The Queen of Oz
Author: Danielle Paige
Date: 2017-03-14 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: kindle; fiction; sf; fantasy
Publisher: HarperCollins
Rights: All rights reserved

CONTENTS

1. Contents
2. Part One
3. Part Two
4. Part Three
5. Excerpt from No Place Like Oz
6. Back Ads
7. About the Author
8. Books by Danielle Paige
9. Copyright
10. About the Publisher

Guide

1. Cover
2. Contents
3. Chapter 1

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PART

ONE

Mombi was neither a Good witch nor a Wicked witch—not yet. In fact, she was hardly a witch at all.

She did her best to hide the fact, of course, and most of the citizens of Oz had so little magical skill themselves that in mixed company her magic was impressive enough.

But she knew exactly what she would do differently if she’d had even an iota of the powers that witches had. Over in Munchkin Country, the Wicked Witch of the West had enslaved an entire nation, built herself a castle, and, rumor had it, communed regularly with the dead. Glinda floated around on a cloud of glitter, enchanting people right and left with her sparkly and effective wand. Her sister, Glamora, stuck in a cycle of endless sibling rivalry, was known for reversing her sister’s spells and signing her name in purple sequins. The Wicked Witch of the East, like her sister, had a whole population of Winkies under her control, as well as a battalion of winged monkeys to carry her about as she pleased.

Mombi was sure that power was not meant for ruling monkeys or sprinkling around glitter or talking with dead people. The powerful witches of Oz were wasting their power on petty squabbles. And she would travel to the ends of Oz or the ends of the Road of Yellow Brick to find the power she lacked.

But Mombi, though she called herself a witch, was little more than a garden-variety enchanter, good for entertaining guests at banquets and very little else. For now all she could manage was the flashy stuff that impressed people at parties: pulling Winkies out of hats, dazed and blinking; conjuring fireworks in the shapes of butterflies and lumenberries; temporarily stoppering the mouths of small children so that they were unable to throw a tantrum. But when it came to real magic, Old Magic, the deepest magic of Oz, she was useless. She knew the truth about her power. And all the other witches knew it, too.

And the truth was, Mombi wasn’t terribly fond of banquets or parties. Or performing. Or, for that matter, people. She was pretty sure magic was meant for something other than tricks.

Which was why she’d traveled all the way to Gillikin Country herself, hoping to pick up some hints from Glinda. Glinda might have been fond of glitter, but she had real power, and Mombi knew she could learn from her—even if she used her own power for something different.

The Wicked Witches were notoriously picky about their apprentices (and rumored to eat the unsuccessful candidates). Glinda was annoying, and the food in her palace was terrible (she refused to allow anything that wasn’t pink inside the castle walls), but she was more approachable than most witches with her degree of power. She hadn’t exactly jumped at the chance to help Mombi, but she hadn’t said no outright either.

It wasn’t until Mombi had packed all her witchy accoutrements—baskets of toads, several very expensive jars of eye of newt, a suitcase full of dried herbs painstakingly gathered by Mombi herself, and various pills and powders—and carefully selected the most witchlike of her various capes and dresses, and transported herself via a long and uncomfortable third-class carriage ride through the mountains until she finally arrived at Glinda’s doorstep, grubby and irritable from the journey, that she realized Glinda had never had any intention of helping her at all.

“Welcome, darling!” Glinda had cooed, lounging on a pink sofa piled with pink cushions in her pink-walled sitting room. She was arranging a bouquet of pink flowers with one hand; a pink-cheeked handmaiden was polishing the nails of her other hand (pink, of course); and a pink-liveried footman was feeding her strawberries dipped in pink icing. “It’s so lovely to have company! No one ever comes to visit me all the way up here.” She pouted prettily, then she shot a glance at the handmaiden. “Don’t smear it this time,” she snapped. The handmaiden’s pink cheeks turned a shade paler.

“It’s so hard to find good help these days,” Glinda sighed. “Anyway, dear, what brings you here? How is your family?”

Mombi didn’t have any family. Or at least none that wanted her. She had grown up in an orphanage on the edge of Gillikin and Munchkin Countries. And with no history of her own and no one to tell her otherwise, little Mombi decided that she was most definitely a witch.

She’d obtained spell books from a Munchkin she knew from the orphanage who had opened a shop filled with magical things. Most of the items contained only small magic, but he swore that the books were the real thing. Supposedly they were sourced from ancient magic. Possibly once owned by the Wicked Witch of the West herself.

But now she stood awkwardly in front of Glinda, her suitcases piled around her, realizing she wasn’t in Gillikin Country anymore. Her long, wavy dark hair was usually unbrushed. Her dresses were never quite the style, and they usually fit her badly. She never touched makeup, and her shoes were always scuffed. Her knees were a bit on the knobby side and her arms were too skinny to be shapely. None of these things bothered her in the least under normal circumstances. But in Glinda’s beautifully appointed, ultrafeminine sitting room, Mombi stuck out like a dirty footprint. Glinda herself was wearing a low-cut, perfectly fitted pink dress, its long skirt belling prettily around her on the tastefully arranged cushions. Her flawless skin nearly glowed with its own healthy luster. Her thick hair was glossy and the color of spun strawberry gold. Her long eyelashes fluttered and her mouth sparkled with glittery pink gloss. A huge pink gemstone hung from a thin silver chain just over her cleavage, drawing attention to her perfect breasts.

Next to Glinda, Mombi was aware of her own lack of color and sparkle. But she had never had interest in those things. She hated pink. She hated glitter. Why did Glinda bother with all the dazzle when she had the real thing—real power—underneath. If Mombi had an ounce of the power Glinda had, she wouldn’t dress it up in pink and bedazzle it. She would want her magic to speak for itself.

