed, the wood a solid presence in hand. The confirmation of the thoughts she tried to disregard settled heavily on her, her shoulders sinking. Another assumption, another show of her obliviousness. The heat from the fireplace was almost unwelcome.

“Why did they take the others but not you and Elphaba?” The Wizard’s men had been there, her unspoken suspicion had not been unfounded. But what did it mean? For surely if the soldiers had been there they could have easily… disposed of Elphaba – her heart clenched, breath stalling – as much as she did not wish to think of it, that would have been a far less complicated and more immediate method to end the threat than sending a group of announced Witch Hunters a significant time later. “And the boy.”

The last part was an afterthought, she not so ill-mannered as to ignore him completely.

Nanny’s face scrunched up this time, deepening her prominent wrinkles immensely. “Now I don’t rightly remember.”

Glinda bit back a sigh, not one of annoyance but frustration mingled with a stinging guilt. Of course Nanny did not.

From the dip of her chin, she caught a glimpse of the way Nanny looked at her, the exaggerated look of confusion fading. How long had it been since she had seen that particular look? It almost brought relief. “That sourpuss wasn’t here though.” The chair creaked beneath Nanny’s weight. “From what I heard.”

Glinda straightened up at that, making her way to the chair opposite Nanny, but not sitting down. Following her, Nanny swivelled in her seat, shoulders dipping, she happy to be sitting normally again.

“From what you heard?

Nanny put her cup aside, mindful to do so with a light hand. “Wasn’t here yet.”

They had been taken before Nanny had arrived? Could Glinda be blamed for assuming that Nanny had been there? The implication had been unmistakable in her words, why ever would she have thought the opposite? The more Glinda learned, the more she needed to know to prevent herself becoming lost in it all. At least this added a little context as to why Nanny had not told her of events, though it was sadly only a miniscule amount.

“Where was she?”

Nanny rubbed her hands together, it was clear on her face that she knew where Glinda’s attention would naturally revolve. She wet her chapped lips, Glinda’s impatience making it feel as if she was allowing some time to pass before finally giving her answer, the note of hesitance unfamiliar. “Came to see Nessie.”

“The funeral?” Nanny had not been there, had departed only a short time before from what she had been told, though no one had known exactly when that was.

Nanny shook her head, frown heavier. “No, before that, dearie. Back when the secession was still new – newish.”

The brunt of it struck her, heart plummeting as if the words were new to her. But, had Elphaba not told her as such at Nessa’s funeral? Had she, herself, not weakly tried to refute it? That claim lost in the storm of emotions that followed.

Her teeth dug into her cheek, nails into flesh. She wanted to demand, to shout – to release an outburst of upset like she had never allowed herself to express to another in so long. To take the cup Nanny had placed on the table and see it explode into a shattering of shards. A physical mirror of what existed within.

Why had Nessa not told her? With the depth of their relationship being what it was – with how it had further developed with their shared loss. Why had Nanny not told her? Why would they leave her in the dark? Keep that information from her? Had she not deserved to know? Had she not done enough?

Had she not deserved at least a visit?

A few words?

To be left a single message?

Was she not…

“Oh, Glinda,” Nanny said with crystal clear clarity, her tone soft and unexpected. She reached across the table, but Glinda neither raised her chin nor offered her hand. “I never thought that she’d… I didn’t want to hurt you any more. That’s why I never said.”

Nanny, with her considerate eye and untypical care. Nanny, who had been the one to find her. Nanny, who knew how much it meant.

Swallowing, throat constricted, she did not want to ask just why Nanny believed that. To tell her in no uncertain terms that withholding it cut just as grievously. Her hold strained, palms throbbing from fresh crescent marks. An anchor point in the turbulent unrest of her mind.

Never before another.

The heartache was violently driven back with the lift of her chin, Nanny still regarding her with gentle eyes and a turn to her brows. Even though that look wrung her heart, even though her eyes burned, threatening to blur, Glinda squared her jaw and forcibly dragged herself through the turmoil back to the crucial matter.

The rest had to wait.

Nanny’s mouth pulled down, but she thankfully chose not to push her.

“Why would they take them?” Her voice held a crack, not for the words spoken, but those she was turning herself from.

She had received what she had asked for, yet she did not know what to make of it.

Soldiers there on the orders of the Wizard, yet surely if they had come for Elphaba they would have waited for her return. Caught her off-guard. They had taken the previous occupants instead – because they had housed her? The implications clearly that they had resided there at the same time, there was no misunderstanding that.

Why risk the wrath of the tribe? Though those in the village had been few, their weapons basic compared to the soldiers from developed Oz.

All of this could have been settled years ago – if she tried to see this through the eyes of others, to not fall into despair over the imagined route of that life. The blindsiding news of Elphaba’s capture or death arriving with her tea, to have never seen her again and known she never would. To have had to listen to the celebration that followed, to smile and partake.

Had the Wizard considered it too soon? Had he wanted the sentiment to build and worsen, to wait to shape his chosen villain further?

Lurlina above, Elphaba had been there that long? For so many years?

“For protection, apparently.” Nanny patently did not believe the reason, her expression dour. Though, possibly, that was not directed at her answer, nor Glinda’s question.

Glinda dragged a hand through her hair, felt the urge to tidy it to try to centre herself. She had kept it basically styled while travelling, and since arriving there her habits had slipped her by, she now found she was leaving it loose and natural more often than not. To spend her typical time styling herself each morning, beyond the simplest of efforts, sat wrong within her now. To do it or not; she was uncertain which was the source of the discomfort and could not afford to give it much regard.

But now she longed for the grounding feeling, the soothing the repetitive motions would bring her.

