The Straw King
Author: Danielle Paige
Date: 2015-11-10 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: kindle; fiction; sf; fantasy
Publisher: HarperCollins
Rights: All rights reserved

CONTENTS

1. One
2. Two
3. Three
4. Four
5. Five
6. Six
7. Seven
8. Eight
9. Nine
10. Ten
11. Eleven
12. Twelve
13. Thirteen
14. Fourteen
15. Fifteen
16. Sixteen
17. Seventeen
18. Eighteen
19. Nineteen

20. Excerpt from No Place Like Oz

1. One

2. Two

21. Excerpt from Dorothy Must Die
22. Back Ads
23. About the Author
24. Books by Danielle Paige
25. Copyright
26. About the Publisher

Guide

1. Cover
2. Contents
3. Chapter 1

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ONE

“Did you know there’s a hidden district of Oz where the talking pastries can seek refuge?” The Scarecrow was sitting on a pile of books in the Great Library of the Emerald Palace, turning the pages of an enormous encyclopedia volume.

“Too bad we can’t eat them now,” the Lion rumbled. “Are you done with that book yet? Can we go outside, at least?”

“I’m only on Volume 23 of The Collected History of Oz: Its Landscapes, Customs, and Peoples,” the Scarecrow said peevishly. “There are thirty more volumes.” The Lion groaned aloud, but the Scarecrow ignored him.

His greatest regret since he started reading was that he could not read them fast enough. He had decades of history to catch up on—he’d spent his entire early life tied to a post in the cornfield, after all. He’d gone so long without a brain, and the thought of all that wasted time was nearly enough to make him cry—except, of course, that he couldn’t. At least he was a king now. That was something. He was powerful. He was smart. And he was getting smarter by the minute.

“Aren’t you done yet? I really want to eat something.” The Lion roared and stretched, rolling over on his back and gnawing at the spine of one of the Scarecrow’s books.

“Knock that off!” protested the Scarecrow. He was startled by the flash of anger in his old friend’s eyes. Since he’d arrived in the Emerald City a few days ago, the Lion had been constantly restless. He seemed almost ferocious—a far cry from the terrified creature who’d journeyed with the Scarecrow, Dorothy, and the Tin Man through Oz. Scare was happy for his friend’s newfound confidence, but sometimes he wondered if the Lion had lost a little something when he gained his courage. Sure, the Lion used to jump at the sight of all creatures smaller than him, but seeing this big creature wearing his fear on his sleeve made the Lion more approachable. Now, as the Lion’s muscles rippled beneath his fur and his lips curled up in a growl, the straw in the Scarecrow’s stuffed arms stood on end.

The Scarecrow, giving in to the Lion’s hunger pangs, rang for one of the servants. Fiona was the smartest Munchkin on his household staff, with a mind that moved as quickly as a Kalidah and an uncanny ability to sense his whims before he even knew what they were. Sometimes, the Scarecrow wanted to crack open her brain just to see how it worked. Not literally, of course.

“Is the old tin can on his way?” the Lion asked, but there was affection in his voice. Scare felt it, too. They’d decided to celebrate the second anniversary of the Scarecrow’s coronation with a reunion. The three friends hadn’t seen each other since little Dorothy had returned to the Other Place and the Wizard had made the Scarecrow King of Oz, the Lion King of the Beasts, and the Tin Woodman King of the Winkies. Privately, the Scarecrow thought he had gotten the best deal out of the three friends. The beasts were unruly and had fleas, and the Lion didn’t even have a proper castle. The Winkies were short, unattractive, and quite dull. But King of Oz! That had a nice ring to it, the Scarecrow thought, looking at his old friend as he lay sprawled across the throne room floor picking his teeth. And he had plans, for his friends, for himself, and for all of Oz. At night he lay awake, his newly expanded mind roving through all the possibilities. Once he had read everything about the history of Oz, he’d be prepared to be a great king. More than anything, he wanted to see his own name in one of those books someday, with a long list of great deeds. But the greatest accolade of all would be for him to be recognized as the wisest ruler Oz had ever had. He hadn’t told anyone of his secret dream—not even the Lion.

The Scarecrow still wasn’t used to his title. He told himself that he wasn’t as bad a ruler as the Wizard, who’d secreted himself away in the Emerald Palace and who’d been a fraud besides. Plus, he had his brand-new brain. Sometimes he could almost hear it whirring away in his head, thinking all sorts of new thoughts.

“He sent a messenger,” the Scarecrow replied. “He had some royal business to attend to, but he’ll be here as soon as—”

One of the library windows shattered in an explosion of broken glass, and something whizzed past the Scarecrow’s ear and buried itself in one of the books behind his head.

“What in the name of Oz?” he asked, leaning in to inspect the precious volume. Another projectile flew by and hit one of the floating sunfruit-fueled lamps, sending fruit and chunks of glass flying.

“What is it?” shouted the Lion, jumping to his feet. The Scarecrow picked a lump of metal out of Anthropomorphicum Catalogarium: A Bestiary of Magical Creatures, Their Diets & Their Habitats. “This book is priceless,” the Scarecrow moaned. “Why, if I told you the lengths I had to go to—” Another piece of metal flew in through the broken window, narrowly missing his other ear.

“To the Deadly Desert with your stupid books!” the Lion gasped, flattening himself onto the carpet. “We’re under attack! What are those things?”

“They’re bullets,” the Scarecrow said wonderingly at the tiny piece of metal in his palm. “I’ve read about them, but I’ve never seen one. They come out of a gun.”

“They’re going to kill us both, whatever they are,” the Lion growled, knocking the Scarecrow to the ground as another rain of bullets hailed down on them.

“I can’t be shot,” the Scarecrow reminded him.

“Well, I can,” the Lion said curtly, creeping stealthily to the window and gesturing the Scarecrow to keep low. “What in the name of the Wizard is going on out there?” He peered over the sill.

Rows and rows of girls, standing in military formation, stared back at him. They wore identical uniforms: tightly fitted leather leggings and pointy-toed stiletto heels with flared minidresses made of chain mail. Each unsmiling mouth was painted the same shade of cherry red, and each girl’s fingernails were polished a matching crimson. Each girl’s glossy hair swung in a matching ponytail. And they brandished matching pearl-handled silver pistols, all of them pointed at the palace.

The girls parted ranks to make way for another girl, this one riding a chrome-plated moped. Her chain mail minidress was shorter, her lipstick was redder, and her ponytail was higher. She had an unmistakable air of authority.

“I am General Jinjur of the Ladies’ Military Auxiliary of Oz!” she shouted, firing another shot into the air. “You ain’t the real king, you old strawbag, and I’m dumping you out on your straw behind! Come on down, meet my girls—and bring your big scaredy-cat friend with you!”

TWO

“My goodness,” the Lion said in surprise, peering down at General Jinjur. “What on earth can she possibly mean? And I’m certainly not cowardly anymore.” He lashed the tail the Wizard had given him and growled.

“I don’t know,” the Scarecrow said. His new brain was racing. An all-out attack on the Emerald Palace was unprecedented—at least in the history he’d read so far. No one had ever tried to oust whoever was in charge. “Keep her busy,” he hissed to the Lion as General Jinjur fired another shot into the air.

“Busy doing what?” the Lion asked incredulously, but the Scarecrow was already racing over to his bookshelves, running his finger across the spines. “Botanica . . . no, not that one,” he muttered, reading aloud. “Herbarium Magisterium . . . Tax Codes of the Quadlings . . . How to Cook for a Rigmarole . . . aha! Despots of Oz: Their Way, or the Highway!” Triumphantly, he pulled the book off the shelf and flipped frantically through the pages. “Chiss . . . Dr. Pipt . . . Eureka the Kitten . . . Evoldo . . . Gayelette . . . the Hungry Tiger—here we are! General Jinjur of the Western Lands!”

“What on earth is a book going to tell us?” snapped the Lion, who was trying to drag one of the library’s heavy bookcases in front of the broken window as Jinjur and her soldiers fired round after round of shots at the library. “Come down, you cowards, and meet the future of Oz!” she shrieked. “I know all three of you are in there!”

“All three of us?” the Scarecrow asked, looking up from his book.

“She must mean the Woodman,” the Lion panted. He’d managed to move the bookcase a few inches and was now slumped against it before he tried again. “Why would she want to kill all three of us?”

“‘Jinjur is a fearsome warrior but not a clever one,’” the Scarecrow read aloud. “‘She has long coveted the throne of Oz. In the time of Dorothy, the Witchslayer, she gathered her all-girl army to make a move on the palace, but was thwarted when the Wizard gave mighty gifts of magic to Dorothy’s noble protectors, the Lion, the Tin Woodman, and the Scarecrow. She remains a threat to the sanctity of the throne of Oz.’ That’s all it says, really. Something else about how she thinks men are too incompetent to rule.”

“You’re not a man, you’re a scarecrow,” the Lion said, pushing the bookshelf another inch. “She must think the three of us are somehow in her way. Poor Tin. We ought to warn him somehow.”

“Should we go down and meet her?” the Scarecrow asked anxiously. “I haven’t gotten to the books on military strategy yet. I never thought I’d need them.”

The Lion frowned. “I bet I could take her. But those pistols could do a number on my hide,” he said. “Doesn’t the palace have an army to fend off invaders?”

The Scarecrow smacked himself on the side of the head, jostling his new brain. Of course! The Royal Army! What had he been thinking? Sometimes he wondered if the Wizard’s gift wasn’t slightly defective. He ran to a corner of the throne room and pulled a tasseled velvet rope. A deep, melodious gong sounded in the depths of the palace, and a moment later a tall, lean old man tottered into the throne room.

“Royal Army at your service, my lord,” he croaked, sounding like a tree creaking in a strong breeze. The Royal Army didn’t look very promising, the Scarecrow thought. His armor was dented and scuffed, and in several places pieces of it seemed to be missing. His sword was broken. His long, scraggly white beard was dotted with what looked to be toast crumbs. A pair of cracked spectacles slid down his big, beaky nose, and he looked around him with a slightly bewildered air. Still, he was better than nothing.

“The castle is under siege,” the Scarecrow said quickly. “I need you to go downstairs and take care of things.”

“Take care of things, sir?”

“You know,” the Scarecrow said vaguely. Warfare was new to him. “Drive them off, or something. I haven’t read about giving orders yet. You’re the army, don’t you know these things?”

“All the way downstairs, sir?”

The Lion stood on his hind legs and roared, and the Royal Army jumped about a foot in the air. “Yes, all the way downstairs!” the Lion bellowed. “Your king has ordered you!”

“Yes sir, right away, sir,” gasped the Royal Army, his face white in terror. He bowed twice and ran out of the room. A second later they could hear his metal-tipped boots clattering on the stairs.

The Lion’s courage might prove useful, the Scarecrow thought as he went back to the window to watch the Royal Army deal with the invaders. He’d always seemed such a silly creature during their adventures in Oz, frightened of practically anything. But clearly the Wizard’s gift was taking hold. The Scarecrow didn’t tell his friend his uncertainties about his own gift. Something stirred at the back of his mind, something that suggested it was better to keep that suspicion to himself for now. Something almost alien, like a cold serpent moving in a dark burrow. The Scarecrow blinked, and the feeling went away.

Below them, the Royal Army rushed out of the palace to confront General Jinjur, brandishing his broken sword. “Cease and desist at once!” he squeaked, waving the sword at her. “His Royal Highness demands it!”

Jinjur laughed, her voice carrying easily to the Scarecrow’s window. “That old thing ain’t no royalty,” she called out scornfully. “The Wizard didn’t have no claim to the throne, and you can’t pass on what ain’t yours. We’re here to put Oz in proper order.” She tossed her ponytail, and behind her the girl soldiers saluted smartly.

“How?” the Royal Army asked.

Jinjur smiled. “Why, I’ll take power, you daft old coot.” She cocked one hip and winked at him. The Scarecrow stared in disbelief. He was absolutely certain he’d never come across anything like this in the history he’d been reading. Attacking the Emerald Palace? Demanding the throne? She knew the Lion, the Scarecrow, and the Woodman were supposed to be there together—had she been spying on the palace all this time?

The Royal Army lowered his sword and looked up at the Scarecrow, clearly waiting for instructions. Getting rid of her was going to be harder than he had thought. The Scarecrow had no idea how to deal with this strange girl and her sinister army, and the Wizard’s brain wasn’t offering him any answers. The Lion seemed to sense his confusion.

“I could go out and help,” he offered.

“Help what?” the Scarecrow asked. If only his brain really worked! What would the Wizard have done in his place? Again, that feeling stirred at the back of his mind, and suddenly a thought occurred to him. He was the King of Oz; he should probably start acting like one. He straightened up.

He went out onto the balcony and looked down at the girl. He paused before speaking, curiosity outweighing everything for a moment. Knowing why she was holding the gun mattered more than any fear he had about her shooting at him again.

Jinjur stared up at him, a nasty smile playing over her bright-red lips. The Scarecrow felt a sudden twinge of anxiety. No ruler of Oz, he was sure, had ever faced a challenge quite like this.

“I am sure that we can come to some kind of understanding, Ms. Jinjur.”

He could reason with her—he could reason with anyone. Wasn’t that the point of the Wizard’s gift? His own books had said she wasn’t clever.

Jinjur laughed. “The only understanding I need is that you’re even worse at this job than the Wizard, and the three of you are standing in my way.” She narrowed her eyes. “Where’s the other one? The metal one?”

“He’s in the kitchen,” the Lion lied quickly.

“I want you to get him. And then I want all three of you down here.” She fired a bullet into the ground.

“I’m actually quite a good ruler,” the Scarecrow protested. “I haven’t raised taxes, and I’ve settled dozens of petty disputes. And I’m going to establish the most wonderful thing you can imagine—a school system for the Munchkins of the Emerald City. Next I’ll create schools for all of Oz!”

“We don’t need no schools in Oz!” Jinjur snapped. “You’re unnatural and you ain’t a proper king. You don’t belong anywhere but in a field on a post.”

Now Jinjur’s words hit him somewhere below the brain.

He realized in that instant that she was not reasonable. And it was time for him to act like a king.

“I will not bow to threats!” he boomed down at General Jinjur. “Leave the palace at once, and do not return!”

It appeared they were at a standstill. Scare cocked his head to the side, wondering how this would play out. He had done what his books said was kingly, but she was not moving.

“It’s time for a new era in Oz.” She leveled the pistol at the Royal Army’s chest, and, still smiling, pulled the trigger.

THREE

For just a second, time stood still. The Lion and the Scarecrow stared, gaping, at Jinjur’s smoking pistol. The Royal Army’s jaw dropped in shock. And then he looked down at the red stain spreading across his chest. He lifted one hand as if to touch the wound, his expression bewildered. And then, slowly, he toppled sideways and hit the ground with a thud, his eyes open. A glistening red pool spread outward from his inert body.

The Lion growled, but the Scarecrow was speechless. In all of his reading, he had heard of nothing like this ever happening in the history of Oz. Battles, perhaps—but not cold-blooded murder. That was the domain of the witches. Over the years, a few people and animals had gotten caught in the cross fire of their seemingly eternal battle of Good versus Wicked. But Ozians didn’t kill other Ozians, not like this.

There was no time to think. With a scream of triumph, Jinjur fired another shot into the air, and her army surged toward the palace, trampling the Royal Army’s body into the ground. “Now it’s your turn, Straw King!” she screamed. “You and everyone who serves you will bow to us—or die!”

“We have to get out of here,” the Scarecrow hissed, snapping to attention. The Lion growled again and lashed his tail.

“I say we fight,” he snarled. Despite the seriousness of the situation, the Scarecrow almost laughed.

“Don’t be foolish,” the Scarecrow said. “There’s only two of us, and this awful girl has an entire army who won’t hesitate to—to—” He couldn’t quite bring himself to finish the sentence. The Royal Army’s broken body was seared across his vision.

“The palace is full of Munchkins!” the Lion exclaimed. “Surely we can hold off these upstarts. The Munchkins will fight for us.” Already, they could both hear screaming and crashing as the invaders made their way through the palace. The sounds of breaking glass and splintering wood filled the air.

“The Munchkins don’t know how to fight,” the Scarecrow protested. “None of us do. No one’s ever had to fight an invading army in the history of Oz.”

“Speak for yourself,” the Lion growled. “I’m not cowardly. I’ll fight.”

“I’m not cowardly! I’m sensible.” The Scarecrow weighed their options. He didn’t like the idea of leaving the Munchkins. But running away would buy him time to come up with a plan—a strategy for how to deal with General Jinjur.

“Jinjur only said she’d kill people who opposed her,” the Scarecrow pointed out. “As long as the Munchkins follow her orders, they should be safe. She’s here for us, not them.”

Shaking his head, the Lion paced to the window and looked out. The courtyard was empty; all of Jinjur’s soldiers had poured into the castle already, and they hadn’t bothered to leave a guard outside. The body of the Royal Army lay in the mud where they had trampled him, broken and battered. Suddenly they heard metal clattering on the stairs, and a girl’s voice yelling “He’s in here!” A chorus of bloodthirsty shouts followed her pronouncement. “Kill him!” someone else screamed. “Tear out his stuffing and burn it!”

“Jump on my back!” the Lion barked.

“What?” The door banged open so hard it slammed into the wall and splintered, and girls ran into the room, taking aim with their weapons.

“Just do it!” roared the Lion. The terrified Scarecrow lurched forward, grabbing the Lion’s mane desperately. Even before he had swung his leg over the Lion’s back, the Lion leapt out the window as bullets zinged past him. “Hold on!” the Lion shouted as the Scarecrow shrieked wordlessly in fear. The ground rushed toward them at unbelievable speed. The Scarecrow would have covered his eyes, but then he’d have to let go of the Lion’s mane.

The Lion hit the ground with a thud that knocked the wind out of both of them, but there was no time to recover. Screaming girls hung out the window they’d just jumped from, and bullets thumped into the dirt all around them. Somehow, the Scarecrow had kept his deathly tight grip on the Lion’s mane during the landing. He could feel the Lion’s muscles bunching underneath him as his friend began to run.

More soldiers streamed out of the main gates of the palace, howling bloodthirsty cries and taking shots at the escapees, but they couldn’t match the Lion’s speed. Soon, their pursuers fell away behind them, and their warlike shrieks faded away, to be replaced with the Lion’s hoarse, gasping breath. “Out . . . of . . . shape!” he panted. But he continued to run until there was no sign at all of Jinjur or her army, finally slowing to a walk when it was clear they were well away from the castle.

The Scarecrow finally allowed his fingers to relax their grip on the Lion’s mane, and he slid from his friend’s back and collapsed on the ground, too shaken to sit up. The Lion sat down with a sigh, sprawling. “We shouldn’t rest long,” he said. “They’ll be after us. Nasty piece of work, those girls.”

The Scarecrow was so tired and frightened he couldn’t think. “Where will we go? What will we do?”

The Lion gave him an amused look. “You’re supposed to be the one with the brains, Scare. You can come back to the Kingdom of the Beasts with me, if you want. You’ll be safe enough there, and you can figure out what this Jinjur wants and where she came from.”

The Scarecrow shook his head. “She said she wanted to rule Oz,” he said, bewildered. “But the Wizard said I should be king. Isn’t that enough?”

“Apparently not,” the Lion rumbled. A thoughtful look crossed his face. “Oz is changing, old friend, whether we like it or not. An invasion of the Emerald Palace—I’ve never heard of such a thing either, and I was a cub long before you were put on a pole in that cornfield. Even when people were dissatisfied with the Wizard’s rule, they never would have tried to oust him. But now . . .” He chewed the end of his tail. “You’ve spent all your time in the library, old friend, and not enough letting the people of Oz know you’re their king. Jinjur saw an opportunity and took it. She must have been plotting ever since the Wizard took power, but it wasn’t until you took over the throne that she saw her chance.”

“But how can I be a good king if I don’t know the job?” the Scarecrow asked, his voice plaintive. “Reading is the only way to learn.”

The Lion looked at him solemnly. “Maybe it’s time you learn by doing,” he said.

FOUR

The Lion did not let them rest long. Sniffing and growling to himself, he paced around in the grass until he got his bearings, and then he urged the Scarecrow to his feet. The Scarecrow privately hoped his friend would continue to give him a ride, but the Lion did not offer and the Scarecrow didn’t ask. “The forest isn’t too far,” the Lion said as they started walking. “We’ll have to take care not to leave a trail, but we should be there within a day of walking.”

The sun was high in the sky, and warm on their backs. The Scarecrow began to feel peevish. Already, the horror of the Royal Army’s death was fading. And now all he could think of was getting his precious books back. And the Munchkins, too, of course. “Tin is still on his way to the Emerald Palace,” he said suddenly. “We have to warn him.”

The Lion shook his head in disbelief. “Of course. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it. We’ll tell him to take cover until we figure out what to do next.”

“The Winkies might fight for us,” the Scarecrow argued. “We should tell him to meet us in the Forest of the Beasts.”

“The Winkies? Fight? I don’t think so. And you know Tin’s more of a lover than a fighter himself.” The Lion chuckled at his own joke, and then reared up on his hind legs, bellowing a sequence of guttural roars that sounded like a strange code. He waited for a few minutes and then roared again. Suddenly a huge old crow descended out of the blue sky, landing in front of the Lion and cocking its head.