“Didn’t you get my letter?” Mombi’s words came out more harshly than she had intended, and Glinda arched a plucked eyebrow. Mombi wasn’t much of a diplomat, either, which she suddenly regretted.

“I get so many!” Glinda said. “All these invitations. Doesn’t it just seem like someone’s having a ball or a wedding every week? I’m exhausted.” She giggled.

Mombi was only ever invited to children’s birthday parties as the entertainment. “So you didn’t read my letter?” she persisted stubbornly.

“Dearest, did you send me a letter? Oh, the butler probably misplaced it.” Glinda looked around, seeming to notice for the first time that Mombi was standing uncomfortably in front of her, shifting her weight from foot to foot. “Don’t you want to sit down so we can have a proper gossip? What’s the latest in Gillikin Country?” She giggled again.

Mombi had never gossiped in her life, and even if she did, nothing she knew would possibly be of any interest to Glinda. She set the suitcase she was clutching down with a sigh and made her way to the nearest chair.

“Oh, not that one, darling, do you mind? It’s a terrible chore to get dust out of those cushions. Why don’t you pull up a footstool so you don’t get anything dirty?”

Mombi flushed a bright, ugly red, but she didn’t want to antagonize Glinda within the first fifteen minutes of her visit. “Do you want slippers, dear?” Glinda added pointedly. Mombi looked down. She was tracking mud from the road all over Glinda’s pink carpet.

“I’m all right,” she mumbled, flushing even brighter. Glinda settled back into the cushions and looked at her. There was a knowing sparkle in her crystal-blue eyes. Mombi had a feeling that the witch knew exactly why she was there, and was simply amusing herself by pretending ignorance. But as insufferable as Glinda was, she was incredibly powerful—although you’d never guess it to look at her. Suck it up, Mombi told herself. Maybe Glinda was only testing her. Maybe this was only a game. But if that was the case, Mombi had no idea of the rules. She didn’t even know what game it was Glinda was playing. Subterfuge was not her style. She preferred to get to the point.

“Like I said in my letter,” she said, “I was hoping to study with you.”

A tiny smile tweaked the corner of Glinda’s mouth upward and was gone again in a flash. “To study with me?”

“Magic,” Mombi persisted. “I know quite a bit already. Some,” she amended. The glitter in Glinda’s eye was even brighter now. “Some basic things,” she added quickly. She was already wondering if coming to Glinda for help had been a huge mistake. But how else could she learn? Glinda was one of the most powerful—some people said the most powerful—witches in Oz. And power was what Mombi wanted.

Power was what Mombi wanted more than she wanted anything else in the world. She didn’t care about riches, or beauty—well, as long as she wasn’t standing next to Glinda, anyway—or being famous. She had no use for fancy clothes or palaces or butlers or handmaidens or fabulous jewels. Or cleavage, she told herself, thinking involuntarily of her own bony sternum compared to Glinda’s enviable assets. What she wanted was power, far more power than she had currently. She wanted to feel the Old Magic of Oz flowing through her. She wanted to be a witch, not a party favor. And she had done everything she could on her own. She needed Glinda. The problem was, she realized, that Glinda didn’t need her. Which was something she probably should have thought about more carefully before she’d come to ask the witch for help.

“You want to study magic? With me?” Glinda pressed one hand, still clutching a pink rose, to her chest and widened her blue eyes.

“Yes.”

“Then show me what you can do.”

Mombi gulped. She had not expected a test. She went through her repertoire, beginning with cards and ending with the rabbit trick.

Glinda stood up and walked over to her, petting the bunny with her perfectly manicured hands. The light from the picture window reflected off the sparkly lacquer, momentarily blinding Mombi. She blinked, and when she opened her eyes, the bunny was gone. She looked up and realized that it was floating in a bubble near the ceiling. Glinda looked smug.

“What you have shown me are nothing more than magic tricks, dear. You might be better suited as a wizard’s apprentice.”

“I want to learn from you.” Mombi couldn’t accept that this was it. She wouldn’t. She knew she was destined for more. “I can do it. I know I am a witch. I know it in my bones and in my heart.” She bit her lip and grabbed one last thing from her bag.

It was a new spell she’d been working on for weeks with no result. But she needed to show Glinda something.

“May I have the rabbit back, please?”

The bunny floated back down into her hand.

She said the words. Put the bunny back into the hat. She felt a flicker of desperation.

Mombi remembered being in the orphanage among the Munchkins and telling them that she was a witch. She had always stood out. Too tall. Too avert to colors and singing. But when she said the word witch, they looked at her differently. Some with fear. Some with respect. Some with idle fascination. But the word had transformed her in their eyes. Truth be told, it transformed the way she thought about herself. And from that second on she was determined to make it true.

She closed her eyes and repeated the spell.

When it hopped out of the hat again, the bunny was no longer a fluffy white, but a striking shade of powder pink.

A smile crept over her face, and Glinda clapped her hands together.

“My dear, do you know what you just did?”

“What?”

“That was very close to transformation magic.”

Transformation magic was supposed to be Wicked and something that only the highest level witches could do.

“Can you change it back?” Glinda demanded.

That was the rub. That was why transformation was a scary thing. Changing something in the first place was hard. Changing it back was even harder—and took much more magic.

“That would be the real trick, dear. Still,” she said, glancing at the rabbit, “the bunny and I are both tickled pink.”

“Does that mean you’ll make me your apprentice?” Mombi pushed.

“But I barely know anything,” Glinda purred, fluttering her eyelashes.