That quiet, persistent voice that resided at the back of her mind spoke up. Harsh whispers in her ears; what in Lurlina’s name was she doing there? She was just a woman. She knows nothing of how to deal with this. The titles she holds are not hers – and should never have been. She, who is so woefully inadequate. She, who was never meant to be anything more than something attractive to look at on the arm of her husband. She, who was utterly and unequivocally out of her depth in all things.

And now she was faced with political assassinations, arrests, and apparent terrorist plots.

She, who in her stupidity and foolishness, had altogether thoroughly implicated herself in something she had no hand in.

Who had put her parents at risk, and all those she should be doing her best to help. Who, through no fault of their own, were under her deplorable leadership.

She was well acquainted with her inadequacies, alert to her ineptitudes, she would not argue with the whispers, for there was more truth in them than not. So she pushed them back. She had been rushing, jumping from topic to topic, emotion to emotion. Signs she could not bear. Not here.

If only she could leave herself behind.

Her fingers twitched, but her Pfenix was back in her room.

All of it she had realised before. She, too consumed by Elphaba, so close to her reach at long last. Mind narrowed with single-minded intent, not unlike her when younger, though for once it was for something outside of herself.

Sweet Lurlina; what would young, naïve Galinda think if she knew what awaited her in the future? Probably scoff disbelievingly before fluffing her hair and basking in the ignorance that would soon be cruelly stripped from her. How she pitied that poor girl.

Yet, Glinda would remain. She would not run. Not to save herself. Not even with the tearing of her heart. To learn what had been held from her, to suspect it had taken place when she had just been there, just arriving, potentially still there...

At the news, with the speed with which she had gone back to Colwen Grounds, to try to convince the inconvincible, the possible overlap was not one she dared to ask confirmation for or against.

At some point Glinda had placed both hands on the back of the chair before her, gripping the wood so tightly her knuckles were white from the strain. So that is how Elphaba came to haunt this place, but how she came to be there initially still unanswered…

Did she want one?

“What about the boy?” Her heart squeezed excruciatingly, but she needed to ask, then it could be shoved with so much else at the back of her mind. Not daring to dwell on them for a single second longer. Chistery too, the poor thing, scarred and altered. She could not bear to question it further. None of it. Not now. “And the Monkey? I saw neither until today.”

Nanny was not affected by her lapse into silence or the tilt towards acrimony in the abruptness of her words.

“Oh him,” Nanny muttered, something about her countenance giving Glinda the impression that she did not wish to discuss it. Not with her. Glinda took no exception to it. “Guess he didn’t trust you, probably why he hid. Same for the monkeys.”

Well, that offered some explanation for the eyes she had felt watching her. That or it was the dog waiting to pounce on her again. A hint of disappointment festered, despite everything else, despite already knowing better.

“He hid from my sight for this long?” It was less of a question, more an expression of surprise.

“Never said he was right in the head?” Nanny scoffed. An amused light in her eye. “Nor the others. Don’t think any of us are.”

Glinda arched an eyebrow at that statement, but did not pursue Nanny’s words this time. She was sceptical that she would be able to get an exact answer about that sort of thing from her, and did not have the ability to try in that moment. Her limbs cumbersome now, her chin wishing to tilt back towards her chest. Glinda’s hands slid from the back of the chair as she corrected her posture, refocused her mind.

Her skill in this type of thing may be lacking – dealing with events so much larger than she. The doubts may thrust themselves forth, resounding constantly in her mind. But she could cast them aside for now, and could at least manage to accomplish what she originally came there for if nothing else.

Nanny would hear none of it, had paid her no mind on all other tries, but Glinda attempted it again. It was all she could do. “You should all leave while you can. Take Chistery and the boy. You will be safe that way.”

Nanny snorted. “Too old to do that again. No, I’ll see out my days here.” Nanny sat back, hands folded on her stomach and a wistful look in her eyes. “I always imagined living in luxury. Born for the upper crust, I was. Suppose this is the closest I could get to the court of Ozma. Can’t say I can complain too much.”

Be that as it may, the answer not unforeseen, she was not alone in her decision. “If that is what you wish, but Chistery and the boy –”

“Won’t bother to go either.” She ignored the severe furrow of Glinda’s brow, gaze drifting to some spot behind her. “You can try, dearie, but they won’t. They know what’s coming. Made their mind up too. Sweet Chistery won’t leave his dear Nanny.”

Her words were matter-of-fact, their assuredness indisputable. It appeared she was the last to realise the risk to the rest of them. Resigned, she could do little more there and then.

Forever the last to know.

“Then we should all be prepared for when those extra mouths to feed arrive.”

“What?” Nanny huffed, her cheeks puffing out in annoyance, or perhaps because she had not heard. Genuinely this time.

Already moving towards the door, Glinda paused with her hand hovering over the handle. She turned back to Nanny with a look she hoped was stern, though she felt the way it slanted down. “You know who is coming here, Nanny.”

“And I know where you are going,” Nanny said in a sudden dramatic surge, grasping on to the words in a way that was deeply familiar to Glinda. “Careful with that one, always been nippier when cranky. Used to chew and bite everything she could get her hands on.”

Chew…

“Though suppose that never bothered you any.” Nanny chuckled to herself, catching Glinda’s eye as if she was trying to lighten her mood. Just as quickly her shoulders dropped with a long sigh, brows downturned. “Oh Lurline, burdens the heart it does, to know how things could have been.”

Lost in the flow of her own words, Glinda still waited until they stopped to excuse herself.

