No Place Like Oz: A Dorothy Must Die Prequel Novella(31)

But if it was a closet, there was something strange about it. Even stranger than a bedroom with no bed. “Where are the clothes?”

Ozma smiled mischievously. Then she closed her eyes and moved her hands in the air like she was playing an invisible harp. The lights dimmed, and the air grew heavier, like we were standing in a pool of warm water. Goose bumps crept over my skin.

It was magic. Real magic.

As she moved her hands through the air, plucking unseen strings, I felt a rush of energy coursing through my body. A feeling that reminded me of the shoes. Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I saw that she was working magic on me. On us.

Our hair changed first: mine began weaving itself into a complex series of braids while hers whirled itself up into an elegantly messy chignon. Next, my clothes tingled against my skin. I felt buzzy all over as my dress became shorter and more fitted, glistening with silver embroidery across the chest. Sparkling bracelets appeared on my wrists, and a glittering necklace materialized around my neck.

I stared at myself in the mirror. “It’s beautiful,” I said, truly shocked. I’d never believed I could look this alive before. I didn’t think I ever could back in Kansas—the gray sky and gray plains washed out everything, eventually. “I look beautiful.”

“Something funny happened when I was doing the spell, though. I tried to give you new shoes. It didn’t work.”

I looked down at my feet. The red heels I’d gotten for my birthday were still there. They looked more beautiful than ever with the stunning dress. I shrugged. “I guess it’s because they’re already perfect,” I said guiltily, hoping Ozma would buy it.

She smiled. “They are beautiful,” she said. “Where did you get them?”

“Birthday present.” I twirled, admiring my reflection. I couldn’t believe it was even me. Was it really just yesterday morning that I had been hauling pig slop across the field? I felt like someone brand-new. Someone better than I had been before; someone who belonged here, not there.

Ozma was still looking at my shoes. “Who gave them to you?” she asked.

“My friend Mitzi,” I said quickly.

“I see,” Ozma said with a tight smile. “Well, your friend Mitzi has wonderful taste.”

She knew something in my story wasn’t right.

But I couldn’t tell exactly what she did know. Could she tell that the shoes had come from Glinda? What would happen if she figured out I was lying? And, finally, why had the Scarecrow asked me to hide the truth in the first place?

I thought about telling her everything right there. She had been so nice so far, and I found it hard to believe that she was anything other than what she was presenting herself as. But my shoes were burning on my feet and their heat spread through my whole body. No, they seemed to be saying. So I followed the Scarecrow’s advice and kept my mouth shut.

“Can you teach me?” I asked instead.

“Teach you?” Ozma asked.

“To do this.” I gestured at my new clothes. “To do magic.”

Ozma looked at me long and hard, searching me like I was a puzzle to be worked out. Finally, she shook her head. “No,” she said softly. “I can’t. Magic is dangerous. Even for those of us who are native to Oz, it’s dangerous. For people who aren’t from here, it can be too much to handle. It can do . . . strange things to you.”

“Strange things like what?” I was annoyed. How did Ozma know what I could handle? How did she know anything about people from my world, when I was the first that she had ever met?

“It can twist you,” Ozma said. And then, as if she was reading my thoughts, “You know, Dorothy, you’re not the first visitor to come here from the outside world. The Wizard wasn’t the first either. There have been others, over the years.”

“Who?” I asked.

She just shook her head, like the story was too sad to tell. And then she brightened and flung herself onto one of her lounges. She threw her feet up, took off her crown, and dropped it carelessly to the floor. “It gets heavy,” she explained. “It all gets heavy. The crown, the scepter, this big empty palace. It’s so much responsibility. It’s so lonely. I’m just happy you’re here.”


“I’m happy I’m here, too,” I said. But I didn’t like the way she had changed the subject so quickly. Who were the others who had come here before me? What had happened to them? What had happened to Glinda? And what was Ozma keeping from me?

“I’ve tried,” Ozma said. “Really, I have. At first, I thought Jellia and I could be the greatest of friends. But she’s so focused on the fact that I’m the princess, and that she’s my servant. I told her to stop calling me miss and Your Highness and that I didn’t even care if she brushed my hair and brought me my breakfast in the mornings. She wouldn’t listen. After that I invited the Patchwork Girl to come stay with me for a while. She’s so much fun—she’s stuffed, like the Scarecrow, but with cotton instead of straw, you know, which might be one reason for the lack of common sense and conversational skills. You can only keep up with someone like her for so long before it wears you down. But now that you’re here, Dorothy, it’s like I’ve finally found someone who I have something in common with. I just wish you didn’t have to go home.”