Glinda was not very good at being modest, Mombi thought.

She tried to make her voice take on a flattering tone, although it came out more in the false, too-loud honk of a used-carriage salesman. “Glinda, stories of your power have spread across the Land of Oz,” she said. “Everyone knows you are the greatest witch of our age. I could never dream of approaching your level, of course. I wouldn’t think of trying. And I know you’re very busy with—” Mombi racked her brain, trying to think of things Glinda might be busy with. “With charitable acts?” she ventured. “And balls and banquets. It would be a tremendous honor to study with you.” Glinda’s eyelids were half lowered in pleasure as she basked in Mombi’s praise.

And that, Mombi realized, was what she had to offer. Something Glinda didn’t have. Someone other than her servants to tell her how wonderful she was. It went against her nature to pretend to be so obsequious. She wasn’t accustomed to flattering others—or to humility. But the power she had wasn’t enough. She wanted Glinda’s knowledge. And she was willing to do anything to get it. Anything at all.

“Your beauty is legendary, too,” she added. “And your palace is even more wonderful than I had heard. Everything about it is so, er, wonderful.” Mombi tried to think of more things to compliment.

“Oh, stop,” Glinda cooed, waving the hand holding the flower in a protest that was obviously completely false. “You are too kind, dear Mombi.”

“It’s all true,” Mombi said humbly. “I’m only speaking the, um, truth.” She should have practiced royal compliments in the carriage. She wasn’t doing a very good job. But Glinda seemed pleased with her praise.

“I am very busy,” Glinda said.

“Of course,” Mombi said, her heart sinking. She didn’t have a backup plan. If heaping flattery on Glinda didn’t work, she was going to have to think of something else, and fast.

“And I couldn’t teach you much,” Glinda continued. She gave Mombi a keen, uncanny look that flashed across her face with something almost like menace. Glinda might like Mombi’s words, but she wasn’t falling for them. Despite her appearance, Glinda didn’t look like someone who fell for much.

“Anything at all would be the most extraordinary gift,” Mombi said quickly. She wondered if she should get on her knees and beg. No one else needed to know that she’d humiliated herself in front of Glinda. Not if it got her what she wanted.

Once Mombi had magic as powerful as Glinda’s, she’d never have to humiliate herself again. And that was all that mattered. She knew she was close. She’d been studying on her own for a long time. But maybe Glinda knew a shortcut. Maybe she’d tell Mombi what it was if Mombi found just the right way to flatter her.

And Glinda seemed to enjoy her embarrassment. Seemed almost to thrive on suffering. Not such a Good witch after all, Mombi thought.

Maybe that was useful information, too. “Let me think about it,” Glinda purred. “I imagine you’re staying somewhere in the capital?” She meant the capital of Gillikin Country, which was just a few miles from her palace. Mombi had passed through it on her way. It wasn’t a city—not compared to the bustling metropolis of the Emerald City, anyway—but a humble village. Most of its inhabitants looked as though they were just a few steps away from poverty, and their eyes were haunted as they glanced at Mombi’s carriage and then away once they realized she was neither wealthy nor a threat. Glinda’s own wealth was immediately apparent, and Mombi had wondered why the witch didn’t take better care of her people. Now, in Glinda’s company, she was beginning to understand why. She liked to give the appearance of kindness, but the truth was that Glinda didn’t bother with taking care of anyone but Glinda.

So much for the Good Witch of the South. What other secrets was Glinda hiding in her remote, isolated palace? If she liked balls and banquets so much, why didn’t she live in the Emerald City? Was it because all the way out here, her secrets stayed kept?

“I was hoping—er, to stay with you,” Mombi confessed. “It would make lessons much easier.”

“I didn’t agree to give you lessons,” Glinda said, her voice deceptively sweet.

“If you did,” Mombi said hastily. “If you were to grant me this tremendous honor, I mean.”

Glinda sighed, pulling her other hand away from the maid and examining her nails critically. “Redo the pinkie,” she snapped, thrusting her hand back in the maid’s face. Mombi didn’t miss the look of fear that crossed the maid’s face before she bowed her head, murmuring, “Yes, mistress.”

“So hard to get good help,” Glinda repeated pointedly. Mombi was pretty sure the maid actually flinched. Interesting, she thought, and filed that away.

“I suppose I have room for you,” Glinda said. Mombi willed her face into an expression of delight. Glinda’s palace was enormous, and she was the only person who lived in it aside from her servants. She could have hosted an entire army if she wanted. But Mombi only nodded eagerly and stood up to curtsy awkwardly.

Glinda’s nostrils narrowed. She didn’t like the curtsy. Mombi sat down again immediately.

“Boris!” Glinda called in a sweet voice. Almost instantaneously, a man wearing a bow tie, a cummerbund, and spats rushed into the room. Mombi recognized him as a Flathead, one of the people indigenous to Gillikin Country who were so called because their heads were completely flat on top, as though they had been sheared off just above the eyebrows. The Flatheads kept their brains in special containers at their belts. This one, however, was missing his. His hand strayed involuntarily for the place at his waist it should have been, as if feeling for a ghost limb.

“They make the most wonderful butlers,” Glinda murmured, following Mombi’s look of surprise. “You don’t even have to pay them!” She reached behind her sofa and pulled out a small, decorated container of glass and tin, which she dangled enticingly. The Flathead butler gave it a look of incredible longing, licking his lips as his fingers twitched even more agitatedly by his waist. “Just keep their brains and they’re yours forever.”

“Isn’t that sort of cruel?” Mombi asked.

Glinda laughed. “Cruel? You do have a lot to learn, dear child.” She glanced at the Flathead contemptuously. “Boris, take Mombi to the fourth-best guest chambers and see that she’s comfortable.”