With unwavering determination, she headed towards the tower at a swift clip. Again, intent on speaking to the Witch, no matter how much she may rebuff her. Or if she managed to face her, argue she supposed. Glinda's point – the very serious truth – would be seen, and the Witch would come to understand her.

But then what?

Glinda pushed that thought away for later, on top of so much else, she could figure that out after she had spoken sense into the Witch – into Elphaba.

But first, she needed to get something from her room.

Chapter Text

A low caw startled her, heart lurching, she almost fell out the door and back down the steps. What a disaster that would be, one that would end worse than most. At least this time she could blame the crows rather than herself.

A hand to her chest, the other gripping her cloak, she breathed slowly and deeply through her mouth in order to collect herself, gaze adamant yet preoccupied.

At last, calmer yet not calm, she raised her eyes to the shadowy rafters and the numerous dark silhouettes that resided there.

Damnable crows.

Glinda scowled at them and they glared back, their loathing mutual. She allowed the exchange to stretch on for a long moment, as if it were one she could win, then turned her attention to the disorder of a room with a heavy stomach and a crinkled nose.

Elphaba should not be staying there. It was not healthy nor suitable in the slightest.

There were so many vacant rooms in the place, surely she could coax Elphaba into relocating to another. For warmth if nothing else, and if only for the winter – what was she doing? Thinking in the long-term? If she did not act, if she did not succeed, they may not make it that far. Though if events played out as she planned, they would all be well away. Safe, even if not together.

“Why are you still here?”

Jumping, alarmed by the sudden voice, her face burned as she spotted Elphaba – the Witch to the far right of the room, near the door to the parapet, a hat pulled low on her head.

Glinda took a step away from the door at her back lest the next fright actually would send her tumbling back. Smoothing a hand over her stomach, she pressed her palm there to steady herself. Honestly, could she be blamed for being surprised? Despite being so high up and the presence of the large window (again left unbarred), the room was both cluttered and rife with a dearth of light in most places. Combined, it made an astoundingly good place for the Witch and her drab clothes to blend in. To make a jest about requiring a spot of colour rose and fell, now not the time to seek what they once had.

Odd, though, the Witch had sounded perplexed.

“A pale vision haunting my periphery.” Her voice was hoarse, as one would be if unaccustomed to speaking or in dire need of a drink. Something clattered when she dropped it unseen on the crowded table. “Dressed as a commoner, though rather the wealthy one, or one believing themselves as such. All those aspirations and posturing. How peculiar a choice. Inarguably far from reality. I would have thought that to be remedied by now.”

The Witch’s eyes, sunken in her gaunt face, were narrowed and pensive.

Glinda stood firm, tilting her chin up beneath the scrutiny, and as she did she saw the almost indiscernible change, heard it too as the Witch’s tone veered abruptly towards animosity, “What are you doing here?”

“The door was unlocked,” Glinda’s own voice was light, breathless still from the unimagined discovery. What a shock it had been; she had climbed the confined winding stairs complete in her certainty that it would, once again, be locked. She had been fully prepared to knock, to receive no answer, and to stubbornly persist.

“Of course,” the Witch sneered, “how could I forget your habit of barging into places you have no place being? Though I suppose such things pose little challenge now.”

If she intended insult or provocation, she failed. For one, the puzzling addition, for the rest, the pained memories they brought with them. That first time she had entered Elphaba’s room, the thick document she had later openly poured over sitting on her overladen desk, the piles of books all over, that delicate scent that later lingered upon Glinda’s own skin.

She remembered.

Those images were swiftly followed by others coursing through her mind at an astonishingly fast pace, too furiously to be conclusively discerned, like the flickers of her dreams. Like those, the emotions they invoked in her chest were as evident and intense as the unobscured summer sun in their impact upon her. The catching of her breath. The stuttering of her heart.

When had she ever considered she had forgotten?

Did she remember it all? Had she – did she feel for any of…?

Glinda’s jaw clenched, her bottom lip wobbling for a breath as she lost her hold, very visibly attempting to compose herself. If the Witch noticed, she chose to say nothing, or perhaps was too distracted by the unexpected gush of wind rushing in through the open window.

Papers and Lurlina knows what else flew about the room, clicking and scratching surging in volume above. The Witch cursed, not bothering to dull the bared edge of her voice, pacing and gesturing vigorously in an explosion of fury. Muttering angrily that the wind never blew that way.

Wincing at the bitterly cold air, Glinda shook to her bones, drawing her cloak tight around her as if it could make any difference.

The additions to the present disarray changed the state of the room very little. A piece of paper fluttered down near Glinda’s foot, instinctively she made to pick it up, but thought better of it. Best not to tread on any toes, she did not know what may stir an unwanted reaction from the Witch. Did not wish to cause any further upset to them both.

Glinda was almost thankful in a way for the opened window; the constant flow of air prevented the room from growing stagnant and oppressive. It bore down heavily on her heart that this was what had become of Elphaba. The hows and the whys unceasing, speculations rampant, but she knew the folly of falling into such thinking.

“How can you stay up here?” As if by instinct, Glinda’s focus gravitated to Elphaba, centred on her as it so often did. Her concern heartfelt, but how could it be anything but? “Why not move down to an empty room, if only for the winter? It would surely be better. You cannot be able to rest properly up here.”

Along with all of Glinda’s other unspoken worries.

The pacing did not stop, Glinda left unsure if she had even been heard. The Witch bent down, swiping a hand out but just missed seizing a piece of paper, tried again and snatched it up, teeth flashing in an irritated clamp.

