No Place Like Oz: A Dorothy Must Die Prequel Novella(35)

Through it all, Ozma was cheerful and bright-eyed, happy to be part of the conversation, but every now and then she’d glance over at me searchingly, like she was looking for something.

I kept wishing that she would just leave. I had to talk to my friends. Alone. The Scarecrow knew it, too. He kept suggesting things to her—things like, “Oh, it’s getting late, isn’t it time for you to go find Jellia and discuss your schedule for the day?” But Ozma didn’t take the bait. I wondered if she was just having a good time or if there was more to it—if maybe she didn’t trust us to be alone together.

It was risky to try using magic on her. Doing a little spell on my uncle was bound to be different than doing it on a fairy who already knew a thing or two about spells herself. Then again, my shoes were powerful. When she’d given me my makeover yesterday, her own magic hadn’t even been able to touch them. If they were powerful, it meant that I was powerful, too. Maybe even more powerful than she was.

So I gave it a spin. I changed her mind. This time, I tried to be more precise about what I was doing, so she wouldn’t be able to detect it and fight back.

I envisioned the magic as a tendril of ruby-red smoke, as thin and delicate as the smoke rings that Henry sometimes blew to make me laugh when he was smoking his pipe. I pulled it up from my shoes and sent it drifting invisibly across the table to burrow itself into Ozma’s ear.

A distant, distracted look made its way across her face. She looked as though she was trying to remember something. “I . . . ,” she said.

Go, I commanded silently. As soon as I thought the word, Ozma’s expression resolved itself into one of surprised realization.

“Please excuse me,” she said. “I think I left something in my chambers. Give me just a few minutes.” With that, she stood up, set her napkin down, and hurried out.

He didn’t say anything, but I was pretty sure I saw the Scarecrow smirk approvingly in my direction.

It wasn’t right. I do realize that. People aren’t little marionettes to be pulled this way and that without their say-so in the matter. On the other hand, just because it wasn’t right didn’t mean it wasn’t fun.

As soon as Her Royal Highness was out of earshot, he turned to me.

“Did you learn anything?” he asked. “Do you know where Glinda is?”

Everyone looked at me eagerly. Apparently the Scarecrow had filled them all in on his suspicions. Our suspicions, now.

“We’ve been waiting to hear,” the Lion rumbled. “We’ve all had our doubts about the princess from the very get-go. The way she just marched in here and acted like she owned the place. As if the Scarecrow here hadn’t been ruling perfectly well in her absence.”

The Tin Woodman set his fork down. “And where did she come from? How do we even know she’s the real princess? Just because she says so? She’ll offer up no explanation for where she’d been. I’m the governor of Winkie Country and the gentlest soul in all the land—you would think she would feel that she owed at least me an explanation. With my heart, I would be sure to understand.”

I leaned in and whispered. “I’m almost certain the princess is keeping something from me,” I confessed. “I don’t know what, but . . .”

“Oh dear,” the Tin Woodman said, a grave expression on his face.

“My brains almost never fail me,” the Scarecrow said. “And I truly think Ozma had something to do with Glinda’s disappearance. She’s never showed more than the most cursory concern for the Sorceress’s whereabouts. Dorothy, you’re back here for a reason. You have to find our friend. But keep your wits about you. Ozma may seem sweet. But everything I know tells me she’s dangerous.”

“I have to agree,” the Tin Woodman said. “I can feel it in the bottom of my heart.”

The Lion just growled softly.

I knew they were all right. But . . .

I wasn’t afraid of her. Suddenly I wasn’t afraid of anything. There was real power in my shoes. I could feel it. Every time I used them to cast a spell, I could feel myself getting better, stronger. And I wanted more.

Why should I be afraid? She was the one who should be afraid of me.





Fifteen

We spent hours sitting around the breakfast table. Long after the plates had cleared themselves and the morning had passed into afternoon, we’d laughed and commiserated, retelling stories of our old adventures and some new stories, too.

The Lion told me all about his adventures in the Northern lands—exotic by even Oz standards—and the Tin Woodman told me all about his experiences governing the unruly Winkie folk.

I told the story of my sixteenth birthday party, and I saw that it had moved my tin friend so greatly that a tear was trickling down his metal face.

“Oh dear,” he said, when he saw that I had caught him in his tenderheartedness. He dabbed at his face with a napkin. “This heart of mine is a wonderful gift, but it does make rust a significant concern.”

Soon after, he and the Scarecrow decided it was time to go tidy themselves up. The Lion ventured off to the forest just outside the city for his afternoon jog. I was still trying to decide what I was going to do with what was left of my day when Jellia Jamb, Ozma’s handmaid, appeared, summoning me to meet the princess in the garden.

The day was sunny and warm, and I found her sitting on a wrought-iron bench next to a tinkling fountain. She was looking fondly at a tiny little Pixie who was perched on her extended finger. They seemed to be deep in conversation.