“Your Eminence,” the Flathead said. “It’s Boreanorus, mistress.”

“In my house, you’re whatever I want to call you,” Glinda said, her voice icy. She stood up, walked over to the window, and held the can outside by the tips of her fingers.

“No, please!” the Flathead protested, lunging toward her, but he froze when Glinda shook the can.

“Tut, tut,” she said sweetly. “Apologize to me, Boris.”

Expressionless, his eyes wide with misery and fear as he stared at the can in Glinda’s hand, Boris sank to his knees and prostrated himself. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“I can’t hear you!” Glinda trilled merrily.

“Forgive me,” the Flathead said in a louder voice.

“This time,” Glinda said, wagging a finger. “Just this once. What is your name, butler?”

“Boris, Your Eminence,” the Flathead said.

“I thought so,” Glinda said with satisfaction. She took her hand out of the window and Boris sighed with relief, his eyes following the can like a cat stalking a mouse. Glinda, ignoring him now, lobbed the can toward the wall behind the sofa. Boris flinched visibly as it struck the wall and rolled underneath the sofa. Boris licked his lips again, his face twisting into a sullen expression of misery and despair.

“Take Mombi to her rooms,” Glinda said, turning her back on them.

Mombi cleared her throat. “Should I meet with you in—in the morning, Glinda?”

“Whatever for?” Glinda asked in a bored voice.

“For my first lesson.” Mombi had to resist the urge to call Glinda Your Eminence like the poor butler.

“Oh, that. There are a bunch of old books in my library, you should read them all.”

Mombi was excited about the books. But she wanted some first-hand instruction.

“I was hoping to learn from you directly.”

“And you will, but I think you need to learn from the great history of Oz first.”

She paused dramatically. Mombi wondered if she would have to start doing that when she became a full-blown witch.

“Hmmm. Very well. For your first lesson, why don’t you find a dragon.”

“A dragon?” Mombi asked, startled.

“There’s a whole family living underground just past Loonville,” Glinda said. “Bring me back one of the dragons—and turn it pink, like that charming rabbit of yours. You’re dismissed now.”

A dragon? Had Glinda lost her mind? But the witch had already turned away from her and back to her hapless handmaiden, who was busy now removing the polish from Glinda’s right hand and replacing it with an even more vibrant shade of pink. Boris was staring pitilessly at Mombi; waiting, she realized, to lead her to the guest room—fourth best—as he’d been instructed. There was nothing else to do but follow him. Perhaps Glinda would be in a better mood tomorrow.

And perhaps she was only kidding about that dragon.

But in the morning, she found a map drawn in pink with a pink X marking the dragon spot. She found the dragon family as instructed, after a long uncomfortable adventure involving underground tunnels.

Mombi wasn’t sure what to expect exactly. She did know that she was in no way prepared to fight a dragon. And her one trick—transforming color—was no protection against a giant creature that gnashed its teeth and breathed fire.

When she arrived in the lair, they were all sleeping. A dragon that seemed almost as tall as the throne room in the Emerald Palace was curled around four sleeping infant dragons. If Mombi was very quiet perhaps she could carefully extricate one of the babies and put it in her burlap sack.

She took a step forward, reminding herself what was at stake. Glinda would teach her magic. Wasn’t that worth anything?

But the more she thought about it, risking her limbs to borrow a baby from its sleeping mother was definitely not worth it. Being armless would be a real hindrance while trying to learn magic.

Her outstretched hands fell to her sides. She then put them back in her pockets and turned away.

She would tell Glinda she couldn’t find the cave. After all, the maps were complicated. It wouldn’t be the first time someone assumed she wasn’t smart. This time she could use it to her advantage.

A voice stopped her as she exited the cave.

“Who are you?”

Mombi turned, and her jaw dropped slightly when she saw that it was the dragon mother.

“I’m sorry,” Mombi said, trying to make her voice as steady as possible. “I didn’t mean to disturb your rest.”

“Well, I am awake now, and no one comes this far without a reason.” She exhaled a small puff of smoke. “Are you here to try to slay me?”

“No, nothing like that. Glinda sent me . . .”

The dragon’s eyes widened and she nudged her babies awake. They stretched, and little plumes of fire escaped their nostrils.

“We have to go, little ones.”

If Mombi didn’t know any better, she’d say that a dragon roughly the size of a palace was afraid of Glinda the Good Witch. Something wasn’t right.

“You won’t tell her you found us . . .” the mother implored.

“Of course not, she only wanted . . .”

But Mombi didn’t finish the sentence. If she was trying to reassure the creature, borrow one of your babies did not sound at all good.

The dragon and her babies flew from the cave with a whoosh, leaving Mombi more confused than ever, and shaking in her boots. And not just from the force of the dragons’ departure.

When she returned to the palace, she found Glinda lounging on her chaise.

“Well, where is it?” she asked.

“I, uh, couldn’t find it. I got lost.”

Glinda fluttered her eyelashes. “Then why are you covered in dragon ash, dear?”

Mombi brushed the telltale soot off her jacket, and stuttered.

“What I meant was . . . I found it, but they were already gone.” Mombi half-expected her to be mad. But Glinda trilled a laugh.

“Dragons are so flighty! Let’s have some tea. Boris is bringing the most delightful pink butter cake.”

Mombi felt herself able to breathe again, but she still felt on edge. She didn’t know what her next mission would be, but she was feeling nervous about it.

But the next mission didn’t come.