“Did you get what I left for you?” Glinda glanced around, trying to spot any of it, but with so much accumulated in the space it would definitely be lost or buried amongst it all. With everything that she had brought and not been returned, she was surprised they had yet to run short of cutlery and wooden bowls. Nowhere obvious stood out for her to sleep. The fire was more than smouldering, but still far too insubstantial. Up high hung a taxidermy alligator, her brow furrowed at the sight of it but she tore her eyes away – in part from the implication, in part with the need to see Elphaba. “I can get another blanket, to cover the window.” It would be of some help, at least, if she refused to bar it or had grown so apathetic towards herself.

Glinda whirled around, mind set and she intent in her want to help, but the enclosing presence of the threshold jolted her back to her senses, a hand pressed to the coarse wooden frame. If she left, who was to say the door would still be unlocked upon her return? The lapse in the norm certainly nothing more than an oversight, that is if the reaction she received was any indicator.

Later, maybe, after she had done what she came here to do.

“I do not want it.”

She turned back, retracing her few steps to where she had been before, watched as the Witch banged down the papers in hand on the shambolic table and pinned an irregular stack of them beneath a slender necked bottle with a rounded base.

“It will help.” Glinda hoped. “You could freeze to death up here.”

A rough sound rumbled out from deep in the Witch’s chest, a laugh Glinda realised belatedly. Brief and humourless. Different from the last heard and a far cry from the bright sharp cackles and low warming chuckles she had once shared with her.

“I can ensure the fire burns strongly.” Her eyes moved to it pointedly, but she kept her hands by her side, conscious of every movement. Felt, in a way, as if in one of her etiquette lessons and at high risk of a reprimand. “Or at the very least please let me assist in cleaning this place up, to help put your things in order. I know you prefer it that way, even if it can seem a little chaotic or overwhelming to an outsider’s eyes.”

Stomping about again, the Witch's footsteps were solid on the stone, hitting with such impact it was doubtlessly jarring her very bones. Still bending to pick up what else had been scattered, or possibly what had already been on the floor. Glinda could not see what for the thick wood of the table, but she could hear the clattering, the rustle of paper by the Witch’s hand or the wind.

The scratching above had not ceased, but she dared not take even a quick peek up to meet the beady eyes she could feel watching her.

“Incessant prattle,” the Witch murmured to herself, brow severe and lips downturned. The rest directed to her as she remained behind the table, a halt at last, her eye on the window and the view beyond, “Beneath you, is it not?”

Again, her split-second retort stalled on her tongue; Incessant prattle is rather my forte.

Such jest not lost to another life, she prayed, but unsuitable for the time being.

Naturally, she doubted she had the stomach for this sort of mess. For her, though, she would manage. And without protest. “I am offering.”

“I do not want your help,” there was no pause, the answer falling immediately from thin lips. “Words or actions.”

“Fine.” Glinda pursed her own. Her hand had found its way back to her stomach, pressing firm, her other playing at the edge of her cloak as if to pull it even more securely around her. “If not me, then why not have the servant boy tidy up for you?”

The Witch’s shoulders stiffened; stark, sharp lines through the fabric of her threadbare dress. Where was the cloak that had enshrouded her so completely before?

The unnatural stillness that instantly followed was like a threat, though it did not hit Glinda fully as one. The silence from above, however, very much did.

“I suggest you leave before I cast you from the window.”

Glinda sighed, a small sorrowful sound visible in the air.

“You would never do that,” she said in a hushed whisper. Despite everything, she knew no harm would befall her there. Not from her.

Whipping around, lips pressed into a firm thin line and eyes slitted, the Witch snarled, “And what makes you so sure? I’ve had quite enough of the lot of you.”

Glinda’s jaw tensed in such an instant that she accidently caught the inside of her cheek – not hard enough to cut the delicate, swollen skin there, but sufficient to send a jolt of pain through her. Muscles sent jumping for a few uncomfortable seconds while it passed.

Her inherent stubbornness had a tendency of rearing up at the most inopportune time, but here it was needed. As if facing another, she tilted her chin imperceptibly upwards, fixed an unflinching gaze back at the Witch. If she intended Glinda to be intimidated, she had to try more strenuously than that. Had it ever worked before?

The moment she let linger, done in that purposeful way that ensured attention was pulled to her, to ensure there was no avoidance or escaping her words. She spoke; softly determined and with absolute conviction, “Because beneath your bitter upset and grief, you are still Elphaba.”

The Witch gave a short, rattle of a laugh, though much as before it lacked any genuine warmth or humour. It, as with the other, belonged to a stranger. Chilled Glinda far more than the weather ever could.

But she had not snapped at Glinda for using her name. Had not snarled or lashed out with barbed words. Had not looked at her in a way never before seen.

“I know what it is to grieve, to feel that unstable, uncontrollable well of emotions. That ugly unpredictable tempest.” The hand at her cloak’s clasp spread out, fingers seeking to soothe the catch of her voice in her throat. “I know what it is to feel loss – to feel lost.”

To be left to face the known future alone.

Her throat moved beneath her fingers, the swallow a challenge, her chest aching. That invisible wound protesting her inadequate dressing.

“Elphaba,” she pleaded, wavering voice gaining strength as she pivoted quickly away from her own hurt, “you cannot stay here.” This room. This place. Her gnawing anxiety swamped by desperation, Glinda close to begging, releasing her hold on herself to spread her arms – to encompass as much of the room as she could with the gesture, as if to add all the evidence to her words that she possibly could.

“I can stay wherever I please,” the Witch replied haughtily, tilting her chin up as she did, almost a poor imitation of Glinda only minutes ago. Barely, was she moved by Glinda’s words; physically, and disappointingly emotionally too. A huff, and their eye contact broke, Elphaba resting her hands flat on the table and lowering her head as if occupied. Like she once had when reading in the study. “Cease your pestering.”