Looking at it, the Scarecrow felt a sudden churning where his stomach should be. His straw rattled just a bit but he stilled himself. The Lion, all animal instinct, turned to him.

“Scare?”

The crow wasn’t one of the ones the Scarecrow had known when he was tied to the post in the field, not that long ago, before he received his gift. But it was a crow all the same.

“You owe me a favor, fleabag,” it croaked to the Lion.

“I’ll settle that once and for all after I’m back in the Forest of the Beasts,” the Lion said silkily. “But I’m afraid I need just one more thing from you.”

The crow snorted and ruffled its ratty feathers. The Scarecrow wondered if it would even be able to take off again. The bird was so ancient it looked as though it was next to death. It cocked its head at him and cawed in delight.

“The King of Oz!” it exclaimed, its beady eyes meeting the Scarecrow’s. “I didn’t even recognize you, sirrah. You’ve come a long way from the cornfields.” It bowed in a way that somehow managed to be sarcastic.

“I’m not afraid of you,” the Scarecrow managed, keeping his voice even.

The crow cackled, flapping its wings in merriment. “No, too clever for that!” it shrieked. It laughed so hard it fell over in the dust and had to struggle mightily to right itself.

Scare narrowed his eyes at it. He wasn’t in the field anymore. He did not have to stand for this.

“Bow before your king,” he said firmly. So firmly, that Lion glanced at him in surprise.

The crow cocked its head to the side, as if considering another comeback.

The Lion growled at the crow so loudly and with such wind that the crow’s feathers shook.

The crow complied, touching its beak to the ground. When it rose, the Lion gave it instructions. And when the Scarecrow looked it in its beady eyes again, the crow looked away first.

“You will take a message,” the Lion said wearily. “Our friend the Tin Woodman is journeying to the Emerald Palace, but he must return to the land of the Winkies for now. The palace has been overtaken by an enemy force.”

At that, the crow looked startled. “But such a thing has never—”

“Yes, we know,” the Scarecrow interrupted. Seeing the crow bow for him for real had somehow energized him. He could focus again on what was important—keeping Tin safe. “If he goes to the palace unprepared, he’ll be riddled with bullets and torn apart for scrap. You have to warn him.”

The crow eyeballed them both, looking as though it wanted to protest, but decided against it. “Very well,” it said, flapping its wings vigorously and launching awkwardly into the air. “But I’ll never help you again!” it shrieked at the Lion, before it caught an updraft and was gone.

The Lion looked at the Scarecrow critically.

“That was fun, but you know there’s no bowing on the battlefield.”

The Scarecrow looked at him for a long beat, and answered, “I know.”

The Lion studied him, and the Scarecrow could see a wave of recognition break across his broad face. The Lion knew the Scarecrow’s history with the crows.

“I could have picked another kind of messenger. But time is so short,” he said, his voice gruff but gentle.

Scarecrow’s brain was expanding faster and faster every day, so much so he sometimes worried he’d outgrow his dear old friend. But in moments like this, he knew that the Lion and Tin and Dorothy would always understand him no matter what.

The Scarecrow shook his head. “Crows are effective messengers. And like you said, time is short.”

“Still, it’s a nasty old thing,” the Lion said under his breath. “Ruling the beasts is a real chore sometimes. They’re not like your Munchkins. They don’t sing and work the day away. They devour it. Every moment is a challenge. Anyway,” he added in a normal tone, “the message will tell him to take cover. We might be able to rally the beasts to your cause.”

“It’s your cause, too,” the Scarecrow pointed out. “I’m supposed to be your king.”

“Of course you are, old friend. I just wanted to make sure it’s what you wanted . . .”

“Why would you say that?”

“I know your brain is up to the task, Scare. But the way Oz is going you’re going to end up with some blood on that shiny new uniform of yours . . . Oz is changing . . . but do you want it to change you?”

It was Scare’s turn not to answer. At least not out loud. He needed time to think, to do more research. But he knew one thing—he was going to rule Oz intelligently. He was going to create a world where the mind was valued above all else. He’d go down in history as the cleverest king Oz had ever had.

He took a deep breath and looked at his friend. “Lion, I want to be kind more than anything. And I want to educate all of Oz.”

The Lion looked at him a long beat, his tail standing on end like it did when he was figuring something out. “You mean like have everyone go to school?”

“Exactly,” he cried.

“That’s either the dumbest or most brilliant thing I’ve ever heard,” Lion said with a laugh, and began moving again.

Scare felt a spring in his straw step after that. Saying it out loud had given him even more energy. But Lion’s earlier assertion still haunted him a bit . . . His sawdust-stuffed brain struggled to process everything that had happened. Maybe the Lion was right; while Scare had been shut in with his books, Oz was changing. If that were the case, he’d have to find a way to keep up. But how could he fight off an entire army of invaders? There was no way he could retake the castle by himself. He’d have to think of a way to get the Lion to help him, maybe even all of the beasts. And that was going to take more craftiness than he’d ever used in his life. The Scarecrow smiled grimly to himself. If Oz itself was changing, so could he.

Looking at the landscape, Scare realized he hadn’t been on a real adventure since Dorothy had landed in Oz, rescued him from the field where she’d found him, and swept him up in her quest to find the Wizard. He owed everything he was now to that girl and her funny dog. He wondered absently where she was now. Back in the Other Place, he supposed. If only he had a way to send her some kind of message, to tell her what had happened in the palace. The Scarecrow’s new brain had been helpful when he was the King of Oz, but he secretly had to admit that he wasn’t entirely sure it was up to snuff when it came to totally new situations like a coup and an invading army. But Dorothy would have known how to deal with Jinjur, he was sure of it. She’d figured out a solution to all the problems they’d faced before.

Dorothy was the reason that he had come up with the idea of education. She’d told him about her schools back home. Apparently, the very young went there and learned about the world. If Oz had had one of those, maybe Jinjur wouldn’t be so ignorant and this whole mess wouldn’t be happening.

He sighed. He wished he could bounce his current predicament off Dorothy. It didn’t matter. He had no way of reaching her, and he would have to deal with this strange new situation himself. He’d already come a long way from that sad stuffed creature languishing away in a cornfield. He’d helped Dorothy defeat the Wizard, gotten his brain, and become the King of Oz. Surely he could manage the coming conflict without the help of a child from another world. The Lion would have been ashamed of him if he’d spoken any of his doubts aloud. He stood up straighter as he walked, determined to turn over a new leaf, but hoofbeats on the path behind him caused him to turn.

“Get under cover,” the Lion growled, pushing him toward a row of bushes. “Now.” The Scarecrow dove behind a bush, with the Lion close behind him, as the mysterious rider thundered toward them. They peered through the branches as the horse galloped past. Its haunches were smeared with blood and gore, and its rider was in even worse shape, barely clinging to its dirt-clumped mane. The horse was moving so quickly that it was difficult to make out the rider’s features, but the Scarecrow was certain it was a Munchkin—and it had looked absolutely terrified.

“Wasn’t that one of the palace horses?” the Lion asked.

“And I think that was one of the palace servants,” the Scarecrow said, nodding.

The Lion frowned. “Perhaps he or she was just fleeing the battle.”

The Scarecrow felt his brain stir, almost as if he were revving a motor. “The battle is over,” he said decisively. “It was over as soon as the Royal Army was killed and we left the palace. We’ve been walking for a while. This is something else.”

The Lion nodded thoughtfully. “If we see another rider, we should stop him and ask—as long as it’s not one of Jinjur’s soldiers.”

“I’d certainly rather not be captured by the likes of them,” the Scarecrow said with a shudder.

Scare heard a strange, whooshing sound, but when he and Lion continued, all they found were more trees. As they pressed forward, Scare felt a few drops of rain landing on his lapel.

He looked down as another drop landed on his hand. It wasn’t rain. It was dark red.

It was blood.

“Lion?” he said in a whisper. He looked up. Above him, a Munchkin was caught in some kind of elaborate web. The web was cutting into her skin, drawing drops of blood.

A little voice cried, “Help me.”

FIVE

It took the Lion what seemed like a million excruciating minutes to tear the little Munchkin out of the tree. As Scare tended to her cuts, tearing cloth from his own palace finery, he noticed that she was a young, female Munchkin, dressed in a scullery uniform that was tattered and bloodstained. A purple bruise colored her left eye, and blood still trickled from where a clump of her hair had been torn out at the roots. Her eyes stared up at him, unseeing, and she was trembling with fear.

“It’s all right,” the Scarecrow said as gently as he could. “It’s only me.” She was too upset to move on her own, so the Scarecrow and the Lion carefully carried her away from the path in case another rider—or one of Jinjur’s soldiers—appeared.

“What happened?” the Lion growled. The Munchkin’s eyes seemed to focus, and a quizzical expression flashed across her face.

“Your Majesty?” she asked, looking from the Lion to the Scarecrow. “Is it really you?”

“It’s me,” he reassured her. “And my friend the Cow—” The Lion growled deep in his throat. “The Lion,” the Scarecrow amended hastily. “What’s happened? Did you come from the palace?”

“Oh, Your Highness!” the Munchkin wailed, bursting into tears. “It’s so aw-aw-awful! Your Highness, you must come back and help us! Those g-g-g-irls!” She dissolved into sobs, and for several minutes made no sense at all. The Lion and the Scarecrow were forced to wait for her hysterical fit to subside as the Scarecrow patted her awkwardly on the back. She took several deep breaths, finally getting control of herself.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” she said in a low voice. “Only it’s so awful, what’s happening at the palace. Jinjur’s been killing the servants left and right. She says we’re conspiring with the usurper—that’s you, sir, begging your pardon—and we have no place in the new regime! I snuck out of the palace in one of the laundry carts and was trying to walk to safety, but Jinjur’s forces must have set some kind of trap on their way to the palace.”

It was worse than he imagined. A question, errant and wrong, bubbled up before the images of dead Munchkins replaced it: But how are my books? He stuffed it down and focused on his poor subjects. He had left them to be slaughtered.

Scare spotted the Lion, whose mood had turned to vigilance. The Lion was crouched in punching mode and his eyes were darting around the forest ceiling. Scare looked around the forest, imaging new dangers everywhere—he spotted another web stretching low between two trees glistening in the waning Oz light.

The Munchkin girl began to cry again. “We’re only trying to do our jobs, sir, just as we’ve always done. We don’t mind if it’s you ruling Oz, or the Wizard, or Ozma—our place has always been in the Emerald Palace. But now . . .” Her voice broke.

The Scarecrow tried another tack. “Hibiscus Lemon . . .”

“You know me?” she asked, so surprised that her tears were forgotten. She looked up at him; her big eyes blinked themselves dry.

“Of course I do. East wing. Not terribly good with the duster but a master seamstress. Which is of particular importance to a king who is held together by needle and thread . . .”

To test his growing intellect, he’d memorized every Munchkin’s name and face and a few of their attributes.

Hibiscus Lemon didn’t smile but her tears stopped falling. That was something. He squeezed her tiny hand gently, and she leaned against him. She weighed less than nothing, but he could feel the weight of all that was lost back at the palace all over again.

“This Jinjur person is getting more awful by the second,” the Scarecrow said quietly to the Lion over her little green-haired head.

“It’s certainly unprecedented,” the Lion agreed. “Perhaps Jinjur saw you as vulnerable.”

“Me? Vulnerable?” the Scarecrow sputtered. “Of course I needed to get a feel for things still, but I was certainly learning how to do an excellent job as king. And like the book said, she is clearly not in any position to judge me.”

The Lion looked at Scare as if he was trying hard to figure him out. “I never know anymore whether you want me to answer or whether your question is rheumatical?”

“Rhetorical,” the Scarecrow corrected.

The Lion shrugged his hulking shoulders as if this somehow proved his point.

“Can’t you help me, Your Highness?” the Munchkin asked desperately.

The Lion rose with a sigh. He cast a sympathetic glance at the Munchkin but then gave Scare a look that said they needed to move.

The Scarecrow had no idea what to tell this poor creature. How could he possibly help her? He had to get to the Forest of the Beasts with the Lion and find a way to reclaim the throne. But the Lion was looking at him intently, and the teary-eyed Munchkin was staring at him with beseeching eyes. He couldn’t just leave her here. The Wizard had given him brains—surely he could come up with a solution to her problem.

A spark of inspiration hit him. “Where were you hoping to go?”

“To my family, sir.” She pointed down the path. “They live in a Munchkin village at the edge of the Forest of the Beasts.”

The Scarecrow was delighted by this convenient turn of events. “Then we shall escort you there,” he said grandly, feeling generous and magnanimous. Picking up people to help along a journey reminded him of the trip down the Road of Yellow Brick with Dorothy, and that had turned out better than they ever imagined. At the very least he could help this one girl.

Hibiscus Lemon nodded, but he could see from her far-off stare that his clever solution hadn’t done much to reassure her. Still, he was certain it was just what the Wizard would have done, and he was pleased with himself. She was not like him—knowing the next move had lifted a bit of the weight off his straw-filled chest. He assumed that the Munchkin would not feel better until she saw her home again and was safely in the arms of her parents. The Lion did not comment, but the Scarecrow could sense that he approved, or at the very least, was happy they were moving and no longer sitting ducks for any of Jinjur’s army.

The three of them set off in the direction the girl had been heading. They saw no more riders on the road, and the Scarecrow wondered if any of the other palace residents had escaped Jinjur’s forces. He certainly hoped so. The memory of the Royal Army’s trampled body flashed in front of his eyes. It was horrible to think of the same thing happening to other residents of the palace. His people. What if Jinjur had killed poor Fiona? Or the sweet Munchkin chef who oversaw the kitchens?

“Hibiscus Lemon, when you were . . . did you happen to see Fiona?” he managed as gently as possible.

Hibiscus shook her head. And opened her mouth, but the effort brought more tears.

He wished that she’d answered differently. That she’d seen his favorite little maid escaping to safety. But at least she’d not said that he’d seen her hurt by Jinjur. He opened his mouth to ask more, but he closed it again. In this one case not knowing felt better than knowing, especially when he knew that whatever she had to say would not be good.

With Hibiscus Lemon taking the Scarecrow’s former place on the Lion’s back, the journey passed quickly, and soon the Scarecrow could see a small village in the distance. The Munchkin perked up visibly at the sight of her home. “Ma and Pa will be happy to see me,” she said, straightening her bloodied dress. “I haven’t been home in ages. Everyone’s home—you can see the smoke from their cooking fires.”

But as they got closer, it was obvious something was wrong.

“Are those grislybirds?” the Lion asked in a low voice. The Scarecrow looked up. Dark shadows circled and swooped in the air above them.

Grislybirds were hulking and silent creatures. Unlike other animals in Oz, they didn’t speak—which made them all the more terrifying. Not to mention they fed on dead flesh. The Scarecrow shivered.

As they drew closer, he could see that the smoke wasn’t coming from the chimneys. The thick, dark, oily plumes were rising from the huts themselves. The village was on fire.

“Jinjur’s army was here first,” the Lion said quietly.

“But why?” cried the Munchkin, breaking into a limping run.

The Scarecrow’s mind raced and came up with a solution. “She said that she’d kill anyone who supported me,” he said, guilt washing over him with every step closer to the charred pastel houses. “The Munchkins have always been loyal to whoever sat on the throne. They had no idea she’d kill them for not yielding to her coup. The Munchkins have never been fighters—there’s probably not a single weapon in the entire village. They were totally unprepared.”

“My parents! I have to make sure they’re alive!” the Munchkin girl sobbed, her bloodstained face now streaked with tears. “I don’t have anything left!”

“Wait!” cried the Scarecrow. “For all we know, some of Jinjur’s soldiers stayed behind to finish the job!”

The Lion nodded in agreement, but Hibiscus tore away from them and ran toward her ruined village. Up close, the destruction was awful. Many of the houses had been burned to the ground, and others were only partially standing. Through the scorched and blackened walls, the Scarecrow could see tables still set for a meal, as though the occupants had just stepped outside. But the charred corpses in the streets suggested that none of the Munchkins had gotten far.

Scare scanned the faces for ones he knew. None of them worked at the palace. He did not know them. But they were his people all the same. They were his responsibility as king and now they were gone.

The once carefully tended flower beds that lined the road were trampled, and blood had pooled between the paving stones. The Lion lowered his head, sniffing at one of the dark puddles. “Still warm,” he growled. “The soldiers just passed this way.”

Ahead of them, Hibiscus screamed. She had sunk to her knees in front of the house that must have been hers, and she wasn’t alone. The Scarecrow had been right: they weren’t alone in the village. One of Jinjur’s soldiers had been left behind, and she was holding a knife to the Munchkin girl’s throat.

SIX

The Lion leapt forward with a roar. “Wait!” the Scarecrow cried out. The Lion twisted in midair and dropped back to his feet. Jinjur’s soldier grinned at them over the terrified Munchkin. She grabbed a hank of the Munchkin’s hair and jerked her head backward, her knife pressing so deeply into the girl’s throat that a line of blood welled up beneath it. The Munchkin’s eyes were huge with fear.

“Welcome, Your Highness,” the soldier sneered. “Do you like what we’ve done with the place? Anyone not loyal to the new queen will learn the cost of disobedience—immediately.”

“Let the girl go,” the Scarecrow said firmly. “Your quarrel is with me. You’ve already shed enough blood for one day.”

Jinjur’s soldier laughed. “Spoken like a true fool,” she snarled. “Welcome to the new Oz.” With one swift motion, she drew her knife across Hibiscus’s throat. The Scarecrow cried out in horror as blood spurted from the gaping crescent wound. The soldier let the girl’s body go. Her body teetered ghoulishly for a second and then fell to the ground with a sick thud.

“Hibiscus Lemon.” Her name escaped his cloth lips, which trembled with rage and sadness all at once. For a split second, Scarecrow wished that he had never known Hibiscus’s name. That he did not know a thing about her. Maybe that would have made looking at her lifeless little form easier. But a second later he was glad he had known at least that.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see the Lion was already leaping forward with a snarl, his claws extended. Jinjur’s soldier whirled to meet him but he knocked the knife from her hand easily with one swipe of his huge paw. She lunged at him with her bare fists, her face totally without fear. But even she was no match for the Lion. He threw her to the ground and stood over her with his paw upraised. “Don’t hurt her!” the Scarecrow cried out, but it was too late. Jinjur’s soldier spat in the Lion’s face, and with a terrible roar he brought his huge paw down on her skull, snapping her neck.

Everything seemed to stand still for a long second. The Lion stared down at his victim, panting. The Scarecrow realized his mouth was wide open and he was watching the sinister tableau with his hands balled into fists. He could feel that strange, sinister serpentine thing stirring in the back of his sawdust brain, and the Lion’s tail was lashing furiously as though it were possessed. The Lion ripped out the soldier’s throat, spraying them both with blood.

“What are you doing?” Scare cried, coming to his senses.

The Lion stopped mid-roar, his eyes crazed and his mouth dripping gore.

“I don’t—I don’t know,” he gasped. The Lion slumped backward and all the rage seemed to drain out of him into the blood-soaked ground.

“A new Oz, indeed,” the Scarecrow said quietly.

The Lion stepped away from Jinjur’s soldier as if the ground burned his paws, leaving her body next to Hibiscus Lemon’s in the dirt.

“What happened just now?” the Scarecrow asked, staring down at the stranger who seemed to have taken the place of his oldest friend.

“We were too late to save the girl,” the Lion said hoarsely, not meeting his eyes. That wasn’t what the Scarecrow had meant, and they both knew it.

Without another word, the Lion turned and stepped back onto the path, and the Scarecrow followed. From time to time, they heard distant cries and the sound of gunshots—more of Jinjur’s soldiers, the Scarecrow guessed grimly, taking care of the disloyal. But for now there was nothing they could do. They continued walking in silence. The Scarecrow could feel his sawdust brain churning, trying to process what had just happened and what would happen next, but it was too much for him to comprehend.

“The Wizard gave us these gifts, but he never told us how to use them,” Scare said finally. At first, he thought the Lion was ignoring him, but after a minute his friend sighed.

“It’s better not to think about it too much.”

“But that’s all I know how to do,” the Scarecrow protested. The Lion didn’t answer. He wondered if his learning curve would be as fast as the Lion’s evidently had been, and if he’d figure out the solution in time to save Oz from Jinjur. But if the Wizard’s gifts meant they’d have to become murderers, how were they any better than the would-be queen?

Ordinarily, he would have enjoyed the trip to the Lion’s country. He hadn’t traveled since Dorothy had rescued him from his post in the farmer’s field and gone with him to find the Wizard, and before he met Dorothy he had never traveled at all. The path took them along a roaring brook that flowed with lavender-scented water; translucent, jewel-bright fish glinted in the current like bits of glass. They crossed a broad meadow of multicolored flowers that undulated like waves even though there was no breeze. The snow-topped mountains sparkled in the distance, and butterflies the size of the Lion’s head flapped lazily past them. But the Scarecrow barely noticed the wonders of Oz, he was so preoccupied with his thoughts.

“Do you remember the Kalidahs?” the Lion asked suddenly, interrupting his reverie.

“Of course,” replied the Scarecrow, surprised. He, the Lion, the Woodman, and Dorothy had almost been killed by the terrifying tiger-headed monsters on the way to the Emerald City, and only the Woodman’s quick thinking had saved them. He’d destroyed the bridge the beasts were crossing, sending them plummeting to their deaths in the ravine below.