After the dragon incident, in fact, Glinda seemed interested in Mombi only as a companion. She took her to see Princess Gayelette and her consort Quelala—both of them by then withered and ancient and forgetful—at the ruby palace in the northern quadrant of Gillikin Country. She let her come along and hold her bags as they wandered the floating bazaars of Loonville and ate dinner with the giants of Yoop Castle. They took a balloon tour over the forest of Gugu and ate dazzleberry tarts with a bevy of Mist Maidens. In short, while visiting Glinda, she did everything there was to do in Gillikin Country—except learn magic. Everywhere they went, Mombi peppered her with questions about her studies. About the books in her library that were covered in dust.

Occasionally the other denizens of Gillikin Country they met along the way offered to show Mombi what they knew, but Glinda shooed them away—she didn’t want them to derail her training. Besides, their magic was no more powerful than Mombi’s—in fact, she was stronger than most of them. The more she traveled, the more she realized how much magical potential she had—which made the whole thing even more frustrating.

But Glinda was still stronger. Glinda still had what Mombi wanted—and she refused to share her secrets.

Finally, after hanging around Glinda’s palace for weeks, she gave up. She’d read every book. Tried every spell. The fourth-best guest chambers were nowhere near as comfortable as her own humble house in the foothills of the Traveling Mountains. Glinda was, if anything, even less helpful than she had been the first day Mombi showed up to ask her help. It was clear the witch was only toying with her, for whatever reason—her own amusement, to prevent Mombi from gaining enough power to become a rival, out of spite—who could even know. Mombi vowed that the next day she would pack her bags full of everything she’d brought, and all the various souvenirs she’d purchased since her arrival, summon a carriage, and abandon her failed project. With any luck, she’d never have to see Glinda again, let alone beg her for favors the Good witch had no intention of granting.

That night, Mombi dreamed of Lurline.

At that time in the history of Oz, Lurline was only a rumor of a legend. The fairy who had founded Oz; the queen at the very beginning, who’d created the kingdom out of dust and emptiness, who’d made gardens out of the desert and pulled magic out of the earth itself. Most people in Oz—those who’d even heard of Lurline, which was few enough to begin with—believed Lurline was just an old story that had been passed down from parent to child, a fairy tale along the lines of “The Wizard Who Climbed the Sunfruit Vine and the Little Winged Monkey Who Could.” But Mombi knew enough magic to sense that Lurline was real, even if she hadn’t been seen in Oz in a century. And she knew enough magic to sense, as soon as she fell into the strange, surreal dream in which Lurline appeared to her, that what she was dreaming was, in fact, true.

They were walking together along a golden path that looked like a slightly more glamorous cousin to the Road of Yellow Brick. Lurline was dressed in a simple white gown, her huge gold-and-black wings fluttering delicately behind her. Mombi was wearing her usual shapeless, unflattering, homespun dress. But although Lurline was a thousand times more beautiful than Glinda, she was gracious and inviting and kind. They strolled together through a lush, overgrown garden where emerald-leafed plants yielded huge, heavy, perfume-laden flowers. The ground on either side of the golden path was shaggy with thick, deep grass. Pollen-drunk butterflies stumbled from blossom to blossom, and birdcalls trilled through the air.

“I know it’s been a bit difficult for you, poor thing,” Lurline was saying. Mombi was somehow aware that they had been talking and walking for a long time, although she couldn’t for the life of her remember how the conversation had started, or what they’d discussed previously. “Glinda is . . . well, Glinda.” Lurline sighed. “I wish things were different,” she said thoughtfully, almost as if she was speaking to herself and Mombi wasn’t even there. “But it is becoming increasingly apparent what her true nature is. It is the nature of power to corrupt those who seek to use it for their own ends.”

“I had hoped to learn something from her,” Mombi said. “But this whole time she . . .” Lurline didn’t seem to be paying attention to her, and Mombi fell silent. She understood that Lurline hadn’t showed up in her dream to tell her how to get more information out of Glinda. The fairy was there for something else. Something far more important, Mombi had to admit, than whether or not one witch was able to become more powerful.

“Yes, I’m afraid I have a task for you,” Lurline said, as if she could read Mombi’s thoughts. She most likely could. “A very large favor, in fact. I would ask someone else, dear witch, but this is a strange time. There are so few in Oz I can trust these days.”

Mombi stared at the fairy, willing her to continue. Lurline, she knew, was far more powerful than even Glinda. Could it possibly be that the fairy had chosen her—Mombi, never before noticed by witch or fairy alike—for some special, secret mission? Did Lurline plan on giving her special, secret powers? Perhaps Mombi had been looking in the wrong place all along. Glinda had never meant to help her. But the fairies—that was something else altogether. The fairies were directly connected to the Old Magic of Oz. Next to Lurline, Glinda was nothing more than a parlor magician.

But how had Lurline found her? And what could she possibly want with a humble aspiring witch who could barely enchant a backyard toad?

“You’re too modest,” Lurline said gently, again as if she could read Mombi’s very thoughts. “You’re much more accomplished than that. We’ve been watching you for a while, dear.”

We? Mombi thought.

“I know you came to Glinda to learn more than what she’s offered you,” Lurline continued. “You’ve been very patient, but I’m afraid it’s all in vain. Glinda has many strengths, but sharing her power will never be one of them. She has no intention of giving away any of her secrets.” Mombi nodded. She’d suspected as much already; Lurline’s words came as no surprise.

“But your dedication is impressive,” Lurline said. “Your willingness to put up with her whims, to travel about—everything that you’ve gone through, not just with Glinda, up until this point. You want this very badly, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Mombi said hoarsely.

“Then it will be quite easy to bargain with you,” Lurline said with a gentle smile. “We ask very little, but we are able to offer quite a lot more than you can imagine.”