To keep a hold of her own turbulent emotions was a difficulty she could not understate; inside a battle, outside she trembled visibly with the effort. The cold stung at her face, and to her escalating distress she realised it was due to the unnoticed tears that had managed to slip from the corners of her burning eyes, the wind turning their tracks on her skin to ice.

The Witch’s lips curled down in disdain, her eyes narrowing even further, now nothing but a mirror of the crows’.

“I am trying to help you!” Glinda cried out, the words almost fracturing beneath the weight of so much. All to little effect, the Witch’s expression remained unchanged. Her head bowed. She flicked a hand as if to usher her away, her gaze lifting a few seconds later, regarding her as one would an irritating nuisance who still had yet to leave. “After everything, please listen to my words, Elphie.”

All fell impossibly still. Like the catching of a breath. The realisation before a missed step. Like the centre of a storm. The vortex outside twisting and howling terribly, unseen to their eyes and unknown to their ears.

As the Witch studied her something shifted, her expression still intense, but undefinable. Glinda felt much as if she were prey in the present of a predator, as she had almost been before, but this time one oblivious to the danger. The hair on the back of her neck rose, even though she knew in her heart she had nothing to fear. Her hands clasped together, but nails did not cut.

The Witch's voice was low and deliberate, as if in her mind something was slowly unfurling, “I do not need any help.”

“But you do!” This time she could feel the roll of tears down her cheeks. Waylaid by what she had seen, how Elphaba was living, all that she had learnt that day, Glinda had lost her point. She needed to reclaim it, to lead them back to that which was most paramount. “There are people coming to harm you, to kill you. You need to do something. You need to get away from here.”

Unaffected by Glinda’s words, the Witch barely reacted save for a slow blink. The change in demeanour remained and quite frankly Glinda did not quite know what to make of it.

“And what exactly do you suppose I do?”

The unanticipated question more so. Greeted with a gasp of an inhale, a stirring beneath her breast.

“I – I do not know, but you must have some idea.” Some of the tension building in her head began to lessen, if only slightly, at the positive indication the Witch was listening. That she was considering. The beginning trickle of a spring of dialogue, one which had once flowed so easily between them. Brightened with the hope that she was finally getting through to her. “To leave is all I can think of. To be well away by the time they arrive. But you were always far wiser than I with these sorts of things – with most, as you well know.”

The Witch’s brow dropped lower, appraising her. Contemplating.

The lift inside was not to last.

“All this way just to ensure your title is safe.”

That faint hope faltered, the pieces that had begun to draw back together falling apart. Glinda’s hand fell from where it had jumped up again to clutch at her cloak, though she remained stationary, all the jitteriness of her nerves was finding other routes to escape.

And yet something about that examining look felt odd, something about the words strange, almost as if she were pressing. Probing. A distorted echo of their old discussions. Or, perhaps, her yearning heart was too eager to cling to anything it could to try to find reflections of her precious memories.

Even so, she could not shake the feeling of that intentional repetition nor the assurance that was lacking.

“That is all you have ever been interested in.” The Witch shook her head, but the movement was restricted, a barely there turn both ways. “Climbing the ranks of society. Becoming like the rest. Pathetic.”

Glinda’s lips curled down, not with sorrow this time, but aggravation, frustration that she was talking to an impregnable wall. Worse, even, than when she was greeted only with silence.

How could someone with such intelligence also be so ridiculously thick headed?! So fixated on one insignificant, arbitrary point? A title she was but the caretaker for. A person she no longer truly was. The last not quite true, it would never disappear, of course, that want to better herself for her family, but it did not lead her in the direction it once did. It had turned inward, and she was trying mightily to live by it.

To tell her such, to explain with such honesty, to disclose that which had never been shared, was – she couldn’t. The time was not right, and even if she were to press herself, she doubted the words would come forth. Rarely had they ever in thought, never in voice, the depth of her feeling more than enough that it was unnecessary. They would remain trapped beneath her ribcage, bound close to her heart.

Was it another mistake? A question she would never know the answer to. Would it help at all? With the way Elphaba was? To divulge something so long-held, to pray she would understand and see all Glinda strove for; would that reach Elphaba? Could it reveal more than all other words?

It all seemed insurmountable.

The title – those titles – Elphaba was well aware of it all already. How Glinda had protected them, and now how she guarded them. To offer it back once more, would a difference come then? To give Elphaba something to turn her attention to aside from the heavy strain and encumbrance of all that was affecting her so?

Elphaba, however, had never wished for the title. Had made that quite evident in the past, save for that singular instant born in grief and heartache, tainted with her own bewilderment at the demand which left her. Even the accusation now felt amiss compared to days prior. Less a condemnation and more a seeking.

Even if they arranged such a handover then would come all those other issues, everything it would bring about and to the forefront.

Pouring too much information into the situation could potentially make matters worse, if that were even possible. But on the other hand, Elphaba now seemed to hold such reservations about her, a lack of trust. Could no longer see through to the truth of her as she once had. A look almost replicated at the Cloister, but filling her with frightful ice rather than cherished warmth. It cut so profoundly, that wound within fully torn open by the revelation alone; Elphaba no longer believed her.

Elphaba no longer saw her.

It all felt irreparable. No matter what she did, no matter what she said or shared, Elphaba would never believe her words again. And even if by some miracle she eventually did begin to, it would undoubtedly be too late to convince her of the reality upon the doorstep – too immense a task to get her to the point of believing her in time. Too late to do anything about it. Too late to get her to safety. To get them all away. The feat unachievable.