“I was so afraid of them then,” the Lion mused. “I couldn’t have managed to kill them, even though they were threatening our lives. But today . . .” He trailed off, but he didn’t have to finish his thought for the Scarecrow to guess what he was getting at.

“The Wizard’s gift is working for you,” he said.

The Lion shrugged. “I suppose so. I’ve never had to test it before.” He looked briefly troubled. “I’ve never killed anyone before either. It felt strange.”

“Strange?” The Scarecrow didn’t think “strange” was the right word,

Lion was a killer.

Scare had read books about beasts and he knew technically that was something that beasts did. But Lion wasn’t like the other beasts, was he?

Jinjur’s soldier had killed the Munchkin girl, and would have killed them, but killing her wasn’t any better. Murder was murder, even if it was self-defense.

“I don’t know if I liked the feeling,” the Lion said, “but it felt different from anything I’ve ever done. I felt powerful. I suppose that’s what courage is. I just never knew before.”

Scare was sure that wasn’t right. In fact, the way Lion said it kind of scared him.

“I know I didn’t ask for courage . . . ,” Scare began, preparing to tell him just that.

“Maybe you should have,” the Lion said. “We’ll have to do it again.”

“Do what again?”

“Kill people. If you really want your throne back, it won’t happen peacefully.”

The Scarecrow had not thought that far ahead. “There must be another way,” he said immediately, but his brain hit a brick wall that did not move.

“If there is, you’ll have to think of it,” the Lion said. “You’re the one with the brains.” The Scarecrow wondered whether his old friend was mocking him, but the Lion seemed serious.

“This isn’t what I wanted at all when I asked for a brain,” the Scarecrow said unhappily. “I didn’t even ask to be king—I just wanted to be clever. Do you think the Wizard’s gifts led to what’s happening now?”

The Lion swished his tail. “I don’t see how,” he rumbled. “Perhaps the Wizard’s gifts are the tools we need to deal with what’s coming.”

“What is coming?”

“I don’t know,” the Lion said quietly, “but I don’t think it’s going to be very good.”

SEVEN

The Scarecrow had never visited his old friend’s new home, and despite the circumstances, he looked around in wonder. From a distance, the forest’s boundary was so pronounced it looked like a giant green wall looming over the landscape. A golden meadow, grass gently waving in the breeze, ran straight up to the forest’s edge and stopped abruptly. Golden jewelflies buzzed in the tall grass and were snapped up by emerald-green bellyfrogs that burped tiny puffs of pink smoke after their meal. Flat sapphire pools glinted here and there, but when the Scarecrow stooped down to touch the fresh-looking water, his fingers flicked against diamond-hard gemstone.

It was beautiful. But he could never live like this. Where would all his books go?

As soon as they set foot inside the forest barrier, the sunlight vanished as if someone had thrown a light switch. The Forest of the Beasts was eerily quiet, as if the Lion’s subjects somehow already sensed that trouble was brewing.

The Scarecrow rubbed his button eyes, squinting in the sudden dimness. Lion was nocturnal, so he was used to the dark, but the Scarecrow hesitated. The Lion looked back with a sigh, then looped his tail around Scarecrow’s wrist, guiding him. All around them the towering brown trunks rose into the shadowy forest canopy, and the silence of the forest was as thick as a blanket. The Lion rose up on his hind legs, leaning his paws against the nearest tree, and made a sound somewhere between a cough and a roar. Out of nowhere a large rabbit scampered up to them; he was wearing a neatly cut velvet suit, and a tiny top hat was tilted at a rakish angle over one of his ears. His buckteeth protruded at a slightly ridiculous angle.

“Your Majesty!” the rabbit cried, clapping his paws together. “We’ve been so anxious to have you back!” The rabbit caught sight of the Scarecrow, and a startled expression passed across his face. “I beg your pardon, Your Majesty,” he said, executing a sweeping bow. “I didn’t see that the King of Oz was with you.” He bowed again, this time at the Scarecrow.

“It’s all right,” the Scarecrow said, in a way he hoped was regal.

“Can’t we have some light, Cornelius?” the Lion rumbled, and the rabbit clapped his paws together again.

“His Majesty will fire me for my foolishness!” he exclaimed to the trees. He ran back and forth in agitation, pawing frantically at his top hat.

The Lion sighed and dropped to all fours again, settling back on his haunches and opening his mouth in a huge yawning roar. “LIGHTS!” he bellowed.

As if by magic, a storm of tiny lights swirled up out of the earth, spinning around them. Each one of them was a tiny firefly that buzzed upward, landing on the trees and branches until they were thickly covered in glowing light. A small army of badgers, foxes, and weasels carrying stringed instruments rushed in after the fireflies, assembling themselves in an unruly group in front of the Lion and the Scarecrow and striking up a slightly out-of-tune march. Cornelius produced a golden banner depicting a lion from behind a tree and waved it back and forth. “His Majesty has returned to the Forest of the Beasts!” he bellowed. The Scarecrow heard cheering from the depths of the forest, and soon more and more animals poured into the clearing where they stood, jostling one another as they each tried to get closer to the Lion.

Cornelius rudely pushed aside a bear cub, a crocodile with rows and rows of jagged teeth, and several rats. “Clear a path for His Majesty!” he shouted pompously. The animals ignored him, and he shoved them more aggressively until finally they moved aside. The Lion walked forward, and the Scarecrow followed him through the forest.

It was difficult for the Scarecrow to make his way through the woods. The animals surged around him and sometimes underfoot, nearly tripping him. The trees grew densely together, and while the Lion wove around them with ease, the Scarecrow had to pick his way. His clothes caught on the underbrush, and branches hit him in the face. “I’m a long way from the palace,” he thought, and he didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until the Lion laughed.

“It’s not the luxury you’re used to,” he agreed. The Scarecrow resented the implication that he’d gotten soft, but he said nothing. The Lion would see soon enough how tough he could be, when he found a way to regain his throne and restore order to Oz. No one would doubt him then.

At last they reached another clearing, this one much bigger than the one where they’d met Cornelius. Animal skins were rigged overhead on a network of ropes and pulleys, forming a kind of canopy. At one end of the clearing was a lopsided structure that looked like a rickety, giant wooden jungle gym, with more animal skins piled on various wooden platforms and ledges. The Lion leapt up onto it, and the whole arrangement creaked and wobbled. The Lion yawned as his subjects flooded into the clearing.

“Home at last!” he sighed in satisfaction. “I’ll need something to eat.” He looked pointedly downward, and several badgers seized a young deer who was staring obliviously in the other direction. It struggled briefly, but the badgers subdued it and dragged it up to the Lion’s platform. The Lion licked his lips happily and the Scarecrow looked away in horror as he dove into his snack. The Lion had said he’d never killed anyone before, but apparently that didn’t extend to animals.

“It’s part of the job, you know,” someone said at his side, and he looked down to see Cornelius.

“Eating your subjects?” the Scarecrow said, aghast. Cornelius shrugged.

“He’s a lion. It’s his nature. He doesn’t mean to be cruel. He’s doing it to survive. Killing for sport is something only humans do. The rules are different here, Your Majesty. We all understand the law of the forest.”

When the Lion was finished eating, he belched loudly, and a hush fell across the clearing. He turned his gaze to the Scarecrow.

“Now we must decide what to do about the throne,” he said. News had traveled fast, the Scarecrow realized; the gathered animals began to shout out suggestions. “Eat the impostor!” shrieked a bobcat. “Bury her in a burrow!” yelled a fox. “Chew off her toes!” squeaked a mouse. The Scarecrow almost groaned aloud. He could just picture the Lion’s menagerie charging the palace and falling dead within seconds to Jinjur’s bullets. They were no match for her. At least not without a good plan.

“I need my books, Lion,” he said suddenly. He’d find the perfect strategy in one of those volumes. He just knew it.

A silence fell over the animals. And then the Scarecrow heard what could only be described as a giggle that quickly turned into a roar of laughter. . . .

“Leave us, all of you,” the Lion growled. “This is a matter for the Scarecrow and I to decide. Cornelius, bring me Lulu.”

“Lulu will know what to do!” yelled a dormouse excitedly, before one of its companions hushed it.

“Who’s Lulu?” the Scarecrow choked out, sure that the fabric of his face was on fire.

“Help.” The Lion glanced at him and raised a bushy eyebrow. “And maybe don’t mention the b-word again, if you want the beasts to take you seriously. We’re not big readers in the forest.”

The Scarecrow nodded. He wasn’t in the palace anymore.

“I wouldn’t mind dessert,” the Lion mused, and the rest of the animals fled.

EIGHT

The Scarecrow was eager to meet this mysterious, powerful Lulu. Would she be wise, like him? Or a fierce warrior? Perhaps she’d even be both. He twiddled his gloved thumbs impatiently as the sun sank below the treetops and the first stars drifted down from the sky.

“Get yer dirty paws off of me, you stinking rabbit!” bellowed a hoarse voice from the shadows. The Scarecrow sat bolt upright. A small, hunched figure was trundling toward him wearing some kind of enormous cloak and slapping furiously at the exasperated Cornelius. “I can find the damn Lion by his smell!” it added crossly, stepping into the light.

“Oh no,” the Scarecrow groaned. Things had just gone from bad to worse.

Lulu was a winged monkey. And the Scarecrow hated winged monkeys. During his travels with Dorothy, the Wicked Witch of the West had used the Golden Cap to command them to destroy the Scarecrow and the Woodman and capture the Lion. The monkeys had torn him to pieces, and the Winkies had had to put him together again. Dorothy had taken the cap when she’d defeated the Wicked Witch, and the winged monkeys had carried them to the Emerald City. But he’d never entirely forgotten what they’d done to him first.

The King of the Winged Monkeys had been a huge beast, powerfully built and regal, but Lulu was neither large nor frightening, and she certainly didn’t look like royalty. She was a young, wiry monkey whose wings had not reached their full growth, and she was wearing a miniskirt and a leather biker jacket studded with garish fake rubies and with two holes cut in the back to accommodate her wings. A pair of sunglasses was perched on her snub nose, and she carried a candy cigarette in a long holder, which she waved around when she talked.

“You sent for me, Your Majesty?” she drawled, leaning against the Lion’s platform.

“Lulu is one of the cleverest beasts in my kingdom,” the Lion explained to the Scarecrow while Lulu preened. “She’ll be able to help us figure out what to do about—”

“You want to dump that Jinjur bitch, am I right?” Lulu said briskly, snapping her fingers. “Send her packing? Make all those girls with guns look for her at the bottom of a river?”

The Scarecrow was not impressed, and he was irritated the Lion had summoned this bizarre creature without so much as consulting him. “I won’t have any problem finding a way to oust the usurper myself, if you don’t mind,” he said coolly.

Lulu laughed out loud. “Right, like you’ve been doing such a great job of that so far. Listen, sonny, there’s a reason the big boy over here called on me.” She puffed up her chest. “I’m the smartest thing in Oz, and today’s your lucky day—I’m willing to help you get Jinjur out of the palace. Of course, if you don’t mind me saying so, I think the real question here is who ought to replace her.”

“What do you mean?” sputtered the Scarecrow.

“I think the cards are clear. You’re not fit to rule, or else you’d still be ruling. Me, on the other hand”—she tapped her lapels—“I’m the one you want running the show.”

“Lulu, that’s enough,” the Lion said, clearly amused by the monkey’s brazenness. “I summoned you here to help us plan our attack, not belittle the Scarecrow’s abilities.”

Lulu shrugged. “It was worth a try. No hard feelings?” She looked at the Scarecrow expectantly.

The Scarecrow mumbled a reply, but inside he was seething.

“Then it’s time to get down to business,” Lulu said, miming rolling up her sleeves. “The obvious plan is to attack immediately, but we need to use stealth if we’re going to win. Word on the street is she’s got bigger numbers, but her soldiers will probably be sitting around on their heinies twiddling their thumbs now that they’ve taken the palace. If we surprise ’em, we stand a chance, but I’m picturing casualties.”

“Exactly my point,” the Scarecrow began. “Which is why I don’t think—”

The Lion spoke over him as if he hadn’t even opened his mouth. “My thoughts exactly, Lulu,” he said. He leapt down from his platform and sketched a map of the surrounding area in the dirt with one claw. “We have too much ground to traverse if we want to sneak up on the Emerald City,” he pointed out. “Jinjur’s soldiers will see us coming a mile away.”

“Not if we fly,” Lulu said triumphantly. “The rest of the monkeys will be happy to help, I’m sure of it. We’re dying for something to do. We’ll land just outside the Emerald City and sneak in.” Her expression turned serious. “All reports are that Jinjur is ruthless. The few people who’ve escaped from the palace don’t have pretty stories to tell. We’ll have to be prepared.”

“But I don’t want—” the Scarecrow said, and again the Lion interrupted him.

“My people will fight,” he vowed. “Oz has never had a tyrant on the throne, and we won’t start now. When Jinjur is taken down, we can discuss who should replace her.”

At that, the Scarecrow made a noise of outrage, and both the Lion and Lulu finally stopped talking as if they had both just noticed he was there. “I will replace Jinjur when she is defeated,” he snapped. “And we certainly won’t be attacking the palace directly. She’ll see us flying in from a mile away, too. A better solution would be to—”

Lulu sighed loudly, cutting him off. “Listen, sport,” she said, “you had your chance, and you blew it. Now it’s time to stand aside and let people who can handle the job take over.”

The Scarecrow was mad at Lulu, but even madder at himself. While he was trying to think of a plan and remember what he’d read, Lulu had raced ahead of him and presented her own. The Scarecrow wanted nothing more than to protest again, but he realized he was outnumbered. The Lion’s subjects wouldn’t be likely to side with him, and if the winged monkeys were anything like what he remembered, they’d hardly back him up either. He had no choice but to go along with Lulu and the Lion’s suicidal plan until he had the opportunity to act—and to think of something else. If he didn’t use the Wizard’s gift to find a better answer, all of Oz would be plunged into a war—and he would rather die than see that happen.

NINE

Lulu wasted no time in assembling the winged monkeys. She put two fingers in her mouth and blew a piercing whistle that was so loud it sent Cornelius running for cover. Even the Lion flinched. Moments later, a squadron of monkeys in flight helmets and goggles descended into the clearing, stirring up a small dust storm with the furious beating of their wings.

“Right, chaps!” Lulu barked as the monkeys folded their wings. “It’s time to fight. Are you ready to do right for your country?” It wasn’t entirely clear to the Scarecrow why the monkey had such authority over her brethren, when many of them were clearly much older and bigger than she was, but the monkeys paid careful attention to her.

“Why do you listen to her?” he asked the nearest monkey quietly.

“Lulu’ll be queen any day now,” the monkey whispered. “And she’s a little . . . you know.” He twirled a finger next to his ear. “No sense starting off on the bad side of the one who’s next in line for the throne. Plus, as batty as she is, she’s a sharp cookie.”

The Scarecrow perked up. “She’s smart and she’s to be queen? Do you think she’d talk to me about ruling?”

The monkey shot him a scornful look. “Lulu earned our respect,” he said.

Respect or no respect, the other monkeys were busy arguing with Lulu. But she at least had their attention.

“Why should we fight? What’s in it for us?” one of them ventured.

“I’ll see to it personally that everyone’s banana ration is increased,” Lulu said confidently. “And extra holidays after we’ve won.”

“You don’t have the authority to do that,” another monkey pointed out. Lulu didn’t miss a beat.

“Not yet,” she said. “But do any of you doubt me? You listen to me because you know I’m headed for big things, and I’ll reward the monkeys who support me.” She glowered menacingly at the monkeys who’d come to her summons. “And I’ll never forget the monkeys who don’t,” she added. “So it’s best not to cross me.”

The monkeys conferred among themselves briefly, and then the first monkey who had spoken stepped forward. “We’ll help,” he said.

The Scarecrow thought he saw a flicker of relief in Lulu’s eyes, and he wondered if she was really quite as confident as she seemed. He wondered if it meant more to appear certain than to be right.

“Glad to see you know what’s best for you,” she said. She turned to the Lion. “We can transport you into battle, but you’ll have to assemble the troops,” she told him. The Lion nodded.

“Find the best fighters in the forest,” he ordered Cornelius. “Tell them we head for the Emerald City at dawn.” Cornelius nodded and dashed away. Once again, the Scarecrow had been left out. But if he was honest with himself, he had to admit that he was dealing with a different kind of smarts. Lulu had established herself with bravado and intimidation. The Scarecrow had never practiced either of those arts. He was better with facts and figures. But now that they were standing over a makeshift map of the palace and the grounds that one of the more talented monkeys had etched in the dirt, he felt like he should be ready to step up. Only he hadn’t read a book on cartography yet. And he was unfamiliar with the logics of monkey flight. He absolutely hated that.

The monkeys ignored him completely as they discussed wind currents and angle of approach, and even the Lion seemed to have forgotten he was there. He might as well be back in that field tied to a post for all the good the Wizard’s gifts were doing him. He knew he could find the answer, if only he had enough time. If only he had his books! Why hadn’t he at least tried to save a text on theoretical military strategy when they’d fled the palace?

Suddenly a bright pink-tinted light flashed in a distant part of the forest. The Scarecrow leaned forward, peering into the trees. In a few seconds, the light flashed again, but this time it didn’t vanish. It flickered through the trees like pink firelight. The Scarecrow looked back to see if anyone else had noticed. They hadn’t. “I’ll go see what that is,” he said unnecessarily. No one stopped him, or even looked his way, as he stepped out of the clearing and began walking toward the light.

This time, the way through the forest was somehow easier. The trees seemed to be making room for him as he crashed through the underbrush. He tripped once or twice, but never fell, and the light grew steadily larger. It was almost as if whatever the light was, it wanted him to find it. After a few more minutes of walking, he reached a gap in the trees and saw the source of the light.

It was a woman, although her face was so youthful and flawless that he couldn’t have begun to guess her age. She was wearing a simple, pale dress in a color somewhere between eggshell and rose, and her long golden hair tumbled around her shoulders in loose curls. She was the one glowing with that strange, magical light, the Scarecrow realized. It filled the air around her like a cloud. As he came toward her she smiled, looking up at him through her long eyelashes with strangely familiar crystal-blue eyes.

“Hello, Scarecrow,” she purred, her musical voice as sweet as honey. “It’s so good to see you again.”

If he had had a jaw, it would have dropped. “Glinda?” he asked in disbelief.

Glinda giggled, reaching out her manicured hands to him. “It’s been so long!” she cried, hugging him close. She smelled like jasmine and something even sweeter—so sweet, in fact, that it was almost rotten.

“But what are you doing here?” the Scarecrow asked, bewildered.

“Tin is too far away to help us,” she said. “And the Lion—well, there’s a reason I’m coming to you first, but I’m not sure I want to tell you what it is. It might . . .” She paused, her eyelashes fluttering again. “It might hurt your feelings,” she said seriously.

“I don’t understand,” the Scarecrow said. “Why are you in the Lion’s forest, if you don’t want to see him? What would hurt my feelings?”

Glinda took a deep breath. “It’s just that the Lion isn’t very clever,” she said. “Not like you, Scare. Is it all right if I call you that? I always felt I had so much more in common with you than I did with the Lion and the Woodman—not that they’re not wonderful, but you’re the one who asked for a brain and got one, and I’ve always been something of an intellectual.”

The Scarecrow was so happy he hardly knew what to say. “Then you think I’ve been doing a good job?” he asked anxiously. “You take me seriously?”

“Of course I take you seriously,” Glinda said immediately. “That’s why I’ve come to help. I know what’s happened in the Emerald City, and I’ve dealt with Jinjur before.”

“You have?”

“Oh yes. She comes from the west. She’s always been power hungry and quite mad. I knew she’d do something like this sooner or later, though I never dreamed she’d have the nerve to try and unseat a ruler as strong as you. But I know her, and she won’t stop at the throne. She’ll move out across the rest of Oz, destroying everything in her path. You must stop her and regain the throne, and I can help you. That’s why I’ve come back.”

The Scarecrow hardly knew what to say. Glinda was a witch, he knew, but he’d never known a witch to get much more involved in politics than enslaving the Winkies for her own ends, or controlling the winged monkeys with a magic cap like the Wicked Witch of the West. Not that Oz had really had politics before. Just the witches battling it out. But that wasn’t political. That was something else. Was she talking about using magic to defeat Jinjur? And if so, was she really that powerful? And where had she come back from? She was hiding something, of that much he felt sure. But he couldn’t begin to guess at what it was, or if she was holding something back because she thought that he wouldn’t be able to bear it. He hadn’t been upset by her comments about the Lion, had he? Why was she trying to protect him?

“You doubt me,” Glinda said, a hint of coolness in her voice.

“No, of course not!” the Scarecrow protested. “It’s just that everything is changing so quickly. The Lion and the winged monkeys want to go to war tomorrow, and I think they have the wrong idea. We should be using strategy to get rid of Jinjur, not brute force. She’s already shown she’s powerful and ruthless.” He raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “But they won’t listen to me, and I don’t see how you and I can stop them by ourselves.”

“We won’t,” Glinda said calmly. “We’ll wait for them to fail, as you know they will. When they’re ready to see their way is the wrong one, they’ll listen.”