“You will teach me Old Magic?” Mombi asked eagerly.

“I will set you on the path to knowledge,” Lurline said. “Real magic can only be earned, not given. You will still have to work.”

“I’ll do anything,” Mombi said eagerly. “I don’t mind hard work.”

“I know,” Lurline said calmly. “That’s why I’ve chosen you. There is Good in you, Mombi. And we need Good to balance the Wicked that is growing in Oz.”

Mombi had never thought much of Good or Wicked. She thought of the witches and the things that they did and how she would do them differently. And now, perhaps, she would have her chance. But there were rumors, of course, that were unsettling about the witches of the South and West, and what she’d seen of Glinda was not the sweetness and light that she had expected. Still, she felt something unfamiliar rise in her chest. Something she hadn’t felt in a very long time. Something like hope.

“What is it you want from me?” she asked.

“A child is in need of safe haven, and you will be her caretaker until the time comes when sheltering her is no longer necessary.”

“A child?” Mombi asked, confused.

“The child,” Lurline said. “Ozma, the true ruler of Oz.”

Mombi stopped walking and stared at the fairy, forgetting the beautiful landscape around them. “The true ruler of Oz? But Oz has no true ruler.”

“The fairies are the rightful heirs to the throne of Oz,” Lurline said. “Only our kind are ultimately uncorruptible by Oz’s magic. We are the stuff of Oz itself, and can never act to harm it or its people. All other rulers are . . . fallible.” She smiled. “A lesson we seem determined to learn the hard way over and over again, I’m afraid. Ozma is a fairy, and the true successor to the throne.”

“If that’s the case, why does she need protecting?” Mombi asked.

Lurline looked serious—and sad. “Glinda,” she said simply.

“Glinda?” Mombi echoed stupidly, and then she realized what Lurline was saying. “Glinda wants to hurt the true ruler of Oz? But why . . .”

“You know the answer to that,” Lurline said.

And, of course, that much was true. Mombi had already seen plenty of evidence of both Glinda’s power and Glinda’s cruelty. Beneath the mask of Goodness lurked a manipulative, power-hungry witch who abused her power over those weaker than she was. Mombi would never have guessed that Glinda wanted to control Oz itself—the idea was almost unthinkable. But as soon as Lurline said it, she knew it was true.

Glinda wasn’t Good. Far from it.

“Glinda has already tried to kill Ozma, but she was unable to find the child,” Lurline continued.

Not Good was one thing, but trying to kill a child was downright Wicked.

“It is obviously in the best interests of Oz for Ozma to survive to adulthood and take the throne, as is her right. Besides, she’s family.” Lurline smiled again. “It’s my duty to protect her, whatever the cost. But I only have so much influence over events in Oz from this place.” She waved a hand around her, encompassing the jungle, the beautiful plants and flowers, the golden path. “I need your help, Mombi. I need you to protect the succession line of Oz. And I may need more from you in the future.”

“More from me? What do you mean?”

“The future is never as clear as we wish it to be,” Lurline said. “But I sense dark times ahead, dear Mombi. I am afraid the shadow of war hangs over Oz.”

“War?” Mombi echoed disbelievingly.

Lurline nodded. “A war that will swallow us all,” she said in that eerie tone she’d used earlier, as if Mombi had faded into the background and she was talking to herself. She shook herself and seemed to snap back to reality. “Tell no one of this dream,” she instructed. “When the child comes to you, you will know her, although she may come through an unexpected messenger. And when you have completed this task, your reward will be waiting—assuming you are ready for it.”

“What do I need to do to be ready?”

“Work,” Lurline said simply. She brushed her long, slender fingers over Mombi’s face. “You are strong already—stronger than you think. Your powers are growing. Study will take you far. When you have finished your first mission, I will repay you with the power you’ve asked for. And now, return to the waking world, little witch. This dream will stay with you until it is time for you to act. Know that if you act as I have instructed, you act with my blessing.”

Lurline’s shimmering outline was already dissolving into golden light. “Wait!” Mombi cried. “But how will I—” But she never finished the sentence. She sat bolt upright in her uncomfortable bed in Glinda’s palace, her heart pounding.

It had all been a dream. None of it was real. But she touched her cheeks where Lurline’s fingers had brushed her face, and her hands came away dusted with a gold powder like flower pollen.

Mombi sat in her room for a long time, thinking. When dawn came she packed her things and summoned one of Glinda’s Flathead servants to help her transport them to a carriage. And by the time the sun was fully up, she was already on her way to the mountains without bothering to say good-bye.

Lurline’s instructions—to work hard and ready herself for the reward that would someday be hers—inspired Mombi to renew her efforts. She thought often of what Lurline had told her: that Glinda was moving behind the scenes, hungry for more power herself. The kind of magic Mombi had been learning before didn’t seem strong enough to protect Oz against Glinda’s machinations. Mombi was no match for Glinda herself, not until Lurline came through with her end of their bargain, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t prepare herself as best she could for whatever dark days Lurline had foreseen.

For months she threw herself into her studies. Her pale, lustrous skin grew even paler, and dark circles appeared underneath her eyes. She would forget to eat for days on end, and soon she was gaunt and haggard-looking. The more she researched, the darker her magic grew. She was looking for the best way to protect the princess Ozma once she had been entrusted with Ozma’s care, and she knew that she wasn’t a strong enough sorceress to conceal the princess using the usual tricks. Glinda would easily see through a glamour or an ordinary spell of protection. Mombi wasn’t strong enough—yet—to fight her off in a direct battle. So protecting the princess meant using magic in a less obvious way.