The Witch Hunters would be there. And their fate would be sealed.

“I am not that person,” her voice was distant to her own ears, lacking emotion with how tightly she clung on to them. Eyes stinging from tears and the biting air, her cheeks numb. Her entire body numb. “You of all people should know that. You, so effortlessly, were able to see through to the very bones of me. To see me.”

The Witch’s face twisted, though Glinda did not know to which emotion it tilted towards. Clearly, though, she was intent on arguing some point. Glinda could not bear to let her do so.

Before she lost her nerve, she pressed on, “I am the Eminence, nothing more than the title’s caretaker, and I have been doing my best to improve the situation in Munchkinland. I have been trying so hard, Elphie, to make a difference. Doing something positive for everyone, or beginning to at least.” Her tears had dried, but their residue and the cold left her face feeling taut. The words too, for had she not left all that behind, abandoned her duty to them for the selfishness of her heart? “The Wizard is using Munchkinland as a scapegoat. The most recent of many, I realise.” Her eyes locked with Elphaba’s, and though her gaze wavered, though her heart lamented, Glinda persisted. “I have seen what he is doing to the public with my own eyes. Burning books, though I do not know why. Attacking them when they question, when they protest. Locking people away, ripping apart families and lives. More unseen and unknown, I hold no doubt. You are a target, have been for a while, though you do not need me to remind you of that, but…”

Glinda paused, thinking over Ella’s words, everything she had read and seen. Everything that had turned in her mind on the long journey to Kiamo Ko. Words she had not wanted to put voice to, for to do so, to release them, would give them a strength she feared.

She did not know what actions attributed to Elphaba were true. All she had disregarded as lies – the worst of it most of all. The Witch, on the other hand…

And had it not been said that desperation leads to extreme actions? To horrors?

Wishing not to believe it meant little, there was much she had shied away from. More she had turned from. Much she had willingly been blind to. Selfish, as always, to protect herself. To protect her memories. To protect her heart.

“I have seen those being trod beneath the boots of oppression. I understand the horrors born from desperation.”

A muscle ticked in Elphaba’s jaw. As Glinda regarded her, she thought for a moment that she stood as she once did, as if Glinda were seeing a glimpse into the past. But perhaps it was all a trick of the shadows.

“I know you do not need me to remind you of such, but you have been shaped in the public’s eye as a villain.” Her bottom lip trembled, for a moment she debated asking, enquiring what was true, but could not bring herself to give voice to the words. Not now. “The villain. The enemy,” she said instead. “He has sent those people to dispose of you, to make a show of power to the public – to make clear that he will protect them from those they believe are a threat to them or are causing their misery. As if just one can be blamed for all ills, like their Kumbric Witch." Disgust laced her last words, her fingers pressing into the thick material of her cloak. "While it is also an unmistakable message to those that dare to oppose him.”

The skin between the Witch’s eyebrows furrowed, that intimately familiar crease, but there was no other sign of a physical reaction nor, even, a change in her eyes, partly obscured beneath the brim of her hat with a dip of her chin. But she had waited for Glinda to continue, to speak, with a patience that she had yet to display since Glinda’s arrival there. A wordless prompting that had once encouraged her in their treasured, if occasionally tense, exchanges.

Glinda’s chest heaved, lips parting rapidly as she tried to suck in breath she had been unaware she needed. Her words had left her in a barrelling, dizzying stream, lacking her typical considered way. Or maybe it was sharing words so entangled with her emotions as they were. Regardless, the frigid air did not help matters, seeming to rest leadenly in her lungs, a chill from the inside and from out, serving only to shorten her breath further.

Silence reigned once more, save for the whistle of the wind outside and the anxious thump of her heart in her ears. That same sensation of residing in stillness, all else outside of their shared moment in commotion.

Both of them stood there as if a single movement would burst something left unspoken, would bring it crashing down upon them in a frantic explosion of noise and havoc. The storm, perhaps, come to ruin. Much as one had before.

The Witch twitched first, a barely perceptible twist of her lips. A while passed in a fretful blink, and when her mouth parted again, the harshness of her voice had lessened, sounding more herself than she had since they had finally reunited. That low, measured timbre Glinda had grown to crave. The word a single direct order;

“Leave.”

Leave.

It pierced her.

Surging forward, she barely made a step, her eyes wide and a quake in the desperate plea of her voice, “Elphie, please!”

“Leave this place.”

The Witch stood firm, unreadable, her words spoken as deliberately as before. The agitation, the vexation of before vanished as if it had never resided there at all. That same peculiar calmness appearing to have settled in her as much as around them. Their eye contact direct, her face not marred by rage or annoyance, but as the seconds passed, Glinda felt – helplessly, despite herself – it almost veered towards a distinct kind of inscrutability. That which she had seen so often in their shared time together.

The truth? Or that pitiful sliver of hope forever leading her to see what she so ardently wished?

Glinda’s hand had lifted slightly, as if in the process of reaching for Elphaba’s hand or her arm despite the distance and table between them. The press of her emotion at her back, her throat constricted around her words, trapping them. Her hand fell, shaking beneath the cover of her cloak.

Fiercely, she clung to the tiny, barely detectable hint of relief beneath her despair and her consternation. The Witch was only asking her to leave the tower, not the castle.

There was no choice, save the one she had already made. One of the few she had ever been afforded to make, for the good and the bad. All that came upon her was by her choice and her choice alone, and she would see it through to whatever end.

To shape it, as best as she could. And still remain if she couldn’t.

A chance still existed, or at least she would be choosing to take it as such.

Time was ticking along. Days were not much, but with all that was transpiring within the walls and beyond them it felt more than it was. The snow would only impede for so long, had not fallen that day, but still rested like a blanket on the ground and surroundings.