“But we have to warn them! If they go into battle tomorrow, they could be hurt—or even killed!”

“Casualties are inevitable in any war,” Glinda said, that previous coolness creeping back in. “If I’m going to help you, Scare, I have to know you’re willing to do whatever it takes, even if that means sometimes people you care about get hurt. We’re past the point of protecting everyone from danger now. Don’t you see that?” Her voice grew urgent. “Danger is here, Scare! We have to do what’s necessary, or even more people will be lost. Do you understand? Tomorrow, I want you to hide during the fighting. You’re a thinker, not a fighter. I need you to be strong and clever—and I need you to stay alive.” Glinda pulled a glowing pink bottle out of thin air and handed it to the Scarecrow. “Drink this tomorrow,” she said. “It’ll keep you hidden—and safe.”

“I can’t drink,” the Scarecrow said, bewildered.

“Trust me,” Glinda replied. Obediently, he tucked the bottle into one of his pockets.

“I just want to go back,” the Scarecrow said, his mind reeling. “I want Oz the way it was, before any of this happened.” He sank to the ground and put his head in his hands. “It’s all so much.”

Glinda crouched down beside him and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You have to be strong now,” she said into his ear. “There’s no other way. You know I’m right.”

And of course, he did. She was so strong, so sure. There was something about her that was so persuasive he forgot all of his questions. He’d let the Lion and Lulu go into battle in the morning—it wasn’t as if he could stop them. And if Glinda really was right, they’d lose, just as he’d thought.

“But what will we do after tomorrow?” he asked. “How will we come up with a plan?”

“I know you’ll think of something,” Glinda said. “You always do.”

He sat up a little straighter. Did he really? He wasn’t sure, but if Glinda said he did, it must be true. She was a witch, and she knew even more than he did. Her powers were mysterious and apparently far stronger than he’d ever guessed. “Of course,” he said. “You’re right. I’ll think of something.”

“I knew I could count on you,” she said, and he felt a glow of pride that matched the radiant light emanating from Glinda. “It’s best that we keep my return from the south a secret for now. The others will be too surprised that I’m back in Oz and wielding magic again, and the less distraction we have right now the better. No matter how clever you are, it’s clear the Lion and Lulu won’t listen to you until their own foolish plan has failed. When the time is right, I’ll reveal myself, and you’ll tell them the details of your brilliant plan.”

“Shouldn’t I be planning a way to convince them we’re right before they go to war tomorrow?” the Scarecrow asked. Glinda frowned the tiniest of frowns.

“The Lion asked for courage, not brains,” she said. “He won’t listen until he has no other choice. There’s no other way.”

Nothing Glinda was saying quite made sense, but every time he tried to think about it that strange, sinister feeling at the back of his brain stirred and he forgot his doubts again. After all, why was he questioning Glinda? She was an all-powerful witch—and a good one, too. She’d only ever helped him when Dorothy had traveled with them in Oz. No, she was on their side, there was no doubt about it. His new brain just wasn’t powerful enough yet to keep up with hers. He was reluctant to send his friend and the Lion’s subjects into danger, of course, but if she said there was nothing else they could do she had to be right. She wanted to avoid bloodshed just as much as he did. She was a good witch, after all.

Seeing his agreement, Glinda leaned in and gave him a kiss on the cheek. The cloth felt warm where her lips had been when she pulled away.

“Be clever,” she said. “And be strong. I’ll return soon.” The pink light flashed once, and she was gone.

The Scarecrow stared into the dark forest, thinking hard. It would be up to him to save the day when the Lion and Lulu had failed. He couldn’t let them down—and as importantly, he wanted Glinda to know she’d made the right choice to trust him. “You don’t fail a woman like that,” he said aloud into the dark. “Not even once.”

TEN

Scare was on the post again. His legs and arms were bound. All he could see in every direction were fields of corn. And crows.

One

Two

Three

Four.

They each landed on him and began their cawing and pecking—Stupid Scare . . . Stupid Scare . . . Stupid Scare . . .

Scare awoke with a start. The crows weren’t real. He wasn’t back on the post again, his arms and legs unable to move. Back then, he’d spent day after day, night after night wishing he had more to occupy himself than counting the crows that perched on him. They were not at all afraid of him. And they were not his friends either. He had longed for two things back—friendship and a brain—and now he had both, he reminded himself with a sigh that rustled his straw.

Lion snored as loudly as a steam engine, and there was no escaping the noise that filled the clearing that served as his throne room. His snores were echoed by the cacophonous breathing of Lulu’s winged monkeys, who sprawled out across the ground sound asleep. The noise was awful. But it was a relief compared to the dream.

All the same, the Scarecrow’s heart sank when the first rays of dawn flooded the forest. No matter how convincing Glinda’s arguments had been, the fact remained that his friends—and he—were headed into danger, and some of them would not survive. There was no way around it, he told himself firmly. He could no more have prevented it than he could have changed the time the sun rose and set every day.

Cornelius rushed into the clearing at the break of dawn, wearing a shiny, fringed chain mail shirt and banging vigorously on a rabbit-sized drum. “To arms!” he shouted. “To arms!” The sleeping monkeys stirred, and more animals began to file into the clearing. These were the soldiers Cornelius had picked out, the Scarecrow realized: they were the fiercest and most intimidating of the Lion’s subjects, wildcats and badgers and several wolves, one of whom was already licking chops bloodied by whatever unfortunate creature it had eaten for breakfast. They all eyed the winged monkeys warily, and for a brief moment the Scarecrow wondered what would happen if they refused to be carried.

But the Lion explained Lulu’s plan quickly, and everyone seemed to agree. Each of the Lion’s warriors paired up with a monkey. The Lion was so large that it took two monkeys to lift him.

“I’ll take you,” Lulu barked to the Scarecrow. Lulu was the smallest of the winged monkeys, and the Scarecrow was the lightest of everyone attacking the castle, since he was only made of straw, so he could hardly argue. But he wasn’t happy about being paired with the brash, obnoxious little monkey. Lulu grabbed his shoulders unceremoniously and lurched upward, flapping her wings wildly. “Let’s go!” she yelled. “No dillydallying on my watch!”

All around them, the monkeys launched into the air, most of them with far more grace than Lulu had managed. A few of their passengers looked a little green, and one bobcat struggled frantically, nearly forcing its monkey to drop it to the ground, before it managed to calm down enough to allow itself to be carried. Despite his anxiety about what lay ahead, the Scarecrow couldn’t help but enjoy the flight. He’d only had a handful of chances to fly before, and the first of those had been more than a little unpleasant.

Below them, Oz looked like a patchwork quilt. They were passing over farm country, and green and gold fields made neat squares across the landscape. “Look!” the Lion called out, pointing one massive paw to the east. “It’s the Road of Yellow Brick. We’re headed in the right direction.”

“Of course we’re headed in the right direction,” Lulu muttered. “I’m no dummy. Unlike some people,” she added under her breath. Unsure whether she was insulting him or the Lion, the Scarecrow kept his mouth shut. He’d been dropped by a winged monkey once before; he had no wish to repeat the experience.

Flying to the Emerald City was far quicker than walking, and they hadn’t been following the undulating golden ribbon of the Road of Yellow Brick for much of the morning before the green gleam of the Emerald City appeared on the horizon. As soon as he caught sight of that familiar bottle-green light, the Scarecrow’s doubts returned, and he forgot all about the pleasures of the journey. There was no way Jinjur could fail to see them coming, no matter what Lulu said, and he had a feeling she’d be ready for them when they arrived.

The city rushed toward them. Its streets were eerily deserted instead of their usual thriving bustle. The gates, ordinarily manned by a gatekeeper, stood wide open, but the sight was sinister instead of inviting. “We’ll carry you over the gates,” Lulu said in a low voice. “Be ready for action as soon as we drop you on the other side.” The monkeys landed silently, gently dropping their passengers to the ground and folding up their feathered wings without making a sound.

The Lion waved a paw, and his warriors moved into a loose formation, muscles rippling under their sleek coats. In the forest, they had looked frightening enough. But here, ready for battle, they looked lethal. The monkeys had no weapons, and the Scarecrow wondered how they would defend themselves. Thankfully, he didn’t have to worry about that, assuming Glinda’s potion really could protect him. She wouldn’t let him risk his life, would she?

The beasts were alert, ready for danger. The Scarecrow could almost smell their readiness to fight.

But the city was empty. Everywhere, doors stood open and windows were unshuttered. Bread filled the shelves of the bakeries, and fruit stalls overflowed with exotic fruits from every part of Oz. But there were no people. The Scarecrow looked through the doorway of one house and saw that a half-prepared meal had been left in the kitchen. It reminded him of the burned-out Munchkin village, except that here there were no flames and no bodies. It was simply as if everyone had left the city at once in the middle of whatever they’d been doing.

“What did Jinjur do to the city?” whispered a stoat that slunk alongside the Scarecrow.

“I’m not sure I want to know,” the Scarecrow admitted. Up ahead, Lulu made a slashing motion with one paw to silence them. There was no sign of Jinjur’s soldiers. Could they possibly win the battle without even fighting it? If they did win, would Glinda still return? He hoped so. She believed he was the rightful King of Oz. Surely she’d be able to convince the Lion and Lulu to support him, and he knew Tin would, too. With Glinda on his side, he’d be back in power in no time. He could even appoint her a royal adviser.

The army crept stealthily through the deserted streets until they reached the edge of the castle grounds. The sense of abandonment was somehow even worse. Someone had left gardening tools and a wheelbarrow next to one of the flower beds. Tarpaulins were scattered here and there, perhaps the beginning of a construction project. In a side yard, drying laundry hung on a line. The air smelled faintly of cooking.

The palace gates were shut tightly, and there was no sign of life behind its windows. Lulu led them right up to the gates, and then stopped short. “There’s no way in,” she hissed.

He looked around them. Something wasn’t right. His brain was working furiously. If Jinjur had wanted to protect the Emerald Palace, she would have barred the gates to the city, not left them open for anyone to wander through. Why was the city empty? Why was the castle undefended? The Scarecrow’s brain worked furiously, analyzing every possibility, until he realized the truth.

“It’s a trap!” he cried out, running toward Lulu. “We have to get away from the palace! It’s a trap!”

ELEVEN

He was too late. All around them, Jinjur’s soldiers threw off the tarpaulins that had concealed them from the Lion’s army. More emerged from shallow trenches they’d covered with strips of sod. The Lion’s army was backed up against the impenetrable wall of the castle, with Jinjur’s soldiers blocking any possibility of escape. Jinjur had known they were coming all along, and lain in wait until she could trap them against the palace itself.

Lulu realized what was happening a second after the Scarecrow did. “To arms, monkeys!” she bellowed, whirling to face the oncoming soldiers. The dead-eyed, grim-faced girls were impossible to tell apart. Even their armor matched. They raised their identical pistols, surging toward the Lion’s forces.

Suddenly the winged monkeys rose up into the air, and for a brief, terrible moment, the Scarecrow thought they were abandoning the battlefield. But one by one, the monkeys began to dive-bomb Jinjur’s soldiers. One monkey grabbed a girl and flew up into the air with her. She screamed in fury as he soared upward, dropping her at the top of his arc. She hit the ground with a sickening crunch. The other monkeys quickly followed suit, seizing Jinjur’s soldiers off the battlefield and hurling them at the ground or the castle walls. Gaping in terror, the Scarecrow was rooted to the spot by the sight of the carnage in front of him.

“There he is!” Jinjur screamed. She was dressed for battle in bloodred armor, and her lipstick was an even brighter shade of red. “The Straw King! Destroy him!” She was pointing directly at him. The nearest of Jinjur’s soldiers raised their pistols, firing a hail of bullets that ripped through his cloth arms and legs.

“Oh no!” the Scarecrow said. Then he turned around and ran.

“Get him!” Jinjur screamed. “Don’t let him escape!” But the Lion’s army leapt forward with a furious roar, laying into the soldiers with claws and teeth. The girl soldiers, distracted by the onslaught, fired madly into the oncoming menagerie. A crocodile snapped its huge jaws shut on a girl’s arm, ripping it from her shoulder. A wolf darted forward, tearing out another girl’s throat. For just a moment, it seemed like the fight might turn in their favor. In the total chaos, the Scarecrow was momentarily overlooked. Dodging flying bodies, he made his way to the edge of the carnage.

But Jinjur hadn’t forgotten about him. Her moped had been outfitted for battle: spiky armor plated each side, forming a protective shell that covered her legs. A gun was mounted above its windshield that fired rapidly into the melee. She carried a pistol in one hand and a sword in the other, piloting the moped with her feet. She slashed furiously with her sword hand while somehow aiming and firing shot after shot with the other. Her soldiers rallied around her, and more and more animals began to fall to the blood-soaked ground as she cut her way toward the Scarecrow.

The potion, you idiot! Glinda’s voice was as clear in his ear as if she’d actually been standing next to him. Of course! He fumbled in his pocket for her potion and it slipped through his fingers, clattering to the ground. A stray bullet thudded into the earth inches from the bottle, sending it flying. “No!” the Scarecrow moaned, diving after it. Jinjur was nearly upon him, screaming with rage and firing shots into the air. At the last moment, he reached the bottle and fumbled with the stopper.

“Good-bye, you pathetic excuse for a man,” Jinjur sneered. He looked up in terror. She loomed over him, her weapons glittering in the sun. Her pistol was pointed directly at his head. The bullets might not cause lasting damage to his arms and legs, but that didn’t mean a shot between his eyes wouldn’t end him. Jinjur tightened her finger on the trigger just as the Scarecrow rolled frantically to one side and tilted Glinda’s bottle toward his mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the end.

All around him, the sounds of the battle vanished as suddenly as if someone had brought the lid down on a piano. The Scarecrow opened one eye. He was still alive. Jinjur was still standing over him, but her pistol hand had dropped to her side and her face was a mask of confusion and fury. Her mouth moved, but he couldn’t hear a sound she was making. He was surrounded by a shimmering pink bubble, magic moving across its surface like an iridescent sheen. Jinjur fired at the ground all around her. But when her bullets hit the Scarecrow’s bubble, they slowed and stuck as if she’d fired into a vat of gelatin, then slowly dissolved into silvery liquid and ran down the bubble’s sides to the ground. The Scarecrow stared at Jinjur, but she wasn’t looking at him. She was looking at where he’d just been.

She couldn’t see him, and she couldn’t shoot him. Glinda’s magic had worked. He almost whooped with glee, but he didn’t know if the bubble would conceal any noise he made, too, and it was best to play it safe. Ducking flying limbs and hopping over struggling bodies, the Scarecrow made his way around the edge of the battlefield, back to the hedge maze, which was quiet and empty. He had no idea how long Glinda’s magic potion would last, and he didn’t want to be in the middle of a battlefield when it wore off.

“Find the Scarecrow! Destroy the beasts!” Jinjur screamed. Her army fought with renewed ferocity. It looked like the beasts were struggling to hold up against the girls’ superior firepower.

“Retreat!” Lulu shouted. “Monkeys and animals, to me!” The monkeys flapped into the air, hurtling toward where Lulu hovered, and the Lion’s surviving soldiers fought their way to where the monkeys flew in a tight circle. One by one, the monkeys swooped down and picked up their passengers; there were far more monkeys than animals this time. Jinjur fired at each of the monkeys as they came into range, taking down several. At the last moment, the Scarecrow realized he would be left behind, and ran frantically toward where the last two monkeys were struggling to lift the Lion into the air as Jinjur’s soldiers shot at them furiously.

“Help!” the Scarecrow shouted. “Take me, too!” But the monkeys couldn’t see him—and they couldn’t hear him either.

“Where’s the Scarecrow?” the Lion shouted. “We can’t leave him!”

“No time!” Lulu screamed. “We can’t look for him now, we’re getting massacred down there. We have to come back for him.”

“He’s my friend!” the Lion bellowed, struggling, but the monkeys had already hoisted him far above the battlefield. The Scarecrow watched in despair as the last of the animals were carried to safety.

Then he felt a pair of arms wrap around him. “Let’s get you out of here,” Glinda said into his ear. There was a bright flash of pink light, and then the battlefield—and Jinjur’s astonished soldiers—disappeared in a puff of glittery pink smoke.

TWELVE

The Scarecrow had a dizzying sense of flying through the air—far faster than the winged monkeys had carried him. Clouds flew by, and the landscape below rushed toward him and then receded again. Glinda’s grip on him never lessened, and somehow he knew he was safe. And then everything went dark. He heard a rushing sound, and had the sensation of passing through something thick and dense. “Hang on, dear,” Glinda said. The Scarecrow squeezed his eyes shut. The pressure grew more and more intense, until he was sure both of them would be crushed.

With a sudden pop, the pressure vanished, and the Scarecrow tumbled to a soft, carpeted floor. Blinking, he sat up and looked around him.

He was in a beautiful, richly decorated bedroom. The walls were covered with a pink rose-patterned wallpaper, and thick pink carpet covered the floor. A huge bed, piled high with pink satin cushions, sat at one end of the room, but despite its size the room itself was so big the bed hardly seemed to take up any room at all. An ornately carved divan upholstered in pink fabric was perfectly positioned to take advantage of the view from the room’s huge picture windows, which looked out over a garden.

“Where are we?” asked the Scarecrow.

“My palace, of course!” Glinda laughed, throwing herself down on the divan and stretching luxuriously. “That last bit going through the walls is always so dreary, but we made it safe and sound! Can I get you anything to eat or drink?”

“No, thank you,” said the Scarecrow, who was unable to do either of those things.

“Well, I’m famished,” Glinda proclaimed dramatically. She rummaged in the divan cushions and triumphantly held aloft an intricately crafted, jewel-studded pink bird figurine. “Send up a strawberry sundae, please,” she told the bird. The Scarecrow wondered if she might be a little batty. But to his surprise, the figurine chirped aloud, and Glinda settled back into the cushions with a sigh, tucking the bird into her dress.

“I do love ice cream after a battle,” she said dreamily, closing her eyes. “I find it really calms the nerves.” Within moments, there was a soft knock on her bedroom door. Glinda showed no signs of moving, so the Scarecrow got up to open it. A maid in a neatly pressed pink uniform curtsied deeply, and then gave a start when she saw him. “I didn’t realize the mistress had a guest,” she whispered, holding out a pink ice cream sundae on a pink tray. As soon as the Scarecrow took it from her, she bolted back down the corridor. She clearly had no desire to encounter Glinda herself. The Scarecrow brought Glinda her sundae, and Glinda rapturously spooned ice cream into her mouth.

“Your, uh, witchly eminence,” the Scarecrow began.

“Oh, just Glinda!” she exclaimed. “I feel like we’re old friends, and anyway I hate formalities, don’t you?”

“Glinda,” he said awkwardly. “Can you tell me—I mean, why am I here?”

“Such an existential question!” She laughed. “You really are an intellectual, dear Scarecrow.” He couldn’t quite tell if she was making fun of him, but decided she wasn’t. Her expression grew serious. “As we discussed in the forest,” she said, “that wretched monkey’s plan was bound to fail. Now it’s your turn, Scarecrow. Have you come up with a plan?”

He didn’t know how to tell her that he hadn’t even begun to think about another way to retake the palace. Now, in the safety of Glinda’s palace, he tried to understand what had just happened. “I didn’t think so many people would die,” he said finally. “I haven’t really thought about what to do next.”

Glinda narrowed her eyes. Suddenly he thought that he did not want to find out what it would be like to cross her. But then the expression passed again, and she smiled gently. “You’ve been through so much in the last day! But I did warn you that casualties would happen. There are always sacrifices that must be made when one wishes to win a war.”

“I suppose what we need is a stronger army,” he said. “The Lion’s forces weren’t strong enough, even with the help of the winged monkeys. But Jinjur lost plenty of her soldiers, too. The castle’s defenses will be weakened, if we can find a way to strike again before she can recover.”

“Brilliant!” Glinda exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “I knew you’d come through, Scarecrow!” As far as he could tell, he’d only stated the obvious, but he nodded as if her praise meant something to him. He hadn’t forgotten that brief, mean look in her eyes, or how the servant had seemed to be terrified of her. What did Glinda really want with him, and why was it so important to her that he believe she thought he was so intelligent? He was clever, to be sure, but if he was really honest with himself he had to admit that he wasn’t that clever. Not yet, anyway. So what game was Glinda playing?

Glinda had finished her sundae, and she set the dish aside with a sigh of satisfaction. “That really hit the spot,” she declared. “Now, dear Scarecrow, I have something to show you. Come with me.” She got up from the divan, and he obediently followed her out of the room and down a long pink corridor. She led him to another, much larger room, with walls made out of pink-tinted glass. Broad-leafed pink plants climbed the glass, and huge hot-pink blossoms nodded gently among the paler pink leaves. The ceiling was a stained-glass mosaic depicting various scenes. Some were strange to him, like girls with butterflies’ wings flying over a desert. Others were more familiar: the Wizard floating in his balloon, Toto sitting obediently, and the Scarecrow himself, along with the Woodman and the Lion, walking merrily down the Road of Yellow Brick. “My solarium,” Glinda said, waving a hand at the glass walls.

“It’s marvelous,” the Scarecrow breathed, looking around him in awe.