It meant a disguise so complete that Ozma would be unrecognizable.

Which meant transforming her into something—or someone—else.

And then came the day Mombi had been waiting for, although it looked at first like any other. She had retreated far into the mountains, building herself a modest cottage in a dark forest far from prying eyes—and Glinda’s thoughts. Mombi’s morning was perfectly ordinary: an early breakfast of twig tea and pine cake, and then settling in at her immense stone desk for a marathon study session. But a brisk rap on her wooden front door made her sit up straight.

Mombi did not get visitors. Not here, not ever.

Which meant that this was one of two things: an enemy, or Lurline. Her heart suddenly racing, she prepared her best defensive spells and threw open the door. And then she stared in shock.

“Your . . . Highness?” she asked.

Because standing on her doorstep, looking equal parts irritated and chilled, was the Wonderful Wizard of Oz. Despite the length of the journey he must have taken, he was dressed the way he always did: an immaculate top hat polished to a glossy sheen, a spotless, dapper suit, and his ever-present cane. There wasn’t a speck of dust on him; no snow clung to the edges of his shoes.

“Yes, yes,” he said vaguely, waving a hand. “Certainly so. Bit out of the way, aren’t you? For the best, probably. Might I come in? It’s quite cold.”

“It’s the middle of winter,” Mombi said, bemused, as the Wizard pushed his way past her. Beyond the front door she saw a bright expanse of jewel-colored silk fluttering against the white snow: the Wizard’s famed hot-air balloon, which he used to travel from place to place in Oz. As far as she knew, he’d never come this far.

And then she saw the child in his arms.

The Wizard had come to Oz under mysterious circumstances—and taken charge of it almost equally mysteriously. But ordinarily, the people of Oz didn’t much care who ruled them as long as things stayed the same as they’d always been. And they were used to their ruler changing every few years. For the most part, despite the musical chair-ish nature of the throne, Oz was a peaceful, stable country.

The Wizard hadn’t changed that. But now, seeing him with what she realized must be the baby Ozma in his arms, Mombi wondered if that was about to shift. Glinda had designs of her own; Lurline had told her as much.

But the Wizard? Was he mixed up in this, too?

Mombi’s mind raced as she tried to think two steps ahead. But the Wizard was already speaking.

“Very unusual, I do know,” he said as if he’d already completed a request instead of just started talking. “But I’ll be most indebted to you, dear girl. And I won’t mention that other matter, wouldn’t dream of it.” The Wizard had visited her once already, ages ago, before he’d become the King of Oz. He was newly arrived in Oz then, and spent years crisscrossing the country searching out its most powerful witches. He’d heard of her reputation as a witch who knew her way around transformations, despite the fact that that kind of magic was illegal. He’d asked her a thousand questions and spent some time buttering Mombi up before realizing she wasn’t nearly as powerful as he’d hoped, and then his attitude toward her had cooled noticeably. One morning, he’d simply disappeared. She hadn’t missed him a bit. When the news of his coronation reached Gillikin Country, Mombi had wondered what it meant. And now she was starting to understand.

“You have as much to lose from bringing up the illegal magic as I do,” Mombi countered. “You came to me seeking it out.”

“Well, well,” the Wizard huffed. “Wouldn’t look good for you anyway, would it?”

“What do you want, old man? Get down to it.”

The Wizard looked around and lowered his voice, although there was no one for miles who could possibly hear them. “I need a mother. Not for me, obviously, but for this little one.”

For the first time, Mombi let herself glance down at the baby in the Wizard’s arms. He was holding her awkwardly, as if he was completely unused to children. The baby looked like any other baby: she had fat cheeks and soft skin. She was fast asleep, and there was a smear of drool on her chin. She didn’t look particularly royal. She didn’t look particularly anything. She was just a baby.

And then the baby opened her eyes and looked right at Mombi. Those eyes were extraordinary: fathomless, enormous, infinitely wise. They were the eyes of an ancient soul peering out at her from an incongruous face. Mombi blinked, and the baby closed her eyes again, a smile tugging at her small mouth. If she’d had any doubt, the baby’s look had taken care of that: this was the princess Ozma. The future Queen of Oz.

And apparently the Wizard, like Glinda, had reasons of his own for wanting her out of the way. He had appointed himself an interim ruler, Mombi knew. But this was the action of a man who wanted the throne for good.

“A mother?” Mombi asked, careful not to look the Wizard in the eye. How much does he know I know? she wondered. What is he up to?

“My niece,” the Wizard said smoothly. “My niece, er, Alice. I have been . . . entrusted with her care. My family has many enemies in the Other Place . . . powerful enemies. Alice is an orphan, and all alone there. She must be protected at all costs. I brought her to Oz from the Other Place to keep her safe. But my enemies have followed me here and her life is in danger. Ruling the country pulls me in too many different directions. I need someone to take care of her. Someone who can protect her.”

“Your enemies?” Mombi asked. His story was nonsense, of course, which meant two things: he thought she was stupid enough to fall for it, which was insulting, and he didn’t know she knew about the princess, which was useful.

“Legion,” the Wizard said agreeably. “Do you have any sherry?”

“Tea,” Mombi said curtly, and the Wizard shook his head.

“Too bad, that,” he murmured. “You’ll do it, then? I will come for her before long. Once I’ve made sure the coast is clear, so to speak.”

“Why have you chosen me to protect your . . . niece?” Mombi asked.

The Wizard looked around her humble house. “Because no one will think to look for her here,” he said simply. “No one remembers who you are anymore, dear girl. No one ever comes this far into the wilderness. She has the best chance of anywhere in Oz at staying hidden here.” He looked down at the baby with a strange and almost poignant combination of contempt and longing. “She’s very sweet,” he said. “It’s too bad she must be kept so far from me.” He sounded almost as though he meant it. As if he’d developed some kind of strange affection for the child in spite of himself.