It could not be relied upon. Those on their way would be there soon, regardless of any delay. It brought them time, but not a cessation. Tomorrow was an impossibility, but it could be in days or a week or more or less. They would not abandon their mission. And neither would she.

Every interaction could be their last. Every chance might be her final one.

Elphaba was not oblivious, nor utterly lost – she could not be – she must know her words were fact, she must know what was coming, as all the others did. Glinda’s words could not have completely failed to register, and if not from her, then certainly from Nanny – the implication clear in her words before she left for the tower. But to be completely certain, should she have brought the paper? Ripped a poster from the wall? Thrust the undeniable proof beneath Elphaba’s nose?

She knew of Nessa, she must have known of this too, somehow. Glinda had suspected as much, had gained no conclusive answer though Elphaba showed no surprise or alarm when she had first told her. Did she hold a plan of her own? Glinda could not bring herself to ask, those words dying in her raw throat. Overwhelmed by too much, by the likely reality before them.

If Elphaba was going to stand by and welcome her death then the very least Glinda could do, if not convince her to flee, was to tell her. Selfishly and foolishly, driven by her heart – her own neediness – the words bubbling forth, overrunning what she should be saying. These ones unable to be contained. The compulsion undeniable; to tell Elphie what she meant to her.

And maybe, in the end, that would be enough.

For her. If only for her.

“I do not know what has happened over the years.” Pain pricked at her eyes, tears falling freely when she thought she had no more left to give. “I do not know what you have been through, and I doubt I ever truly will, though how deeply I wish I did. That I had been there.” That they had never been parted, even though that was no choice of hers. Another one stripped from her. “If I had known where you were… if I had been able to find you when I searched…”

It was a challenge to keep her eyes on the Witch’s unrelenting gaze. Glinda had believed, long ago, that Elphaba’s eyes were like a mirror, reflecting what was felt inside. It did not matter how stern she may seem, how much of a mischievous menace she was choosing to be, or how cutting or searching her words; Glinda could always see what was held within, the softer intention behind the bluntness, once she left her initial judgment behind, or believed she had. Now, with trepidation, she had to admit that she could see nothing of her emotions. It should fill her with fright, shake her to her core, but the Witch had never impressed upon her terror. The closest was in that moment of her absurd panic over an action she knew Elphaba would never commit. Solicitude, is what she felt. An overpowering entwining of choking feeling, drawn to that which enveloped the Witch. That heavy melancholic pall.

It seemed they had both lost their ability to see.

Once, she had entertained her own musings, dared for a moment to envision a different life – of what a team they would make, of what future they may have had. In that faraway dream, she would have tempered Elphaba’s impulsive actions wrought from her fervour, and Elphaba would have continued to propel her into awareness and understanding. Elphaba’s keen mind and brilliant ideas, Glinda’s shrewdness and tactful execution of them. Together, they would have struck a perfect balance.

If Elphaba had told her? If Glinda had refused to leave her side that night, or felt unable to stay within her own room, what might have been then? Or would she never have been worthy. This time met with the brutal truth of it before being abandoned.

Even then, she would have stayed silent. Discovered alongside the rest. Unable, unwilling to betray Elphaba even while overcome by such fresh and immense devastation.

Her hands had curled into fists at her sides, the bite of her nails finally reaching. Something to ground herself with as she compelled herself to continue through the wave of desolation made new. “I know that beneath the torment and the pain, the things you have experienced and the things that have been done to you –” by you? “– that the woman I – I care for so deeply is still in front of me.”

Even in that moment, so feasibly a last one, she could not let the full depth of it fall from her lips. Could not expose her heart any more, not that last piece bound to it. Not in that place. Not now. Elphaba had known back then, even with her whispered question in the dark, even without it ever being released out into the open. She knew. And surely that too she would remember.

The Witch’s impassive features twitched, just for a second, but her eyes remained guarded, revealing nothing. A contradiction, for it was something. And what was Glinda to do but continue to cling to such things? To hints and signs. She had survived for far longer on much less.

Fists were now fidgeting hands. To still the anxious motion Glinda folded her fingers together before her, interlocked them so securely they tingled. She did not know how long had passed since she had opened that door, but she was quite suddenly caught off guard and thrown off balance by the press of an overwhelming exhaustion. She fought, trying to remain steady when all she wanted to do was fall to her bed, curl into herself and forget everything if only for a breath. How easier would it be, to simply forget?

She could not wish it. To lose what they had.

But once she had no choice but to try.

“Our time may have been short, Elphaba,” she said, praying that the Witch’s continuing stillness was a sign that her words would reach across the distance. To the heart of the person she came here for. “But it was the most meaningful, fulfilling relationship of my life, and it always will be. Nothing will ever come close to comparing to you.” Her voice hitched, but she could not stop. Not now. The words at long last flowing freely, the gate opened, that hurt curled around her tender, aching heart. “And do you know what the sad thing is, Elphie? That no matter what you say or what you do, how I feel will never change. It never has, and it truly never will.”

Glinda’s grip on her hands tightened, nails cutting into her skin as she struggled against the shake.

“Why else would I be here? Why would I willingly have to deal with all…” Glinda gestured with her gaze, not trusting herself to release her hold on her hands, “… all of this? I am here for you. It did not even occur to me what that means for me too, not until so recently. Yet, I still do not care for that, only you. Please, Elphie, I know you have not changed so absolutely – you are still that same person, though you argue otherwise. I know what it means to hide behind a mask, for the sake of yourself as much as others. At the very least please take heed of my words. Remember them. As I remember every one of yours.”