“I should really have the ceiling redone,” Glinda said, looking up with a flash of irritation. “All that boring old Oz history nobody cares about. Don’t you think more flowers would be prettier?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” the Scarecrow said, but he looked up again. The only Oz history he knew was from the books he’d read so far. There were the witches, of course, and there had been the Wizard, but who’d ruled Oz before him? He hadn’t gotten to that part yet.

And Glinda took it all for granted. He envied all the years of knowing she had that he didn’t.

Glinda opened a set of glass doors and stepped out onto a balcony, gesturing for the Scarecrow to follow. The view awaiting him took his breath away. It wasn’t the stunning vista of clear blue sky and high, snowcapped mountains. It wasn’t the sprawling flower gardens or the carefully pruned orchards. It was the rows and rows of girl soldiers, faces turned up to the balcony, saluting Glinda smartly. And every single one of them looked exactly like Glinda, down to the perfect, identically arranged ringlets.

“May I present my army,” Glinda said, the smugness evident in her voice. “At your disposal, dear Scarecrow. As am I.”

THIRTEEN

The Scarecrow was speechless. Glinda’s army stood motionless, their armor glittering in the sun. “You’re probably wondering why I didn’t send my girls in with the Lion,” Glinda said. She was right; he was. “The answer is I want you at my side, Scare. Together we’ll make a great team behind the throne of the new Oz. And I have just the ruler we need.” She signaled to her soldiers, and they wheeled in unison and marched back into the palace.

“But I thought—you said you wanted to help me take back the palace,” the Scarecrow said, completely bewildered. “Why would I help you put someone else in power?”

“Not in power,” Glinda said smoothly. “On the throne. Big difference, Scare. The fact is, the people of Oz love a new ruler. If Jinjur hadn’t come along, someone else would have unseated you. It’s not that I don’t have total faith in you,” she continued, cutting off his protest. “Believe me, you’re the smartest man who’s sat in that old chair in a long, long time. It’s just the way Oz is. Which is why the trick isn’t to be on the throne—it’s to be behind it.” She arched an eyebrow at him triumphantly.

“Behind it?” he echoed.

“Kings and queens come and go, but power stays with the powerful. You don’t have to be the King of Oz to rule it. Do you see what I’m saying?”

He did, although he wasn’t entirely sure he believed her. Something told him that, as pretty and kind as she seemed, Glinda wasn’t being entirely straight with him. But two could play at this game until he figured out her real motives. “So we find someone who’ll listen to us, and find a way to put that person in the Emerald Palace?”

“I knew you’d get it,” she said. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. I have the strength to get rid of that ugly little pest Jinjur, and I know just the girl to put in her place.” She pulled the jeweled bird out of her dress. “Bring me the princess,” she told it. “And make sure she’s wearing a dress this time. She’s visiting a witch, after all.” She giggled and put the bird away. “She’s the dullest little thing, really,” Glinda said. “Always wanting to sit in the garden and read a book, if you can believe it. She goes for walks in the countryside.” Glinda shuddered.

Reading books was not something to sneer at.

“No interest in fashion, and she’s been up north for ages in that wretched Gillikin Country, so she has no manners to speak of. She’s quite the rustic. But she’s quiet, she’s royalty, and she’ll do what she’s told.”

“Royalty?” asked the Scarecrow, totally confused.

“She’s a fairy,” Glinda said, as if that explained it. She arched her eyebrow again. “You don’t know? According to legend, the fairies are the rightful rulers of Oz.” She shrugged. “Technically, she’s supposed to be the queen already. She was in line to inherit the throne, but she was only an infant when the Wizard arrived in Oz and exiled her to Gillikin Country. I don’t know what on earth she’s been doing there, but it certainly wasn’t anything useful.”

“But what about my education plan? What about the School of Oz . . . ,” he asked, needing to know.

“I think you and I could convince her to do just about anything,” Glinda countered. But he suddenly felt like he was the one being convinced.

The solarium doors opened, and a young girl walked into the room. The first thing the Scarecrow noticed about her was that she was extraordinarily beautiful. She had huge, luminous green eyes, and thick, inky-black hair fell in heavy curls to her waist. Her skin was clear and glowing, and she was the picture of youthful innocence. But unlike Glinda, who played up her beauty with elegant clothes and artful makeup, the fairy princess wore a simple dress. She was barefoot, and carrying a bunch of flowers.

“Look what I brought from the garden!” she said excitedly as she ran up to them. “Glinda, the star lilies are blooming!” She held up the white blossoms. Tiny, real constellations sparkled among the petals, winking in and out.

“Ozma, those are weeds,” Glinda said. With a wave of her hand the blossoms withered and turned to glitter. “We don’t bring weeds into the palace, dearest. Now, I want you to meet someone.” She glanced down at Ozma’s bare feet and sighed.

“Shoes,” Glinda said, and with another balletic move of her arm, brown leather shoes appeared on Ozma’s feet. Glinda scrutinized her.

“Ears,” she said, and big blossoms appeared, covering Ozma’s delicate little ears. “Legend has it fairy ears can hear your deepest desires. We can’t have that, now, can we?”

Ozma nodded obediently, then her eyes fell on Scarecrow.

“I know who you are!” Ozma exclaimed, turning to the Scarecrow and going down on one knee. “You’re the king, aren’t you?”

“I—it’s a bit complicated right now,” the Scarecrow said, but Glinda interrupted him.

“He was the king, my dear, but he was only keeping the throne safe until the real ruler of Oz came along.” Glinda winked at the Scarecrow over Ozma’s head, and he saw immediately what she was doing. “In fact, he’s been waiting all along for that person to return to the Emerald City, and she very nearly has. Do you know who she is?” Ozma, wide-eyed, shook her head. Glinda threw back her head and laughed.

“Why, she’s you, dearest! You are the direct descendant of Lurline, the fairy who created Oz out of the Deadly Desert, as you know. But that doesn’t just make you part of a wonderful family. It means you are the rightful Queen of Oz! That’s why I’ve brought you back from Gillikin Country.”

Ozma gasped, and her hands flew to her face in shock. “But I—I don’t know how to be a queen, Glinda!”

“Why do you think I’ve been so insistent you learn about manners and fashion, my dear? But you needn’t worry. The Scarecrow is incredibly experienced, and we’ll both be right next to you, ready to help you with anything you need.”

Ozma frowned. “Isn’t being queen about much more than manners and fashion?”

The faintest note of impatience crept into Glinda’s voice. “If you want to be a queen, you must look like a queen,” she said.

Ozma nodded solemnly. “I understand.”

“Tomorrow, we’ll take my army to the Emerald City,” Glinda said. “We’ll get rid of Jinjur once and for all. And then, my dear, we’ll put you where you belong—on the throne of Oz.”

“I can hardly believe it,” Ozma said. “Am I really meant to be the queen? Are you sure you don’t mind, Your Highness?”

Glinda shot the Scarecrow a meaningful look. “Glinda is right,” he said. “I couldn’t sit on the throne knowing Oz’s rightful ruler was nearby. You’re the Queen of Oz, just as Glinda says.” Ozma’s green eyes filled with tears, and she reached for his hand, overcome with emotion.

Really, the Scarecrow thought, she was just a child. She should be in school. For a moment he felt bad for her—this poor girl, caught in issues too large for her to understand. Glinda was right, although perhaps not in the way she thought. Ozma wasn’t ready to rule Oz—not because she was dull, but because she was much too young. She needed Glinda. And Glinda, he realized, needed him. Ozma might be the supposed true ruler of Oz, but he was the actual one—not counting Jinjur, of course. His support of Ozma would be a crucial part of Glinda’s plan. If he opposed her openly, at least some of Oz’s citizens would likely rally behind him, throwing a wrench into Glinda’s works.

To his surprise, the fact that Glinda was scheming behind his back excited rather than insulted him. It was a puzzle to figure out. He was getting a real head for politics, and the behind-the-scenes action was far more rewarding than the dreary day-to-day business of ruling Oz had ever been. Let poor Ozma hear the endless petitions and complaints of her subjects. Let her fall asleep on the throne every afternoon out of sheer boredom as Munchkin after Munchkin rambled on about the misdeeds of his neighbors. Let her sign laws into effect until her little hands cramped. She was welcome to the job. As he was beginning to realize, the part that intrigued him was the thrill of the game. Ruling was about playing a long con, and power meant you were willing to strategize behind the scenes for as long as it took. Glinda’d had years of thinking and planning. He just needed to catch up.

He’d been skeptical, but in that moment he made his decision. He’d go along with Glinda’s plan and support Ozma’s return to the throne. He’d bide his time. And someday—maybe someday soon—he’d show Glinda that he was made of far more than she’d thought. She had underestimated him, and for now that was to his advantage. She wouldn’t underestimate him forever. He could keep secrets, too.

Glinda looked at him through her eyelashes as if she could sense his resolution. She smiled a pretty, kindly smile that entirely failed to reach her glittering blue eyes.

As he walked away, Glinda called after him. He turned around, and her eyes, those magnetic pools of blue, met his. “The thing you’ll never understand is that it doesn’t matter how much information you put in your brain. It’s about what you do with the information you have.” She smiled the satisfied smile of a well-fed carnivore. He knew he was supposed to be afraid, to feel out of his depth.

Glinda wanted him to know that she was smarter than him and that she always would be. But Glinda had finally made a mistake. She’d meant to boast, or even threaten him. But without realizing it, she’d given him instructions instead.

FOURTEEN

Early the next morning, Glinda sent a flock of gilded songbirds—literally covered in gold leaf—to the Forest of the Beasts to tell the Lion that she and the Scarecrow were making their own move on the Emerald City. “I’ve invited them all to the battle, but I’m sure it’ll be over by the time they arrive. They can join us for your coronation instead, dear,” she said to Ozma, stroking the girl’s dark hair.

“My coronation?”

“You didn’t think you’d just sit on the throne and that would be that! Of course you’ll have a coronation. It’ll be the grandest party Oz has ever seen! We’ll order you a dozen new dresses, and bucketloads of jewels. You can pick out your favorite things to eat and we’ll serve them at the banquet, and there will be dancing all night long!”

“But if Jinjur has hurt so many people, no one will feel like dancing,” Ozma said. “Wouldn’t it be better to make sure everyone in the city is taken care of instead of focusing on a party?”

“Nonsense!” Glinda exclaimed. “Everyone will want to be distracted from their troubles, and they’ll be so excited to have a new queen that they won’t even think of Jinjur anymore. You’ll see I’m right. Remember, I know much more than you do about running a kingdom!”

“You’re right,” Ozma said. “You’re much wiser than I am when it comes to these things.” Still, the Scarecrow thought he saw a glimmer of doubt in her eyes.

Glinda was treating their assault on the Emerald City as if it were a grand picnic. She sent Ozma to her chambers to get ready—“Make sure you pick out a lovely dress, dear, we can’t have anyone seeing you look less than your best,” she called after Ozma—and then brought the Scarecrow up to her own room, where she spent a long time conjuring up various battle outfits before settling on a fitted hot-pink bodysuit with amethyst-edged metal plating at the breastbone. The Scarecrow glanced up at the sky, where the sun was already high.

“Aren’t we leaving soon?” he inquired. “It’s a long journey to the Emerald City.”

Glinda yawned. “Not when you have magic,” she said. “We’ll be there in no time. Don’t be such a stick-in-the-mud, Scare.”

At last, after adjusting her makeup and eating another ice cream sundae, she was ready. Once Glinda decided to get going, she didn’t waste a moment. In no time at all, she had assembled her troops in front of her palace. Ozma, contrary to what Glinda had suggested, was wearing practical clothes for the journey. She had on a plain, unembellished dress, and her hair was bound up tightly in a neat bun. Glinda gave her a disapproving look, but said nothing about her clothes.

“Now then!” Glinda said brightly. “Is everyone ready? Ozma, I’m going to need your help. Moving an army is a job too big for one witch!” Ozma nodded, and Glinda took one of her hands. “When I give you the word, join your magic with mine. Don’t worry about what to do with it—I’ll direct you.” Ozma nodded again. The Scarecrow tried not to show it, but he was impressed. Glinda was indeed powerful—far more than she’d let on. He’d never heard of a witch strong enough to move so many people before, even with help.

“I’ve never been in a battle before,” Ozma said worriedly to the Scarecrow. “Have you?” The Scarecrow nodded. “What was it like?” She took his free hand.

Once again, the Scarecrow felt sorry for the poor girl. She was no match for the likes of Glinda—or for what faced them at the palace. He thought of all the bloodshed he’d seen in the last few days. He was getting used to plotting, but he’d never get used to all that death.

“You’ll do fine,” he told Ozma. She was satisfied with that answer, although he didn’t know if it was the truth.

Still holding Ozma’s hand, Glinda raised her arms, and her soldiers began to glow with an eerie pink light. The Scarecrow prepared himself for the strange feeling of magical flight. At least they didn’t have to go through the wall this time. The ground dropped away from them, and a thick, dark fog poured in all around them. “We’re going a different way this time, since there are so many of us,” Glinda said in the darkness. Ozma squeezed his hand tightly, and he squeezed back in what he hoped was a reassuring way. He couldn’t see anything in the pitch-black world Glinda had brought them to, but he could feel that they were moving very quickly. Ozma was gripping his hand hard enough to cut off his circulation, and he was grateful he didn’t have any.

Still, her small hand in his made him feel something not in his head, but in his chest, where his heart should have been. She trusted him.

Then he felt the surge of magic and he wondered what the fuss was all about. He did not love it like the witches did. He did not chase it like the Wizard did. He felt the power but it meant less to him somehow.

The journey through the darkness somehow seemed to last forever and no time at all. “Hold on, everyone!” Glinda called out cheerfully. The Scarecrow felt himself plunging downward. Ozma squeaked in surprise. Suddenly the darkness lifted, and he hit solid ground with a thump that jarred his stuffing. All around him, Glinda’s soldiers were adjusting their armor and forming military ranks, unfazed by the journey. They were standing outside the gates of the Emerald City. This time, the gates were closed.

“Now that’s what I call a surprise entrance. They’re very well trained, aren’t they?” Glinda asked smugly.

“Indeed,” agreed the Scarecrow, wondering what use Glinda could possibly have had for a trained army. How long had she plotted to put Ozma on the throne? Would she have deposed him by force, if Jinjur hadn’t come along to waylay her plans? Somehow, he didn’t doubt it. It was more and more obvious how ruthless Glinda was underneath the pretty, feminine exterior. Had she had more evil thoughts in mind when she’d sent the Lion and his beasts into battle? Had she hoped they would be killed? The Scarecrow hoped his friend was still safe. Even at the end of the battle, the Lion had been loyal to him at no benefit to himself. That was more than he could say for Glinda.

“How will we get in now?” the Scarecrow asked, eyeing the tightly shut gates. “I can’t imagine Jinjur will just let us in.”

“She doesn’t have to,” Glinda said airily. She let go of Ozma’s hand, wiggling her fingers, and flicked them dismissively at the gates. A sizzling bolt of lightning struck the solid, heavy wood, splintering it to pieces. “Go get ’em, girls!” she ordered her soldiers.

As one, her army pushed through the ruined gates and marched in unison down the broad Road of Yellow Brick that led to the Emerald Palace. The Scarecrow, Ozma, and Glinda let the ranks of girls march past, and then fell into step behind them. The city was still deserted, but it didn’t give him the same eerie sense of being watched. This time, the Scarecrow felt sure, Jinjur didn’t know they were coming. This time they’d be protected. If only the Lion and even Lulu had had that guarantee. Did people you cared about always have to get hurt? Glinda was clearly the wrong person to ask, but he wondered. He liked power, but he wasn’t so sure yet about the consequences.

If they’d surprised Jinjur, it wasn’t by much. By the time Glinda’s army reached the palace, Jinjur’s own soldiers were pouring out of the palace doors, pistols at the ready. Jinjur herself leapt from a second-floor balcony, landing lightly on her feet and brandishing her own gun. Glinda’s soldiers raised their glittering swords. Time stood still in the moment before the two armies met.

FIFTEEN

Suddenly Ozma pushed forward. “But they’ll be hurt!” she exclaimed.

“That’s the point, Ozma,” Glinda said, gritting her teeth.

“Is that what a battle is like?” Ozma demanded. “Is this what happens?” The Scarecrow was at a loss for words. Had Glinda not explained the full ramifications of her plan? If Ozma had grown up sheltered in Gillikin Country, the idea of Ozians killing each other would have been completely unbelievable to her. He hadn’t believed it possible himself, until he’d seen it with his own eyes. It was one thing to worry about his friends, but Jinjur and her soldiers were the enemy. They deserved to die.

“If we don’t kill them, they’ll kill us,” he said, his own words surprising him when he said them out loud. A few days ago he could not have said them. But that was before Jinjur. Before she took his palace, before her soldier killed Hibiscus, before she almost took his life . . . “Plus, we have to get Jinjur out of the palace, and she wants to fight us. There’s no other way for you to be queen.”

“But I don’t want to be queen, if it means bloodshed!” Ozma exclaimed, her cheeks blushing with fury and her green eyes sparkling.

“Jinjur is a tyrant, Ozma,” Glinda said impatiently. “She’s murdered half the palace staff and several Munchkin villages, and she’ll kill more unless she’s stopped. There’s no sense in reasoning with people like that, darling. The only language they understand is force.”

“I refuse to believe that,” Ozma said with a sudden calm. She spun around on one foot before Glinda could stop her and marched up to the edge of Glinda’s army.

“Stop this at once,” she said. Though she did not raise her voice, the Scarecrow could hear her as clear as a bell all the way at the back of Glinda’s forces, and the strength in her voice was unmistakable.

Jinjur’s soldiers froze. Glinda’s soldiers lowered their swords a hairsbreadth. One of them looked back at Glinda, as if waiting for new instructions.

“I told you to attack!” Glinda screamed. Her soldiers raised their swords again and moved forward.

“And I told you to stop.” Ozma’s voice was so powerful that it hit the Scarecrow with a physical force, sending both him and Glinda stumbling backward. The air around Ozma was crackling. In that same huge, awe-inspiring voice, she addressed Jinjur. “Why have you come to the Emerald City to do harm to my people?”

Jinjur brought up the pistol, snarling in rage. Ozma held up one hand and the pistol clattered to the ground. Jinjur struggled furiously, but it was clear some kind of invisible bond was holding her.

“I asked you a question,” Ozma said. Jinjur kicked furiously, and then slumped over as she realized the futility of fighting Ozma’s magic.

“The Scarecrow wasn’t doing a very good job,” she said sullenly.

“That’s not true,” the Scarecrow protested.

“Oh, shut up,” Glinda said, her glittering eyes fixed on Ozma.

Ozma stared daggers at Jinjur. “Do you think you have done better, then?”

Jinjur scuffed at the ground with one high-heeled foot, looking slightly sheepish. “I would have done,” she said. “In just a bit, soon as we got settled.”

“You call murdering my people ‘getting settled’?” Ozma’s voice was thick with anger. “Disrupting the rule of Oz, killing innocents, bringing warfare on my city?”

“It ain’t your city,” Jinjur mumbled, looking around. Her soldiers remained frozen where they were, held by Ozma’s magic.

“It is my city,” Ozma said, and her voice was like a massive bell tolling across the courtyard. The Scarecrow gasped. Huge black wings, veined with gold like a butterfly’s, unfurled from Ozma’s back and spread outward. Green lightning cracked down out of the cloudless sky, and a wind whipped up around them, sending a cyclone of tiny green gems spinning around them. “I am Ozma of Oz, direct descendant of the fairy Lurline, heir to the throne of Oz, and rightful mistress of the Emerald Palace,” Ozma said in that same huge, terrifying voice. “I demand you leave my city and return to the land whence you came.” A bolt of green lightning slammed into the ground inches from Jinjur’s feet and she jumped backward with a little scream.

Her jaw went slack, and she sank to her knees. “It’s not possible,” she whispered. “You can’t be Ozma. Ozma’s dead.”

At last, Glinda saw her moment to act. “Not true at all!” she said cheerfully. If she was disconcerted by Ozma’s totally unexpected actions, she didn’t show it as she walked gracefully up to stand by Ozma’s side. The Scarecrow, not wanting to miss a moment, ran after her. Glinda put an arm around Ozma’s shoulders, ignoring the fact that Ozma was trembling with rage and the air around her was shivering with magic. “The Wizard exiled our dear Ozma when she was just a baby,” Glinda continued. “Where on earth did you get the idea she was dead, young lady? You’ve been very impertinent.” Her honeyed voice dripped menace.

“I didn’t—I had—we didn’t know!” Jinjur stammered frantically. “We just thought he—” She pointed at the Scarecrow without finishing her sentence.

Glinda rolled her eyes. “You thought he wasn’t doing his job properly, so you decided to hop on over and do it for him? I don’t think so, you little minx. The Scarecrow was doing his job—as regent, holding the throne for Ozma’s return. Well, now she’s here.”

Jinjur looked back and forth between them, her face filling with confusion. “But if the Wizard exiled Ozma, and then made the Scarecrow king, how could the Scarecrow be a regent?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions!” Glinda snapped. “It’s time for you to suffer the punishment you deserve.” She turned to her soldiers. “Bring me firewood,” she said coldly. “We’ll burn this bitch at the stake.”

“No,” Ozma said. Glinda raised an eyebrow.

