No Place Like Oz: A Dorothy Must Die Prequel Novella(37)

“Don’t play innocent,” I hissed. “Neither of us was born yesterday. You know who she is. Glinda. What, were you jealous of her? Did you want her out of the way so you could keep all the power for yourself?”

Ozma put a hand to her cheek like she’d just been slapped. She shook her head. “You’re not in your right mind. Those shoes. The magic is already beginning to twist you. The way it did with . . .”


I didn’t care to let her finish. I was too upset. Rightfully so, I should say! Glinda had been the one who had watched over Oz while she’d been off wherever she was, and Ozma had gone and done away with her without so much as a how-do-you-do. She had some nerve playing innocent with me now—as if it was anything other than a power grab worthy of a true tyrant. “A Scarecrow’s one thing,” I said, sneering openly. “You surely got him out of the palace fast enough. A Sorceress, though, that’s another story, isn’t it? Couldn’t have her mucking things up for you, now could you?”

Ozma bit her lip and looked away like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Glinda didn’t have Oz’s best interests at heart,” she murmured. “Trust me, Dorothy. I know that she was kind to you, but the Sorceress is not everything that she appears at first. I had no choice. It’s my duty to keep Oz safe.”

“Naturally,” I said. “After all, you’re the one true ruler, and everyone else can just fall in line. Why, you call yourself a fairy, but you’re no better than a wicked witch. And you know my history with them.”

Ozma’s gaze turned steely at my threat, and I knew that she was through with arguing. She rose to her feet.

“I need the shoes. Now.” Ozma reached for her scepter on the bench. “It’s for your own good.”

I didn’t give her a chance to get to it.

It was easy-peasy this time. I barely even had to think about what I was doing. With every spell I cast, I was becoming more powerful. It was like my shoes were doing the work for me.

This time, I could actually see the magic with my own two eyes as it unspooled from my palm as a gauzy scarlet thread and curled toward her. Ozma could see it, too: her eyes widened in dismay and she took an unsteady step back. I guess she hadn’t expected this.

That would teach her to underestimate me, Dorothy Gale, the Witchslayer herself. There was nothing she could do. My magic was already twisting its way into her skull like a corkscrew.

Her gaze turned to mush. The side of her mouth drooped a bit.

I felt a sick joy in my chest as I used the magical filament like a piece of dental floss, pulling back and forth with my mind, carefully scraping Ozma’s memory clean of our conversation.

When I’d changed Uncle Henry’s mind just a few hours ago, I’d sworn to myself that I wouldn’t do it again. But then I had, just a few minutes later. And now I was literally changing Ozma’s mind. Sprucing it up and making it presentable the way one would change the sheets on the bed.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I had the vaguest notion that I was the one being wicked. But I found that I didn’t care. In fact, I almost enjoyed it.

I made her forget the shoes, and our talk of Glinda, and the incident with Uncle Henry at the breakfast table. When I was done, I was just Dorothy Gale, her dear friend and confidante, a spunky, headstrong girl from Kansas to whom the people of Oz—her loyal subjects—owed a debt of gratitude. Or three. A girl with an unusually lovely pair of red high heels.

I let her keep the party idea, though. No point in throwing the baby out with the bathwater, is there?





Sixteen

Over the next week, Ozma put all thoughts of ruling the kingdom aside as she made plans for what she promised me would be the grandest event Oz had seen in most people’s lifetimes. Every day, chefs, bakers, dressmakers, and party planners visited the palace, each one of them bursting with wild ideas and begging for the princess’s favor.

I was pleased to notice that they also took a special interest in me. Every new visitor who passed through the palace stopped to shake my hand, or to give me a kiss on the cheek and to marvel at what a wonder it was to have the famous Dorothy Gale back in Oz.

I half expected Ozma to be jealous of all the attention I was getting. But she masked it well, and never failed to appear delighted when yet another one of her subjects treated me as if I was just as important as she—maybe even more important. One day, when a little furry Nome peddling jeweled goblets thanked me for ridding the land of the witches, I almost wanted to wink at him and whisper in his ear, “Just you wait. My work isn’t done quite yet.”

Except for one thing: ever since I’d flossed Ozma’s brain, I was having a hard time hating her. In fact, when I set aside the unfortunate fact that she had imprisoned Glinda and tried to steal my shoes, we were getting on well.

We spent our days planning the menu and picking out decorations: bright, blooming flowers that changed colors every time you looked away; handfuls of stardust sprinkled over everything—we even coaxed the Wandering Water to form a babbling brook around the outside of the ballroom. I have to say, it put to shame the streamers and tea candles that passed for lavish back in Kansas. We spent countless hours lying on the grass in the garden, threading flowers through our hair, speculating about who was coming to the party and daydreaming about the possibility that there might be a few suitable princes in attendance.