The sense that something else was unfolding in front of her was a constant. Those eyes that once were so caring, that held such warmth and honesty, looked at her with something else she could not quite name. Not the fury or agitation of before, not a cold indifference, but something other.

What affected her, that caused this erratic behaviour she only knew in part – was a speculation more than she wished to admit it. What had been seen before a worsened, warping of what had been.

Madness was all that Glinda could call it, and where hers had led to such complete submersion, lost to the abyss, Elphaba’s had taken a different route. She could not lose Elphaba to it, could not let the Witch take definite control. To become so fixed as to become the new norm. Elphaba was there, seen in glimpses and glimmers in the cracks of a mask almost sealed. The stillness now, potentially another. Glinda could not let her sink any deeper than she already had. She would reach out, offer her hand and guide her back up, help her resurface in any way that she could. As she had once been guided from the depths by Elphaba, and then later, left to breach the surface of the next alone.

Elphaba would not be left alone, no matter what came, Glinda would be there, hand outstretched.

Almost everything expressed; unconcealed, openhearted and laid bare. She could not wait for a response, could not bear to in case faced with further rejection. To be rebuffed once more.

A muscle in her jaw jumped uncomfortably, the inside of her cheek swollen from the distracted bite of her teeth. A coppery tang, a hint on her tongue.                                                  

She fought, battling to release her hold on her sore hands. One slipped beneath her travelling cloak into the inside pocket, fingers curling around the small, solid object there.

It was on a whim. All of it.

She held no absolute confidence in her belief, but it was high enough for the difference to be negligible. Regardless, that and the lack of opportunity had led her to keep it close. It still confounded her, after all the little figure had appeared to be chewed by an animal not a child. No infant had teeth that sharp or intention so destructive. And yet what Nanny had said retriggered the notion and a memory of shared childhood stories, and there it remained, at the very front of her thoughts.

She had it made on a whim.

Was there on a whim too.

Whether the damage was made by Elphaba or not mattered little, Glinda felt she needed to follow this through. And, childish as her thinking may be, she hoped or perhaps wished that it would bolster something within Elphaba, bring some clarity and some balance, and a reminder of better times. Just as she had found comfort in her childhood bear during terrible events. Such love held in a precious, if often simple thing, could do so much.

With her heart sinking impossibly further, she could not recall if she had ever gifted Elphaba anything. Not as she had gifted her. This may very well be both the first and the last gift she was ever to offer her. What was once a hunch, was now just shy of a certainty, and she held no fear that she may be mistaken.

If it could bring Elphaba a semblance of comfort, a physical memory of what existed outside of the turmoil within – outside of these walls, an opening in the prison inside and out, then Glinda would rest a little easier.

Elphaba’s eyes had finally left her face, warily observing her movements as if she expected Glinda was about to draw a weapon rather than an offering. In no life would that ever be the case – to even threaten harm frankly inconceivable – but even so, to see that suspicion alone stabbed at her. To be suspected of such. For Elphaba to think she capable of such a thing.

The wood pressed into her inflamed palm, her heart beneath a rapid, fluttering thing.

This moment here, this opportunity, was this not why she had it made? To give Elphaba some thread of connection to what she had severed so thoroughly. A piece of her past, or a rough imitation of it.

Glinda presented the small figure on her open palm, her own chin lowering before she had fully pulled her hand back out into the chill. The meticulously little bird, she stared at it as if it might take flight, and there she willed her gaze to remain. Unmoving, not reacting, even when the scratching of the very really birds above her grew in volume once more. Followed, after a time, by the whisper of fabric moving towards her, the crinkle of paper and rustle of the unseen beneath feet.

Her breathing, too, was louder in her ears. The wind outside greater still, a rush of air stirring at her hair and clothes, but lacking the viciousness of earlier. No frustrated shout followed the unanticipated gust, now cries from the crows. No chatter of her teeth.

It felt a mirror, in a distant way, of a night so many years ago.

An age seemed to pass before she saw a flash of green in the dim light, Elphaba’s fingers closing around the bird, a ghost of a warm touch against her skin. As soon as the slight weight lifted, Glinda turned on her heel, heading straight to the stairs. Aware that she may never get this far again, conscious of the lingering feeling of their momentary contact tingling in her palm.

With each step came a need for more effort, a cord as if wrapped around her. A pull to remain. The resistance growing. How she wished she could give in. Instead, she battled against herself and pressed on.

In the doorway, however, she faltered. Unable, it seemed, not to spare one last glance over her shoulder. Not something she had planned to do, and in fact she had not realised she had done so until she was already looking back. Even now, being near Elphaba led her to actions she never intended.

The noise above, returned though it had, was jarringly calm. A subtle shuffling, a gentle flap. Elphaba’s back was to the door, her head bowed, pointy elbows at angles, her hands cupped before her.

A smile pulled at Glinda’s lips, though it was weighed with sorrow. The tears had stopped, though her eyes still stung and she still shook.

It was no easy feat to prise her gaze away, to face the gloom of the narrow stairs, but the image of Elphaba stayed fixed in her mind as she had forever remained in her memory and heart. Never to be buried or locked away again. She could not bear to do so, to lose them. No matter what came.

Her quivering heart felt a little lighter. Hope, such a fragile thing, that last piece still gleaming. Brightened by her belief and her faith that she had reached her, at least in some way. And if not, to share what she had held so close – to know that had been heard, brought her a sense of something she could not quite call comfort or peace.

Selfish though it was.

But, to justify it to herself, to see the greater picture; to feel that trace of connection, and she to trust that with it she could prevent what was to come – one way or another.