“Is it—is it really you?” Jinjur was staring at Ozma, her eyes filling with tears. “It is really you! It’s Ozma, our own princess come back to us!”

To the Scarecrow’s utter astonishment, Jinjur ran forward—but not to attack. She flung herself on the ground at Ozma’s feet. “I never would’ve done bad if I knew you was coming!” she wailed. “I’m so sorry, Majesty!”

“You have done more than bad,” Ozma said. “You have murdered my people and brought warfare to Oz, where before there was none. You have watered the soil of my gardens with blood.” The emerald wind had died down and the lightning retreated back up into the sky, but her eyes were still glowing with an eerie green light. The Scarecrow could hardly believe this powerful creature was the same terrified girl who’d held his hand outside Glinda’s palace. It was as if tapping into her fairy powers had unleashed a whole new person. This girl, he could believe, was meant to be the Queen of Oz.

Jinjur began to cry, snuffling miserably into the dirt at Ozma’s feet. “I don’t know what came over me!” she cried. “It was like someone told me to do it! We ain’t like this normally, I swear, Highness! Something just came over us! We was minding our own business, and then one day I got this bee in my bonnet and suited up to come down here and kick out the old Scarecrow!”

Ozma’s eyes narrowed, and she tilted her head to one side. “Is it possible?” she murmured to herself. “But who would do something like that? Who could use magic to such an awful end?”

The Scarecrow felt his brain at work. He had a pretty good idea of who, and carefully avoided looking at Glinda. If she had somehow compelled Jinjur to invade the Emerald City, she had been planning even more carefully than he had thought. And it was bigger than that. His head spun. What happened to Good versus Wicked? Wasn’t Glinda ultimately supposed to be Good? But maybe a witch was a witch and Glinda was only Good when compared to someone really Wicked. Right now, Glinda didn’t seem at all Good.

“All the more reason to execute the traitor, Ozma,” Glinda interrupted smoothly, stepping forward to try to take control of the situation. “If someone has controlled the girl before, they could do it again. You must be strong enough to prevent her from harming anyone in the future. Remember what I told you, about casualties being necessary when it serves the greater good.”

But Ozma shook her head. “Thank you for your advice, my dear friend,” she said. “I know you mean well, and you are far wiser than I am. But I can’t bring myself to spill any more blood. I know I may regret it, but how are we to end killing with killing? Her death is not the answer. No one’s is.”

Glinda’s mouth tightened with fury, and she controlled her voice with an effort. “Ozma, darling, I am wiser than you. Didn’t we agree I would be your counselor?” The Scarecrow cleared his throat. “The Scarecrow and I,” Glinda amended, shooting the Scarecrow an irritated look. Ozma took no notice.

“Of course you shall,” Ozma agreed. “But if I am to be a true queen, I will have to learn to make decisions of my own as well. I may come to regret this, but I will spare the life of Jinjur and her soldiers.”

Glinda opened her mouth again and then paused for the barest second. “Certainly, my dear,” she said. “You are the queen, after all.” Only the Scarecrow saw the furious glitter in her eyes. He felt a chill. Crossing Glinda would have consequences for Ozma, he felt sure of it. The girl might think Glinda was her friend, but Glinda was clearly no one’s friend but Glinda’s.

SIXTEEN

Jinjur was so dazed by Ozma’s return that it was no trouble at all for Glinda’s soldiers to disarm her and her army. When Ozma had collected all their pistols, she made a huge pile of them in front of the palace. She closed her eyes, summoning her magic. The metal began to melt, flowing together to form a liquid silver pool. As Ozma moved her hands, the molten metal formed a miniature replica of the Emerald Palace, perfect down to the last brick. Ozma opened her eyes and looked at her work with satisfaction.

“Take this with you back home,” she told Jinjur, “and never return to the Emerald City again. Your actions have gone against everything we hold dear in this country. I will spare your life, and the life of your soldiers, but I will not forgive you. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Jinjur said, curtsying deeply. She was so humbled she was nearly unrecognizable as the cruel and arrogant girl who’d stood in this same place and issued her challenge to the Scarecrow. He was astonished that Ozma had been able to work this change without violence. Maybe Ozma was right, and Glinda’s way wasn’t the only one. He had much to think about.

Jinjur and her soldiers filed out of the Emerald City, their heads down. Several girls carried Ozma’s statue of the Emerald Palace. Jinjur turned one last time and waved farewell. “Thank you, Highness,” she said. “I’m sorry.” Ozma nodded regally, and Jinjur turned away.

When the last of the girls had dwindled into the distance, Ozma sighed deeply and ran one hand through her hair. “I’m so tired,” she said softly, and suddenly she was just a girl again, young and inexperienced.

“We must get you into the palace, Your Majesty,” Glinda said, putting an arm around Ozma’s shoulders. “You should rest before your coronation.”

“Is it soon?” Ozma asked plaintively.

“The Lion and his people should be here shortly, and I’ll send messengers to all the corners of Oz. We’ll have your coronation in a week, my dear. I’ll plan everything while you rest. You shouldn’t have to worry about details at a time like this. Why, you’ve just liberated Oz!”

“Thank you, Glinda,” Ozma said, leaning her head on Glinda’s shoulder. “You’ve been so good to me. Both of you have,” she added, taking the Scarecrow’s hand. “I couldn’t have done this without you.” She let go of the two of them and walked into the palace.

“Don’t you forget it,” Glinda muttered under her breath. She fixed a sickly-sweet smile on her face and stalked after Ozma. The Scarecrow watched them go, his mind churning. How was he supposed to figure out what to do next? Was he on Glinda’s side—or Ozma’s? Was there a way for him to find a side of his own—to come out of this ahead of them both? He had a lot of thinking to do. Maybe he needed a bigger brain, or more gifts from the Wizard. Maybe he needed a shot of Glinda’s magic. Could he trick her into making him more clever?

The palace wasn’t in nearly as bad a shape as the Scarecrow had feared. Many of the servants had fled or been killed, but Jinjur had done little damage to the palace itself other than to paint STRAWBAG in huge, dripping red letters across each wall of the Scarecrow’s chambers. The servants who remained greeted Ozma with surprise that soon turned to delight.

He tried to ask one about dear Fiona, but didn’t get far. She had not seen her among the living, but she had not seen her among the dead either. Before he could investigate further, Glinda swept into the room.

“We have so much work to do!” Glinda exclaimed cheerfully. “Scare, why don’t you find some temporary chambers for Ozma. I’ll go down to the kitchens and see what we’ll need for the coronation banquet.” She looked down at her armor. “I’ll need chambers of my own, too, of course,” she said. “Make sure I have a large wardrobe.”

The Scarecrow wasn’t used to taking orders in his own palace, but there wasn’t any point in arguing something so trivial with the witch. If Glinda could bide her time, so could he. And perhaps he would spot his missing servant along the way.

“Come on, Your Majesty,” he said to the sleepy-eyed Ozma. “I know just the rooms for you.” Ozma yawned and followed him upstairs.

The Scarecrow put her in a set of unused rooms, luckily untouched by Jinjur’s soldiers, with a small balcony that overlooked the gardens. All the remaining servants were in the kitchen with Glinda, so he made up the bed himself and found Ozma a spare nightgown in one of the cupboards. It was still early evening, but the exhausted princess climbed into bed as soon as he turned down the covers. “Don’t go yet, Scarecrow,” Ozma murmured. “Won’t you stay and talk to me until I fall asleep?”

“Of course, Princess,” he said, sitting at the edge of her bed and taking her hand. Her skin felt hot and feverish.

“Too much magic,” she said. “It tires me out so. I didn’t know if I had it in me to defeat those girls!” She smiled weakly at him. And despite himself, he filed away that piece of knowledge. Her weakness seemed important somehow. He was struck by what a sweet little thing she was. No wonder Glinda’s plan was working so well. A part of him felt for her. She never asked for any of this. She had not chosen this life. She’d have been content in a cottage somewhere with a book. She was the definition of Good. But he couldn’t help feeling a dark thrill of elation. She knew nothing about his plans, or about what he and Glinda had in store for her. He’d been clever enough to fool a fairy—and the Queen of Oz. Of course, he’d only be helping her, not harming her. Even Glinda, cunning as she was, only had the good of Oz at heart. But more and more he found that he loved watching his plots unspool. This, he was sure, was what it meant to be truly clever.

“Tell me a story, Scare,” she asked. Her innocence and trust was an assault to his senses, and he had to gather himself before beginning.

“Once up on a time, there was a man made of straw. He was told when he was first created that he was only good for one thing: scaring away crows. And even that proved quite opposite. He dreamed of a better life . . . a bigger life, while tied to that stake. One filled with books and thoughts. One day a girl came along and took him down and introduced him to new friends. Friends for life. And they helped him obtain the thing he had most wished for. The man was never alone again. And he was free and he could think. And he lived happily ever after.”

“And I took your crown. The thing you most wished for?” she said apologetically. Almost as if she would give it back if he asked nicely.

“The crown was never something I wished for. I only ever wanted to have a brain. A brain is everything. And it is worth more than any crown. It is worth more than any magic,” he said truthfully.

If I use it right, it can do more than any wand or any crown or even any pair of magic shoes. If I use it right, I can take back what I lost today. If I use it right, I can take over all of Oz. . . .

“What are you thinking, dear Scarecrow?”

“I was thinking how brave you were today,” he replied untruthfully.

She yawned. “Do you really think so? Was I as brave as Dorothy?”

“Dorothy?” he asked, startled.

“You know, the Witchslayer. Dorothy who traveled through Oz with you and defeated the Wizard.”

He smiled to think of the little girl he’d once known, not so different from Ozma herself. “You were even braver, Princess.” But she was already fast asleep.

SEVENTEEN

The Lion and his beasts arrived in the Emerald City early the next morning. Lulu was dressed in her battle outfit, and the winged monkeys flew overhead in tight formation. Lulu brandished her pistol, firing shots into the air as she approached the palace as if she was issuing a challenge, but there was no one to meet her other than the Scarecrow and Glinda. She peered behind them suspiciously as the other monkeys settled on the ground, folding their wings and looking around them cautiously.

“It’s fine, we’ve defeated Jinjur,” the Scarecrow said. “She and all her soldiers are gone.”

“We?” Lulu barked, poking him in the chest. “You mean to say you had something to do with this?” She looked at him with new, grudging respect. “Not bad for a ball of straw,” she admitted. She stared at Glinda. “Who’s this frilly hussy?”

Glinda’s smile was frosty. “I am Glinda the Good Witch,” she said.

“Glinda’s just a legend,” Lulu sniffed, but she shook Glinda’s hand.

“You’re just very young,” Glinda said sweetly. “Anyway, we have even better news than Jinjur’s defeat,” she added, surreptitiously wiping the hand Lulu had touched on her dress. “The True Queen of Oz has returned from her long sojourn in the north, and she will be crowned in a few days’ time. Ozma, Princess of Oz, is among us once more!”

Several of the beasts gasped in surprise, and one of the monkeys flew several inches into the air. “Ozma is here?” Lulu said, her eyes wide. “Little baby Ozma?”

“Not such a baby anymore,” the Scarecrow told her.

Lulu shook her head. “She can’t see me,” she wailed, unexpectedly bursting into tears. “She’ll never forgive me for what I did, never!” The Scarecrow glanced at Glinda, but she clearly had no idea what Lulu was talking about either.

“I don’t know what you mean,” the Scarecrow said. The Lion and all of the beasts were leaning in with their ears pricked up. Lulu wiped her eyes, all her bravado gone.

“I stole her,” Lulu said dully. “Oh, that’s not how he put it, but that’s what I did. I stole her from her rightful place and raised her up ignorant. And then I left her all alone.” Lulu sobbed incoherently. “I—I’d do anything to see her except face the past. I can’t forgive myself for what I did either. I’m not r-ready. Maybe soon but now—I just can’t. Tell her—” The little monkey choked up. “No. Don’t tell her anything at all,” she managed. “Don’t even tell her we were here. Capisce?”

“But you’ll miss the coronation,” the Scarecrow said, utterly confused.

Lulu shook her head. “Not a problem,” she said gruffly, clearing her throat and blowing her nose noisily. “It does my heart good to know she’s back where she should be. That’s all I need.” She glanced back at the beasts. “What are you looking at?” she snapped. Immediately, the Lion busied himself washing behind his ears. Lulu flapped her wings, rising awkwardly off the ground. “I wish I could’ve seen her,” she said sadly. “Let’s get out of here, fellas.” The rest of the winged monkeys took off after her. None of them said good-bye.

Glinda watched the monkeys fly away, her expression thoughtful.

“Enough of this sitting around!” the Lion said. “Who did you say was in charge now? Is there going to be a feast?”

Glinda blinked. “A feast, yes!” she exclaimed. “A feast to celebrate the return and the coronation of our True Queen. Come inside, all of you, and make yourselves at home.”

“Is that the Lion I see! I’d know that mane anywhere!” someone shouted from the courtyard.

“Tin!” the Scarecrow exclaimed. Their old friend was just approaching with a small delegation of Winkies, who milled around him and chattered excitedly. Scare ran up to the Woodman and shook his hand enthusiastically. A moment later, the Lion knocked them both over with the enthusiasm of his greeting. “Tin!” he roared, clapping them both on the back with his enormous paws. “Long time no see!” For a moment, Scare banished all thoughts of Glinda, Ozma, and the events of the day, and delighted in being reunited with his two friends.

The days until Ozma’s coronation passed quickly. Glinda kept the princess tucked away in her chambers, and she had little contact with the guests who streamed into the Emerald City, eager to catch sight of their new, rightful queen. The Scarecrow tried to see her several times, but each time he knocked Glinda came to the door and told him the princess was resting. He was suspicious, but he could wait until the coronation to find out what Glinda was up to. Instead, he and the Lion caught up with Tin, who was envious of all the excitement they’d been having.

“Battles!” Tin exclaimed wistfully. “I’ve never even seen a battle.”

“You’re not missing anything,” the Scarecrow told him. “It was awful, really.” He still hadn’t stopped thinking about the image of the Royal Army’s body trampled into the dirt. No, he could do without another battle, even if the rest of his life was as dull as a Munchkin wedding.

“What about your gift?” the Lion asked, changing the subject.

“My heart, you mean?” Tin thumped his chest. “Right as rain. I’m sure of it. The Wizard knew his stuff. What about you?”

“Oh, I’m very brave now,” the Lion said. But he didn’t sound so sure. The Scarecrow wondered if something had happened during the battle with Jinjur that caused the Lion to doubt himself, but he put that thought out of his mind. His gift was certainly working, and that was all that mattered.

At last it was time for Ozma’s coronation. The Scarecrow carefully washed his cloth body and the Woodman polished his tin plating to a blinding glow. Even the Lion brushed his luxurious coat and permitted the Woodman to tie a ribbon in his thick mane. They took their place among the other guests in the throne room of the Emerald Palace. It had been decorated beautifully for the occasion. Richly embroidered tapestries hung on the walls. The huge throne that dominated one end of the room had been studded with so many emeralds that it turned the light in the entire room green. Glittering pink streamers fluttered from the ceiling—Glinda’s touch, no doubt. A long red carpet stretched from the throne to the doors at the far end of the room. Everyone was craning their necks and looking around them, trying to get a glimpse of the mysterious princess.

Cornelius raised a trumpet to his lips and blew a dignified march. The throne room doors opened slowly of their own accord, revealing Ozma, with Glinda standing beside her. Everyone in the throne room gasped. Ozma was magnificent. Her long black hair hung in heavy ringlets to her waist. Her deep-green dress, studded with more emeralds, brought out the extraordinary, luminous green of her eyes. Her beautiful wings fluttered behind her, glowing with a soft green light. Even Glinda, decked to the nines in an enormous, tiered pink ball gown, her hair piled on top of her head in intricate knots, paled beside the princess—and from the expression on her face, she both knew it and wasn’t too happy about it. Glinda carried a delicate, wrought-gold crown on a green satin pillow. OZ was spelled out in beautiful golden script.

Cornelius set down his trumpet. “We welcome Ozma, the One True Queen of Oz!” he shouted. As Ozma took the first step onto the red carpet, the entire room erupted into spontaneous cheers. One sobbing Winkie clutched another, wailing, “Have you ever seen anything so beautiful in your life?” Wolves howled, crocodiles clacked their teeth together, and a fox ran halfway up one wall in excitement before falling back to the ground. The Lion roared in approval, and the Woodman joyfully clanged his chest with one tin fist. Winkies threw fistfuls of glitter, and Scraps the Patchwork girl cartwheeled around the room. Even Polychrome, Daughter of the Rainbow, had come all the way from the Rainbow Falls, dressed in a swirling—and transparent—ball gown of rainbow-flecked mist. The Tin Woodman stared at her svelte figure so intently that the Scarecrow had to knock him on the side of the head.

Step-by-step, Ozma crossed the room, pausing almost every few feet to hug a Munchkin or kiss the top of a furry head. Even the Scarecrow was moved, and found himself grateful he had no tear ducts with which to weep. Only Glinda, he noticed, looked less than rapturous.

At last, Ozma reached the throne, and she turned to face her new subjects. It took a long time for the cheering to die down, but finally the room was silent.

“My dear friends,” Ozma began. “I am so happy to be back among you, in the city where I belong. I promise to serve you well as your queen, and to be just and fair.” She paused, for a moment seeming almost uncertain. She might look every inch the queen, but it was still clear that she was just a young girl. “I promise to be the best queen I can,” she said finally. Glinda, seeing that Ozma’s speech was done, stepped forward with the crown and set it delicately on Ozma’s head.

Once again, the room burst into excited shouts and applause. Glitter confetti exploded from the ceiling, and huge mirrored balls descended from the rafters and turned slowly overhead. Trays of canapés and glasses of fizzgiggle floated through the crowd, carried by invisible hands. Ozians rushed the throne dais, hugging their new queen and congratulating her.

The Lion stood up on his hind legs and snatched an entire tray of bacon-wrapped shrimps out of the air, crunching it down in a few gulps. “I love parties!” he said through a mouthful of food. The Scarecrow, for once not irritated by his friend’s bad manners, laughed out loud. It was impossible to be angry or upset on an occasion like this. Everyone around him was overjoyed at the prospect of a new queen—and such a pretty one, too! Even he was excited, though he did feel a slight pang of loss as he watched Ozma settle into the throne that had so recently been his.

The celebration went on late into the night. The fizzgiggle never stopped flowing, and by midnight several Winkies were snoring loudly in the corners of the throne room. The Lion was dancing the limbo with an extremely tipsy Pixie. The Woodman kept trying to talk to him about timber management, and finally the Scarecrow excused himself to get some fresh air.

The palace gardens were cool and quiet. Crickets chirped contentedly in the grass. The Scarecrow settled himself against a tree with a sigh, stretching his arms over his head. In the distance, he could see the hedge maze that had nearly had to hide him during the battle with Jinjur. Maybe now he was clever enough to solve it. The thought was so delightful he took two steps in its direction before he was interrupted.

“I thought you’d never leave,” said a familiar sweet voice behind him. “We have much to discuss.”

EIGHTEEN

“Hi, Glinda,” the Scarecrow said. She was still wearing her ball gown, but outside the grandeur of the throne room it looked slightly ridiculous. Her hair had come out of its elaborate updo, and her habitual smile was rigid rather than genuine.

“We need to talk,” Glinda said, and there was no mistaking the edge in her voice. Away from public scrutiny, she was a different person. A meaner one, he couldn’t help thinking. Suddenly he was tired of the witch and her endless scheming.

“About what? Ozma is in place, just like you wanted. She trusts you, and she’ll listen to anything you tell her to do.”

Glinda didn’t even notice that he hadn’t bothered to include himself as part of her plan to control Ozma.

He knew now that she never had intended to. It should have hurt or made him angry but instead it made him think. Never again would he be tricked. Just like never again would he be tied to a post in a field. He could still almost feel the crows landing, one, two, three, four. Never, ever, ever . . .

He was only going to get better and smarter. Everything was a lesson. And every lesson was an opportunity. Even this one.

He didn’t see any reason to pretend he hadn’t figured out she was only using him and had no intention of sharing power. Was she surprised he’d been clever enough to see through her act? She didn’t show it. She might be a liar, but Glinda was right about one thing. War meant casualties, and he could no longer be afraid to be ruthless. He’d have to learn fast—and learn on his own. He couldn’t trust anyone other than himself. He’d stay one step ahead of Glinda and anyone else who crossed him. Whatever it took, he’d be ready.

“She doesn’t listen to me as well as she should,” Glinda said tersely. “That business with pardoning Jinjur . . .” She shook her head. “The princess is too used to getting her own way. I think they spoiled her up there in Gillikin Country. She’ll listen to me for now, but this independent streak is troubling.”

“There’s not much you can do about it now,” the Scarecrow pointed out. “You’re the one who made her queen.”

“We could put you back in power,” Glinda mused, tapping her chin with one manicured finger.

“You think I’d be any more willing to take your orders than she would?” He laughed.

“Too much trouble,” she said, ignoring him. “They’re happy to have a new queen, and they wouldn’t stand for another switchup. The situation is too volatile right now. We need a stable ruler, at least for the time being. But there has to be a long-term solution.”

“I wish Dorothy was here,” the Scarecrow said suddenly. “Even if she didn’t know what to do, she was always so happy. Those were better times.” For a moment, he almost wished he was the old Scarecrow. Maybe he’d been stupid, but he’d also been happy and carefree.

“Well, obviously,” Glinda snapped, and then her eyes widened. “Oh, Scare!” she breathed, really looking at him for the first time. “Of course. It’s so clear; I can’t believe I didn’t think of it.” She grabbed his hands, and despite himself, a thrill ran through him. He was back in the game—and whatever he’d felt a moment ago, he couldn’t resist the excitement. “You’re absolutely brilliant.”

“I am?” He cleared his throat. He hated that praise from her could still, for a moment, take him higher than the flying monkeys had. “I am,” he said more confidently. “Brilliant, yes. I can always come up with a good solution.”

“I just have to find a way to bring her here,” Glinda said. “It’ll take time, but I can do it. You’ll have to wait for me—can you manage it? I’ll set you up outside the Emerald City somewhere. You can build yourself a nice little palace of your own and relax for a bit until it’s time for us to act.”

The Scarecrow weighed the plan he’d sparked. Bringing Dorothy back was something he’d wanted since she’d left. And when she got here, the Dorothy he remembered would have no interest in being queen. She’d put the Scarecrow back on the throne where he belonged. Wouldn’t she? He opened his mouth to agree when they were interrupted. “Glinda? Scarecrow? I’ve been looking all over for you!” It was Ozma. The Scarecrow gave a guilty start, but Glinda didn’t bat an eyelash.

“You’ve nearly ruined your surprise, silly girl,” Glinda chided.

“Surprise?” Ozma asked eagerly. “What surprise?”

“It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you what it was,” Glinda told her. “You’ll have to be very patient. It might take a little while for me to fetch your gift. But when you meet her, I think you’ll be very happy.”

“My gift is a person?” Ozma asked. “Do you mean—a friend?”

Glinda smiled a radiant, gentle smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Just you wait, my dear. Just you wait and see.”

The Scarecrow fought a sinking feeling that was overtaking him. Maybe when Dorothy got here, together with the Lion and the Tin Man, they could find a way to take Glinda down.

Or maybe Glinda would convince Dorothy to do whatever she wanted, and he’d have to think of something else.

“Oh, Glinda, you take such good care of me,” Ozma said happily, giving Glinda a hug.

“Of course I do, darling,” Glinda said over Ozma’s shoulder. She met the Scarecrow’s eyes and gave him a sinister wink. “I’ll always take care of you, Ozma. Always. Just like I take care of all my friends.”

NINETEEN

The Scarecrow watched Glinda with Ozma. He knew that promise, like most of the things she’d said, was a lie. Or the truth presented in a way to get what she wanted.

One of the things that she’d told him turned out to be more true than all the rest. It didn’t matter how much information he crammed into his brain, it was about how well his brain worked. And Glinda’s brain had just outsmarted his by a mile.

If only he could find a way to make his own run faster, smoother better. Smarter . . .

A crow landed on his shoulder just then. His straw did not rattle.

He did not bother to shoo it away.

They didn’t scare him anymore.

He decided to go back to his new quarters and walk the grounds.

He saw her before she saw him. She was wearing a new uniform in Ozma’s colors, and unlike some of her singing brethren, she wore a stern expression as if she were deep in thought. But when she saw him, she broke into a smile.

Fiona curtsied at him in passing, as if he was still the king.

The gesture struck him in its simplicity and beauty and stalled him in his tracks, like a rainbow after a storm.

“I’m not the king anymore,” he said with a smile in return.

“You always will be to me,” she said with a knowing glance that seemed to relay that she understood more than the average Ozian. She bowed slightly and continued on her way.

Good old Fiona. She, at least, was still loyal. And clever. He watched the little servant make her way back toward the palace. Books weren’t going to work quickly enough. He had to move on to something else. Something more sure. Something like looking into someone else’s brain. A sharp, quick, clever Munchkin brain. A brain like Fiona’s.

Fiona still thought he was the king. Maybe she’d be able to help him in a way she never could have imagined. The Scarecrow smiled to himself and started back toward the castle.

He had work to do.

EXCERPT FROM NO PLACE LIKE OZ

SEE HOW DOROTHY’S RISE TO POWER BEGAN:

ONE

They say you can’t go home again. I’m not entirely sure who said that, but it’s something they say. I know it because my aunt Em has it embroidered on a throw pillow in the sitting room.

You can’t go home again. Well, even if they put it on a pillow, whoever said it was wrong. I’m proof alone that it’s not true.

Because, you see, I left home. And I came back. Lickety-split, knock your heels together, and there you are. Oh, it wasn’t quite so simple, of course, but look at me now: I’m still here, same as before, and it’s just as if I was never gone in the first place.

So every time I see that little pillow on Aunt Em’s good sofa, with its pretty pink piping around the edges and colorful bouquets of daisies and wildflowers stitched alongside those cheerful words (but are they even cheerful? I sometimes wonder), I’m halfway tempted to laugh. When I consider everything that’s happened! A certain sort of person might say that it’s ironic.

Not that I’m that sort of person. This is Kansas, and we Kansans don’t put much truck in anything as foolish as irony.

Things we do put truck in:

Hard work.

Practicality.

Gumption.

Crop yields and healthy livestock and mild winters. Things you can touch and feel and see with your own two eyes. Things that do you at least two licks of good.

Because this is the prairie, and the prairie is no place for daydreaming. All that matters out here is what gets you through the winter. A Kansas winter will grind a dreamer right up and feed it to the pigs.

As my uncle Henry always says: You can’t trade a boatload of wishes for a bucket of slop. (Maybe I should embroider that on a pillow for Aunt Em, too. I wonder if it would make her laugh.)

I don’t know about wishes, but a bucket of slop was exactly what I had in my hand on the afternoon of my sixteenth birthday, a day in September with a chill already in the air, as I made my way across the field, away from the shed and the farmhouse toward the pigpen.

It was feeding time, and the pigs knew it. Even from fifty feet away, I could already hear them—Jeannie and Ezekiel and Bertha—squealing and snorting in anticipation of their next meal.

“Well, really!” I said to myself. “Who in the world could get so excited about a bit of slop!?”

As I said it, my old friend Miss Millicent poked her little red face out from a gap of wire in the chicken coop and squawked in greeting. “And hello to you, too, Miss Millicent,” I said cheerily. “Don’t you worry. You’ll be getting your own food soon enough.”

But Miss Millicent was looking for companionship, not food, and she squeezed herself out of her coop and began to follow on my heels as I kept on my way. I had been ignoring her lately, and the old red hen was starting to be cross about it, a feeling she expressed today by squawking loudly and shadowing my every step, fluttering her wings and fussing underfoot.

She meant well enough, surely, but when I felt her hard beak nipping at my ankle, I finally snapped at her. “Miss Millie! You get out of here. I have chores to do! We’ll have a nice, long heart-to-heart later, I promise.”

The chicken clucked reproachfully and darted ahead, stopping in her tracks just in the spot where I was about to set my foot down. It was like she wanted me to know that I couldn’t get away from her that easily—that I was going to pay her some mind whether I liked it or not.

Sometimes that chicken could be impossible. And without even really meaning to, I kicked at her. “Shoo!”

Miss Millie jumped aside just before my foot connected, and I felt myself lose my balance as I missed her, stumbling backward with a yelp and landing on my rear end in the grass.

I looked down at myself in horror and saw my dress covered in pig slop. My knee was scraped, I had dirt all over my hands, and my slop bucket was upturned at my side.

“Millie!” I screeched. “See what you’ve done? You’ve ruined everything!” I swatted at her again, this time even more angrily than when I’d kicked her, but she just stepped nimbly aside and stood there, looking at me like she just didn’t know what to do with me anymore.

“Oh dear,” I said, sighing. “I didn’t mean to yell at you. Come here, you silly hen.”

Millie bobbled her head up and down like she was considering the proposition before she hopped right into my lap, where she burrowed in and clucked softly as I ruffled her feathers. This was all she had wanted in the first place. To be my friend.

It used to be that it was all I wanted, too. It used to be that Miss Millicent and even Jeannie the pig were some of my favorite people in the world. Back then, I didn’t care a bit that a pig and a chicken hardly qualified as people at all.

They were there for me when I was sad, or when something was funny, or when I just needed company, and that was what mattered. Even though Millie couldn’t talk, it always felt like she understood everything I said. Sometimes it even almost seemed like she was talking to me, giving me her sensible, no-nonsense advice in a raspy cackle. “Don’t you worry, dearie,” she’d say. “There’s no problem in this whole world that can’t be fixed with a little spit and elbow grease.”

But lately, things hadn’t been quite the same between me and my chicken. Lately, I had found myself becoming more impatient with her infuriating cackling, with the way she was always pecking and worrying after me.

“I’m sorry, Miss Millicent,” I said. “I know I haven’t been myself lately. I promise I’ll be back to normal soon.”

She fluffed her wings and puffed her chest out, and I looked around: at the dusty, gray-green fields merging on the horizon with the almost-matching gray-blue sky, and all of it stretching out so far into nothing that it seemed like it would be possible to travel and travel and travel—just set off in a straight line heading east or west, north or south, it didn’t matter—and never get anywhere at all.

“Sometimes I wonder if this is what the rest of life’s going to be like,” I said. “Gray fields and gray skies and buckets of slop. The world’s a big place, Miss Millicent—just look at that sky. So why does it feel so small from where we’re sitting? I’ll tell you one thing. If I ever get the chance to go somewhere else again, I’m going to stay there.”

I felt a bit ashamed of myself. I knew how I sounded.

“Get yourself together and stop moping, Little Miss Fancy,” I responded to myself, now in my raspy, stern, Miss Millicent voice, imagining that the words were coming out of her mouth instead of my own. “A prairie girl doesn’t worry her pretty little head about places she’ll never go and things she’ll never see. A prairie girl worries about the here and now.”

This is what a place like this does to you. It makes you put words in the beaks of chickens.

I sighed and shrugged anyway. Miss Millie didn’t know there was anything else out there. She just knew her coop, her feed, and me.

These days, I envied her for that. Because I was a girl, not a chicken, and I knew what was out there.

Past the prairie, where I sat with my old chicken in my lap, there were oceans and more oceans. Beyond those were deserts and pyramids and jungles and mountains and glittering palaces. I had heard about all those places and all those things from newsreels and newspapers.

And even if I was the only one who knew it, I’d seen with my own eyes that there were more directions to move in than just north and south and east and west, places more incredible than Paris and Los Angeles, more exotic than Kathmandu and Shanghai, even. There were whole worlds out there that weren’t on any map, and things that you would never believe.

I didn’t need to believe. I knew. I just sometimes wished I didn’t.

I thought of Jeannie and Ezekiel and Bertha, all of them in their pen beside themselves in excitement for the same slop they’d had yesterday and would have again tomorrow. The slop I’d have to refill into the bucket and haul back out to them.

“It must be nice not to know any better,” I said to Miss Millicent.

In the end, a chicken is a good thing to hold in your lap for a few minutes. It’s a good thing to pretend to talk to when there’s no one else around. But in the end, if you want the honest-to-goodness truth, it’s possible that a chicken doesn’t make the greatest friend.

Setting Miss Millicent aside, I dusted myself off and headed back toward the farmhouse to clean myself up, change my dress, and get myself ready for my big party. Bertha and Jeannie and Ezekiel would have to wait until tomorrow for their slop.

It wasn’t like me to let them go hungry. At least, it wasn’t like the old me.

But the old me was getting older by the second. It had been two years since the tornado. Two years since I’d gone away. Since I had met Glinda the Good Witch, and the Lion, the Tin Woodman, and the Scarecrow. Since I had traveled the Road of Yellow Brick and defeated the Wicked Witch of the West. In Oz, I had been a hero. I could have stayed. But I hadn’t. Aunt Em and Uncle Henry were in Kansas. Home was in Kansas. It had been my decision and mine alone.

Well, I had made my choice, and like any good Kansas girl, I would live with it. I would pick up my chin, put on a smile, and be on my way.

The animals could just go hungry for now. It was my birthday, after all.

TWO

“Happy Swoot Sixtoon,” the cake said, the letters spelled out in smudged icing. I beamed up at my aunt Em with my brightest smile.

“It’s beautiful,” I said. I’d already changed into my party dress—which wasn’t that much different from the dress I’d just gotten all dirty in the field—and had cleaned myself up as best as I could, scrubbing the dirt from my hands and the blood from my knee until you could hardly tell I’d fallen.

Uncle Henry hovered off to the side, looking as proud and hopeful as if he’d baked it himself. He’d certainly helped, gathering the ingredients from around the farm: coaxing the eggs from Miss Millicent (who never seemed in the mood to lay any), milking the cow, and making sure Aunt Em had everything she needed.

“Sometimes I wonder if I didn’t marry a master chef!” Henry said, putting his arm around her waist.

Even Toto was excited. He was hopping around on the floor yipping at us eagerly.

“You really like it?” Aunt Em asked, a note of doubt in her voice. “I know the writing isn’t perfect, but penmanship has never been my strong suit.”

“It’s wonderful!” I exclaimed, pushing down the tiny feeling of disappointment that was bubbling in my chest. A little white lie never hurt anyone, and I didn’t doubt the cake would be delicious. Aunt Em’s food might not usually come out looking fancy, but it always tastes better than anything else.

Oh, I know that it’s how a cake tastes that matters. I know there’s no point in concerning yourself with what it looks like on the outside when you’ll be eating it in just a few minutes.

But as it sat lopsided on the table with its brown icing and the words “Happy Sweet Sixteen” written out so the e’s looked more like blobby o’s, I found myself wishing for something more.

I just couldn’t let Aunt Em know that. I couldn’t let her have even the smallest hint that anything was wrong. So I wrapped her up in a hug to let her know that it didn’t matter: that even if the cake wasn’t perfect, it was good enough for me. But then something else occurred to me.

“Are you sure it’s big enough?” I asked. “A lot of people are coming.” I had invited everyone from school, not that that was so many people, and everyone from all the neighboring farms, plus the store owners at every shop I’d been to on my last trip into town. I’d invited my best friend, Mitzi Blair, and even awful Suzanna Hellman and her best friend, Marian Stiles, not to mention a reporter from the Carrier who had taken a special interest in my life since the tornado. Plus, Suzanna would be dragging her horrible little sister, Jill, along.

Aunt Em glanced down nervously. “There was going to be another layer, dear, but we were running low on eggs . . . ,” she said, trailing off, her weathered face suddenly rosy with embarrassment.

Uncle Henry came quickly to the rescue. “I just won’t have a second helping,” he said, rubbing his belly, which is not small. “It wouldn’t hurt me to skip a first helping, come to think of it.”

My aunt swatted his arm and chuckled, her worry momentarily gone. All those years of hard Kansas life had taken their toll on her, but when she was around my uncle, her eyes still lit up; when he made a joke, she still laughed a laugh that sounded like it belonged to a girl my age. “You’d eat the whole thing if I let you!” He swiped a bit of frosting with his finger and grinned.

Seeing them together like that, happy and playful and still as much in love as they’d ever been, I felt a swell of affection for them, followed immediately by sadness. I knew that, once upon a time, they had been as young as I was. Aunt Em had wanted to travel the world; Uncle Henry had wanted to set off to California and strike gold. They just hadn’t had the chance to do any of those things.

Instead, they had stayed here, and when I asked them about those days now, they waved away my questions like they were ashamed to admit that they’d ever had dreams at all. To them, our farm was all there was.

Will I be like them, someday? I wondered. Happy with crooked cakes and gray skies and cleaning out the pig trough?

“I’m going to go hang the lanterns outside,” Henry said, walking to the door and reaching for his toolbox. “People expect this place to look nice. After all, they helped build it.”

“Only after you got it started,” Aunt Em reminded him.

After the tornado had swept our house away—with me in it—everyone had figured I was dead. Aunt Em and Uncle Henry had been heartbroken. They’d even started planning my memorial service.

Imagine that! My funeral! Well, sometimes I did imagine it. I imagined my teachers from school all standing up one by one to say what a wonderful student I was, that there was something truly special about me.

I imagined Aunt Em all in black, weeping silently into her handkerchief and Uncle Henry the very picture of stoic grief, only a single tear rolling down his stony face as he helped lower my coffin into an open grave. Yes, I know that without a body there could be no coffin, but this was a fantasy. And it was at that moment in my fantasy that Aunt Em would bolt up, wailing, and would race forward to fling herself in after my corpse, stopped only at the last minute by Tom Furnish and Benjamin Slocombe, two handsome farmhands from the Shiffletts’ farm. Tom and Benjamin would be crying, too, because of course, they both harbored a secret admiration for me.

Well, if one’s going to daydream, one might just as well make it a good one, don’t you suppose?

Of course, I know it’s vain, and petty, and downright spoiled of me to do such a thing as daydream about my own funeral. I know it’s downright wicked to take even the slightest pleasure in imagining the misery of others, especially my poor aunt and uncle, who have so little happiness in their lives as it is.

I try not to be vain and petty and spoiled. I certainly try not to be wicked (after my experiences with Wickedness). But we all have our bad points, don’t we? I might as well admit that those happen to be mine, and I can only hope to make up for them with the good ones.

There was no funeral anyway, so no harm was done. Just the opposite, in fact! When I showed up again a few days after the cyclone—without so much as a scratch on me, sitting by the chicken coop, which had somehow remained undisturbed through everything—people had assumed that my survival was some kind of miracle.

They were wrong. Miracles are not the same as magic.

But whether you want to call it a miracle or something else, every paper from Wichita to Topeka put me on the front page. They threw a parade for me that year, and a few months later I was asked to be the head judge at the annual blueberry pie contest at the Kansas State Fair. Best of all, because I came back from my adventures minus one house, everyone in town pitched in to build us a new one.

That was how we got this new house, to replace the old one that was still back in you-know-where. It was quite a spectacle to behold: it was bigger than any other for miles around, with a second story and a separate bedroom just for me, and even an indoor commode and a jaunty coat of blue paint, though that was just as gray as everything else in Kansas soon enough.

Henry and Em didn’t seem particularly happy about any of it. They were humbled, naturally, that our neighbors had done all this for us, especially seeing as how they had all suffered their losses in the cyclone, some of them bigger than ours. Of course we were grateful.

But when the neighbors had done their work and gone home, my aunt and uncle had examined all the unfamiliar extravagances and had concluded that the old house had suited them just fine.

“An indoor commode!” Aunt Em exclaimed. “It just doesn’t seem decent!”

How silly they were being. Grumbling about the gift that had been so kindly given to us.

On the other hand, I had to admit that even I felt that the new house left a few things to be desired. Nothing could compare to what I had seen while I had been gone. How do you go back to a two-bedroom farmhouse in Kansas when you’ve been in a palace made of emeralds?

Once you’ve seen castles and Munchkins and roads of yellow brick, once you’ve faced down monsters and witches and come face-to-face with true magic, well then, no matter how much you might have missed it while you were gone, the prairie can seem somewhat dull and—truly—downright dreary.

All I wanted to do upon my return was tell my aunt and uncle everything about what I’d seen. The whole time I’d been in Oz, I’d imagined Aunt Em’s amazed face when I told her about the fields of giant poppies that put you right to sleep, and I’d thought about how Uncle Henry would sputter and spit his coffee back into his cup when he heard about the town where all the people were made of china.

They hadn’t given me quite the reaction I’d been hoping for. In fact, they’d hardly reacted at all. Instead, they’d just exchanged a worried glance and told me that it must have been some fanciful dream I’d had when I hit my head during the cyclone. They warned me not to repeat the story, and to get some rest. They said nobody liked a tale-teller.

Never mind that a bump on the head didn’t explain where the house was now, or why no one had ever found it. And it didn’t explain how I’d gotten home. When I told them about the magical Silver Shoes that had carried me back across the Deadly Desert, they seemed even less convinced than ever. After all, the shoes had slipped from my feet somewhere along the way.

I can see why some people might have thought I was crazy, or a liar, or had made the whole thing up. Around here, they don’t believe in anything they can’t see with their own two eyes.

Aunt Em and I brought the cake into the living room and set it on the table by the modest spread of food she’d already laid out. As I looked at the room, all spruced up and decorated with a careful, loving hand, I reminded myself of how much they were doing.

The birthday party had been my aunt and uncle’s idea—I’d overheard them talking just a few weeks ago about how blue they thought I’d seemed lately, and how a big birthday party might be just the thing to cheer me up.

I’d asked them not to do it, of course. I knew we didn’t really have the money to spare.

Even so, I must admit that I was secretly pleased when they insisted on doing it anyway. As my “wild ride”—as so many people called it—had begun to recede further into memory, I was growing eager for something to break the monotony of the farm and school and then the farm again.

“Dorothy, what is your scrapbook doing out?” Aunt Em asked, noticing the book with all my newspaper clippings sitting on the table next to the buffet. “Your guests will be here any moment.”

I quickly picked the book up and moved it aside so that it didn’t fall victim to any smudges of icing or stray crumbs. “Oh,” I said. “I thought someone might like to look through it at the party. A lot of people who are coming were quoted in the articles about me, after all. It might be fun for them to see their names in print.”

Aunt Em didn’t appear to think that was a very good idea, but she didn’t try to dissuade me. She just shook her head and started humming one of her old songs again as she scurried around, busying herself with last-minute tasks.

I sat down and began to flip through the pages of my scrapbook myself. Toto hopped up into my lap and read along with me. At least I had him. He knew it was all real. He’d been there, too. I wondered if he missed it the same way I did.

THE GIRL WHO RODE THE CYCLONE.

That headline, from the Star, was my favorite. I liked the way it made me seem powerful, as if I’d been in control rather than just some little kid swept up by forces of nature.

In Oz, I hadn’t been just some little kid either. I’d been a hero. I had killed two witches and freed their subjects from tyranny; I’d exposed the humbug Wizard and restored order to the kingdom by helping my friend the Scarecrow, the smartest creature I’ve ever met, claim the throne.

If only those things were in my scrapbook!

Here, I knew that I would never, ever make as much of myself as I did in my short time in Oz. It just wasn’t possible. Here, it wasn’t even considered proper to think about such things.

And yet I had wanted to come back here. All those brave things I’d done: I wasn’t trying to be a hero. I was just trying to get home.

It would have been too cruel to leave Uncle Henry and Aunt Em all alone here, thinking that I was dead. It wasn’t all to spare their grief either. I would have missed them terribly if I had stayed. All the magic in the world—all the palaces and beautiful gowns and fields full of magical flowers—all the friends I’d found—could never have replaced the people who had taken me and raised me as their own after my parents had died. I would never have been able to be happy with them here and me there.

But sometimes I still wondered. Could there have been another way? Was this really home at all?

“Oh, Toto,” I said, closing the cover of the scrapbook harder than I intended to and tossing it aside onto the couch, where it landed just next to Aunt Em’s embroidered throw pillow. Maybe the words on that pillow were more right than I knew. Maybe you couldn’t go home again.

Either way, it would have been a nice consolation if I’d gotten to keep those shoes.

EXCERPT FROM DOROTHY MUST DIE

FOLLOW AMY GUMM’S MISSION TO TAKE DOWN DOROTHY:

ONE

I first discovered I was trash three days before my ninth birthday—one year after my father lost his job and moved to Secaucus to live with a woman named Crystal and four years before my mother had the car accident, started taking pills, and began exclusively wearing bedroom slippers instead of normal shoes.

I was informed of my trashiness on the playground by Madison Pendleton, a girl in a pink Target sweat suit who thought she was all that because her house had one and a half bathrooms.

“Salvation Amy’s trailer trash,” she told the other girls on the monkey bars while I was dangling upside down by my knees and minding my own business, my pigtails scraping the sand. “That means she doesn’t have any money and all her clothes are dirty. You shouldn’t go to her birthday party or you’ll be dirty, too.”

When my birthday party rolled around that weekend, it turned out everyone had listened to Madison. My mom and I were sitting at the picnic table in the Dusty Acres Mobile Community Recreation Area wearing our sad little party hats, our sheet cake gathering dust. It was just the two of us, same as always. After an hour of hoping someone would finally show up, Mom sighed, poured me another big cup of Sprite, and gave me a hug.

She told me that, whatever anyone at school said, a trailer was where I lived, not who I was. She told me that it was the best home in the world because it could go anywhere.

Even as a little kid, I was smart enough to point out that our house was on blocks, not wheels. Its mobility was severely oversold. Mom didn’t have much of a comeback for that.

It took her until around Christmas of that year when we were watching The Wizard of Oz on the big flat-screen television—the only physical thing that was a leftover from our old life with Dad—to come up with a better answer for me. “See?” she said, pointing at the screen. “You don’t need wheels on your house to get somewhere better. All you need is something to give you that extra push.”

I don’t think she believed it even then, but at least in those days she still cared enough to lie. And even though I never believed in a place like Oz, I did believe in her.

That was a long time ago. A lot had changed since then. My mom was hardly the same person at all anymore. Then again, neither was I.

I didn’t bother trying to make Madison like me anymore, and I wasn’t going to cry over cake. I wasn’t going to cry, period. These days, my mom was too lost in her own little world to bother cheering me up. I was on my own, and crying wasn’t worth the effort.

Tears or no tears, though, Madison Pendleton still found ways of making my life miserable. The day of the tornado—although I didn’t know the tornado was coming yet—she was slouching against her locker after fifth period, rubbing her enormous pregnant belly and whispering with her best friend, Amber Boudreaux.

I’d figured out a long time ago that it was best to just ignore her when I could, but Madison was the type of person it was pretty impossible to ignore even under normal circumstances. Now that she was eight and a half months pregnant it was really impossible.

Today, Madison was wearing a tiny T-shirt that barely covered her midriff. It read Who’s Your Mommy across her boobs in pink cursive glitter. I did my best not to stare as I slunk by her on my way to Spanish, but somehow I felt my eyes gliding upward, past her belly to her chest and then to her face. Sometimes you just can’t help it.

She was already staring at me. Our gazes met for a tiny instant. I froze.

Madison glared. “What are you looking at, Trailer Trash?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Was I staring? I was just wondering if you were the Teen Mom I saw on the cover of Star this week.”

It wasn’t like I tried to go after Madison, but sometimes my sarcasm took on a life of its own. The words just came out.

Madison gave me a blank look. She snorted.

“I didn’t know you could afford a copy of Star.” She turned to Amber Boudreaux and stopped rubbing her stomach just long enough to give it a tender pat. “Salvation Amy’s jealous. She’s had a crush on Dustin forever. She wishes this were her baby.”

I didn’t have a crush on Dustin, I definitely didn’t want a baby, and I absolutely did not want Dustin’s baby. But that didn’t stop my cheeks from going red.

Amber popped her gum and smirked an evil smirk. “You know, I saw her talking to Dustin in third period,” she said. “She was being all flirty.” Amber puckered her lips and pushed her chest forward. “Oh, Dustin, I’ll help you with your algebra.”

I knew I was blushing, but I wasn’t sure if it was from embarrassment or anger. It was true that I’d let Dustin copy my math homework earlier that day. But as cute as Dustin was, I wasn’t stupid enough to think I’d ever have a shot with him. I was Salvation Amy, the flat-chested trailer-trash girl whose clothes were always a little too big and a lot too thrift store. Who hadn’t had a real friend since third grade.

I wasn’t the type of girl Dustin would go for, with or without the existence of Madison Pendleton. He had been “borrowing” my algebra almost every day for the entire year. But Dustin would never look at me like that. Even at forty-pounds pregnant, Madison sparkled like the words on her oversize chest. There was glitter embedded in her eye shadow, in her lip gloss, in her nail polish, hanging from her ears in shoulder-grazing hoops, dangling from her wrists in blingy bracelets. If the lights went out in the hallway, she could light it up like a human disco ball. Like human bling. Meanwhile, the only color I had to offer was in my hair, which I’d dyed pink just a few days ago.

I was all sharp edges and angles—words that came out too fast and at the wrong times. And I slouched. If Dustin was into shiny things like Madison, he would never be interested in me.

I don’t know if I was exactly interested in Dustin, either, but we did have one thing in common: we both wanted out of Flat Hill, Kansas.

For a while, it had almost looked like Dustin was going to make it, too. All you need is a little push sometimes. Sometimes it’s a tornado; sometimes it’s the kind of right arm that gets you a football scholarship. He had been set to go. Until eight and a half months ago, that is.

I didn’t know what was worse: to have your shot and screw it up, or to never have had a shot in the first place.

“I wasn’t . . . ,” I protested. Before I could finish, Madison was all up in my face.

“Listen, Dumb Gumm,” she said. I felt a drop of her spit hit my cheek and resisted the urge to wipe it away. I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction. “Dustin’s mine. We’re getting married as soon as the baby comes and I can fit into my aunt Robin’s wedding dress. So you’d better stay away from him—not that he’d ever be interested in someone like you anyway.”

By this point, everyone in the hallway had stopped looking into their lockers, and they were looking at us instead. Madison was used to eyes on her—but this was new to me.

“Listen,” I mumbled back at her, wanting this to be over. “It was just homework.” I felt my temper rising. I’d just been trying to help him. Not because I had a crush on him. Just because he deserved a break.

“She thinks Dustin needs her help,” Amber chimed in. “Taffy told me she heard Amy offered to tutor him after school. Just a little one-on-one academic counseling.” She cackled loudly. She said “tutor” like I’d done a lap dance for Dustin in front of the whole fourth period.

I hadn’t offered anyway. He had asked. Not that it mattered. Madison was already steaming.

“Oh, she did, did she? Well why don’t I give this bitch a little tutoring of my own?”

I turned to walk away, but Madison grabbed me by the wrist and jerked me back around to face her. She was so close to me that her nose was almost touching mine. Her breath smelled like Sour Patch Kids and kiwi-strawberry lip gloss.

“Who the hell do you think you are, trying to steal my boyfriend? Not to mention my baby’s dad?”

“He asked me,” I said quietly so that only Madison could hear.

“What?”

I knew I should shut up. But it wasn’t fair. All I’d tried to do was something good.

“I didn’t talk to him. He asked me for help,” I said, louder this time.

“And what could he find so interesting about you?” she snapped back, as if Dustin and I belonged to entirely different species.

It was a good question. The kind that gets you where it hurts. But an answer popped into my head, right on time, not two seconds after Madison wobbled away down the hall. I knew it was mean, but it flew out of my mouth before I had a chance to even think about it.

“Maybe he just wanted to talk to someone his own size.”

Madison’s mouth opened and closed without anything coming out. I took a step back, ready to walk away with my tiny victory. And then she rolled into her heels, wound up, and—before I could duck—punched me square in the jaw. I felt my head throbbing as I stumbled back and landed on my butt.

It was my turn to be surprised, looking up at her in dazed, fuzzy-headed confusion. Had that just happened? Madison had always been a complete bitch, but—aside from the occasional shoulder check in the girls’ locker room—she wasn’t usually the violent type. Until now.

Maybe it was the pregnancy hormones.

“Take it back,” she demanded as I began to get to my feet.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Amber a second too late. Always one to take a cue from her best friend, she yanked me by the hair and pushed me back down to the ground.

The chant of “Fight! Fight! Fight!” boomed in my ears. I checked for blood, relieved to find my skull intact. Madison stepped forward and towered over me, ready for the next round. Behind her, I could see that a huge crowd had gathered around us.

“Take it back. I’m not fat,” Madison insisted. But her lip quivered a tiny bit at the f-word. “I may be pregnant, but I’m still a size two.”

“Kick her!” Amber hissed.

I scooted away from her rhinestone-studded sandal and stood up just as the assistant principal, Mr. Strachan, appeared, flanked by a pair of security guards. The crowd began to disperse, grumbling that the show was over.

Madison quickly dropped her punching arm and went back to rubbing her belly and cooing. She scrunched her face up into a pained grimace, like she was fighting back tears. I rolled my eyes. I wondered if she would actually manage to produce tears.

Mr. Strachan looked from me to Madison and back again through his wire rims.

“Mr. Strachan,” Madison said shakily. “She just came at me! At us!” She patted her belly protectively, making it clear that she was speaking for two these days.

He folded his arms across his chest and lowered his glare to where I still crouched. Madison had him at “us.” “Really, Amy? Fighting with a pregnant girl? You’ve always had a hard time keeping your mouth shut when it’s good for you, but this is low, even for you.”

“She threw the first punch!” I yelled. It didn’t matter. Mr. Strachan was already pulling me to my feet to haul me off to the principal’s office.

“I thought you could be the bigger person at a time like this. I guess I overestimated you. As usual.”

As I walked away, I looked over my shoulder. Madison lifted her hand from her belly to give me a smug little wave. Like she knew I wouldn’t be coming back.

When I’d left for school that morning, Mom had been sitting on the couch for three days straight. In those three days, my mother had taken zero showers, had said almost nothing, and—as far as I knew—had consumed only half a carton of cigarettes and a few handfuls of Bugles. Oh, and whatever pills she was on. I’m not even sure when she got up to pee. She’d just been sitting there watching TV.

It used to be that I always tried to figure out what was wrong with her when she got like this. Was it the weather? Was she thinking about my father? Was it just the pills? Or was there something else that had turned her into a human slug?

By now, though, I was used to it enough to know that it wasn’t any of that. She just got like this sometimes. It was her version of waking up on the wrong side of the bed, and when it happened, you just had to let her ride it out. Whenever it happened, I wondered if this time she’d be stuck like this.

So when I pushed the door to our trailer open an hour after my meeting with the principal, carrying all the books from my locker in a black Hefty bag—I’d been suspended for the rest of the week—I was surprised to see that the couch was empty except for one of those blankets with the sleeves that Mom had ordered off TV with money we didn’t have.

In the bathroom, I could hear her rustling around: the faucet running, the clatter of drugstore makeup on a tiny counter. I guess she’d ridden it out again after all. Not that that was always a good thing.

“Mom?” I asked.

“Shit!” she yelped, followed by the sound of something falling into the sink. She didn’t come out of the bathroom, and she didn’t ask what I was doing home so early.

I dropped my backpack and my Hefty bag on the floor, slid off my sneakers, and looked over at the screen. Al Roker was pointing to my hometown on one of those big fake maps. He was frowning.

I didn’t think I’d ever seen America’s Weatherman frown before. Wasn’t he supposed to be reassuring? Wasn’t it, like, his job to make us feel like everything, including the weather, would be better soon? If not tomorrow then at some point during the extended ten-day forecast?

“Hey,” Mom said. “Did you hear? There’s a tornado coming!”

I wasn’t too worried about it. They were always predicting disaster around here, but although nearby towns had been hit a few times, Dusty Acres had always been spared. It was like we had cliché to shield us—Tornado Sweeps Through Trailer Park, Leaves Only an Overturned Barbecue. That’s something that happens in a movie, not in real life.

My mom emerged from the bathroom, fussing with her hair. I was glad to see her vertical again, freshly scrubbed with her face all done up, but I had to wince at the length of her skirt. It was shorter than anything I owned. It was shorter than anything Madison Pendleton owned. That could only mean one thing.

“Where are you going?” I asked, even though I knew the answer. “For three days, you’re one step away from a coma and now you’re heading to the bar?”

It was no surprise. In my mother’s world, there were only two pieces of scenery: the couch and the bar. If she wasn’t on one, she was in the other.

She let out an accusatory sigh. “Don’t start. I thought you’d be happy that I’m back on my feet again. Would you rather I just lie on the couch? Well, you might be content to mope around the house all day, but some of us have a life.” She fluffed up her already teased hair and began looking for her purse.

There were so many things wrong with everything she’d just said that I couldn’t even begin to process all the ways it was infuriating. Instead, I decided to try the sensible argument. “You’re the one who just told me there’s a tornado on the way. It’s dangerous. You could get hit by a tree or something. Won’t Tawny understand?”

“It’s a tornado party, Miss Smarty-Pants,” Mom said, as if that explained things. Her bloodshot eyes lit up as she spotted her purse lying on the floor next to the refrigerator and slung it over her shoulder.

I knew there was no point arguing when she got this way. “You need to sign this,” I demanded, holding out the slip of paper Strachan had given me. It was to show that she understood what I’d supposedly done today, and what the consequences were.

“I got suspended,” I told her.

It took her a few seconds to react, but when she did, her face registered not surprise or anger, but pure annoyance. “Suspended? What did you do?” Mom pushed past me again to get to her keys. Like I was just a thing that was in the way of something she wanted.

If we lived in a regular house, with one and a half bathrooms, I wondered, would she still hate me this much? Was resentment something that grew better in small spaces, like those flowers that Mom used to force to bloom inside in little vases?

“I got in a fight,” I said evenly. Mom kept staring. “With a pregnant girl.”

At that, Mom let out a long, whistling sigh and looked up at the ceiling.

“That’s just great,” Mom said, her voice dripping with something other than motherly concern.

I could have explained it to her. I could have told her exactly what happened; that it wasn’t my fault. That I hadn’t even hit anyone.

But the thing is, at that moment, I kind of liked having her think I’d done something wrong. If I was the kind of girl who got in fights with pregnant girls, it meant it was on her. And her stellar lack of parenting skills.

“Who was it?” Mom demanded, her plastic purse slamming into the counter.

“Madison Pendleton.”

She narrowed her eyes but not at me. She was remembering Madison. “Of course. That little pink bitch who ruined your birthday party.”

Mom paused and bit her lip. “You don’t see it, do you? She’s already getting hers. You don’t need to help it along.”

“What are you talking about? I’m the one who was suspended.”

Mom flung her hand out and gripped the air, mimicking a pregnant belly. “I give her a year. Two tops before she’s got a trailer of her own around the corner. That boy she’s with won’t stay. And she’ll be left with a little bundle of karma.”

I shook my head. “She’s walking around like she’s God’s gift. Like she and Dustin are still going to be prom king and queen.”

“Ha!” Mom hooted. “Now. But the second that kid comes, her life is over.” There was a pause I could drive a truck through.

For a split second, I thought of how things used to be. My before Mom. The one who’d dried my tears and challenged me to a cake-eating contest at that fateful birthday party. “More cake for us,” she’d said. That was when I was nine. After Dad left, but before the accident and the pills. It was the last time she’d even bothered remembering my birthday.

I didn’t know what to do when she acted like this. When we were almost having a normal conversation. When she almost seemed like she cared. When I almost saw some glimmer of who she used to be. I knew better but I leaned into the kitchenette counter anyway.

“One second, you have everything, your whole life ahead of you,” she said, fluffing her hair in the reflection from the stove. “And then, boom. They just suck it all out of you like little vampires till there’s nothing left of you.”

It was clear she wasn’t talking about Madison anymore. She was talking about me. I was her little vampire.

Anger pricked in my chest. Leave it to my mother to turn any situation into another excuse to feel sorry for herself. To blame me.

“Thanks, Mom,” I said. “You’re right. I’m the one who ruined your life. Not you. Not Dad. The fact that I’ve been taking care of you every day since I was thirteen—that was just my evil scheme to ruin everything for you.”

“Don’t be so sensitive, Amy,” she huffed. “It’s not all about you.”

“All about me? How could it be, when it’s always about you?”

Mom glared at me, and then there was a honk from outside. “I don’t have to stand here and listen to this. Tawny’s waiting.” She stormed to the door.

“You’re just going to leave me in the middle of a tornado?”

It wasn’t that I cared about the weather. I wasn’t expecting it to be a big deal. But I wanted her to care; I wanted her to be running around gathering up batteries for flashlights and making sure we had enough water to last through the week. I wanted her to take care of me. Because that’s what mothers do.

Just because I’d learned how to take care of myself didn’t mean I didn’t still feel panic setting in every time she left me like this—all alone, with no clue when she’d be back, or if she’d ever be back at all. Even without a tornado on the way, it was always an open question.

“It’s better out there than in here,” she snapped.

Before I could think of a good enough retort, she was gone.

I opened the door as she slid into the front seat of Tawny’s Camaro; I watched as Mom adjusted the mirror to look at herself and saw her catch a glimpse of me instead, just before the car vroomed away.

Before I could have the satisfaction of slamming the door myself, the wind did it for me. So maybe this tornado was coming after all.

I thought of Dustin and his wasted scholarship, and about my father, who’d left me behind just to get out of here. I thought of what this place did to people. Tornado or no tornado, I wasn’t Dorothy, and a stupid little storm wasn’t going to change anything for me.

I walked to my dresser, pushed up flush against the kitchen stove, and opened the top drawer, feeling around for the red-and-white gym sock that was fat with cash—the stash of money I’d been saving for an emergency for years: $347. Once the storm cleared, that could get me bus tickets. That could get me a lot farther than Topeka, which was the farthest I had ever gone. I could let my mother fend for herself. She didn’t want me. School didn’t want me. What was I waiting for?

My hand hit the back of the drawer. All I found were socks.

I pulled the drawer out and rifled through it. Nothing.

The money was gone. Everything I’d spent my life saving up for. Gone.

It was no mystery who’d taken it. It was less of a mystery what she’d spent it on. With no cash, no car, and no one to wave a magic wand, I was stuck where I was.

It didn’t matter anyway. Leaving was just a fantasy.

In the living room, Al Roker was back on TV. His frown was gone, sort of, but even though his face was now plastered with a giant grin, his jaw was quivering and he looked like he might start crying at any second. He kept chattering away, going on and on about isotopes and pressure systems and hiding in the basement.

Too bad they don’t have basements in trailer parks, I thought.

And then I thought: Bring it on. There’s no place like anywhere but here.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

DANIELLE PAIGE is a graduate of Columbia University. Before turning to young adult literature, she worked in the television industry, where she received a Writers Guild of America Award and was nominated for several Daytime Emmys. She currently lives in New York City.

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BOOKS BY DANIELLE PAIGE

Novels

Dorothy Must Die

The Wicked Will Rise

Yellow Brick War

Novellas

No Place Like Oz

The Witch Must Burn

The Wizard Returns

Heart of Tin

The Straw King

Ruler of Beasts

Order of the Wicked

Collections

Dorothy Must Die: The Other Side of the Rainbow Collection

COPYRIGHT

Copyright © 2015 by HarperCollins Publishers

THE STRAW KING. Copyright © 2015 by Danielle Paige. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

EPub Edition © October 2015 ISBN 9780062403957

Version 10182016

ISBN: 978-0-06-240395-7

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FIRST EDITION

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