He held the baby out to Mombi, and a flash of annoyance passed through her. How dare he simply assume she would do his bidding? But she remembered her promise to Lurline—and what Lurline had promised her in return. She took the baby from his arms without protest. “Hi, Alice,” she said quietly. The tiny princess stared up at her solemnly and chewed on her thumb.

“Glad that’s settled, then,” the Wizard said cheerfully, heading toward the door. “I’ll be back sooner or later to fetch her.”

The Wizard, Mombi knew, would likely do no such thing. If he intended to take over Oz, he’d want Ozma out of the way as permanently as possible without actually killing her outright. But she nodded as if she believed him. “I’ll keep her safe,” she said. And I will, she thought. Just not in the way that you think.

The Wizard gave her a keen look, and for a moment Mombi wondered if he knew more than he was letting on. Could he possibly know that she had been in contact with Lurline?

No, she decided. Lurline was practically a myth. In all likelihood, the Wizard had never heard of her. There’s no way he could suspect that Mombi was already prepared to hide the princess—or that she had any idea that “Alice” was actually Ozma at all.

Mombi bid the Wizard farewell. He strode across the snowy clearing behind her house to where his hot-air balloon fluttered on the ground. With a snap of his fingers and a wave of his cane, he caused the brightly colored silk to swell and bell upward over the snow. The Wizard swung himself lightly over the edge of the balloon’s wicker basket just as it began to float upward. With a swirl of his cape and a jaunty wave, he rose into the air. Mombi waved back halfheartedly, the infant in her arms looking out at the Wizard’s balloon with huge, solemn eyes. When the balloon had dwindled to a red speck in the sky, Mombi heaved a deep sigh and looked down at the baby.

“Well, well, well, Princess,” she said. “What on earth am I going to do with you?”

Ozma gazed up at her with that unblinking, slightly uncanny gaze. Then she yawned, burrowed her face in the blanket that was wrapped around her body, and fell fast asleep. Mombi turned away from the clearing and trudged back into her cottage. Convincing the Wizard she knew nothing about the child had been considerably easier than she’d imagined. Now the real work was about to begin: keeping her hidden.

Luckily, Mombi had a plan. She hadn’t been practicing transformations for nothing. Transformations were dangerous, tricky, powerful magic. Any misstep could be disastrous not just for the subject, but for the witch casting the spell. But Mombi knew that there was one thing the Wizard hadn’t been lying about: the fact that tiny Ozma had powerful enemies—including the Wizard himself. But it was Glinda whose interest in the princess worried Mombi most, based on what Lurline had said. The Wizard was strong, but they were evenly matched. If she had to, she could protect Ozma from him herself. Glinda, however, was another story. And as isolated as Mombi was, she still heard rumors of the goings-on in Oz, and lately it seemed as though every day Glinda’s power only grew.

Which was why Mombi planned to turn Ozma into someone else.

Not forever, of course. Not even for all that long. Just long enough for Glinda and whoever else might be looking for her to think that she’d disappeared for good. Just long enough for them to leave her alone. Ozma would still know who she was when Mombi was done with the spell. And it would wear off eventually after a few years.

Or so Mombi hoped anyway. Because the truth was, she’d transformed plenty of things into plenty of other things. But none of them had been remotely human. Not that Ozma was human. She was more than human. She was supposed to be the most powerful being in all of Oz.

And there was another small hiccup. Of all the things that she had changed, she hadn’t quite managed to change any of them back. The rabbit was still powder pink. For a moment, she wished for the support or instruction of one of the Wicked Witches. Old Gert, for example, the one-time Good Witch of the South. Mombi had had a few dealings with her when she was first learning magic. Gert was an ancient creature, centuries old, with seemingly inexhaustible resources of power. Next to her, Mombi felt like an inexperienced child. But the old witch was kind, too—always happy to help steer Mombi’s spells, or share tips or tricks with her. Gert wasn’t snobby about her power, or stingy either.

But Gert had vanished into the mountains herself, years ago, and Mombi hadn’t heard any news of her in a long time. The Wicked Witches were just that—Wicked, and extremely unlikely to be helpful, even if Mombi’s end goal was helping Lurline protect the rightful succession of Oz.

There was no way around it. Mombi was on her own completely. When it came to protecting Ozma, she was Oz’s last and only hope.

Mombi placed the baby, still wrapped in her blanket and fast asleep, on the smooth stone hearth of her fireplace. She moved around the cottage, careful not to disturb the sleeping child as she gathered the ingredients she needed. A more powerful witch wouldn’t have needed the additional strength magical materials gave her, but the magic needed for a transformation spell exceeded Mombi’s abilities. With the help of magical objects she’d been carefully gathering for some time—stones from the very bottom of the Wishing Lake, high in the Traveling Mountains; crystals from the veins that laced the deepest inner workings of the mountains; water from the icy-pure River of Visions; and other such materials—she could amplify her own power until it was focused enough to complete the transformation.

When she was ready, she set the materials for her spell around the sleeping baby. She knelt before the fire, washing her hands and face in the river water and pouring the rest in a circle around the child. She let the fire die down to glowing coals, and held a crystal in each hand over the baby, gathering and focusing her strength. She closed her eyes, feeling the magic gathering in her body, and pictured the transformation she intended to apply. Pictured the infant’s tiny features reshaping themselves into something different, the child’s body thickening, her limbs lengthening.

Mombi’s lips moved silently as she repeated the words to her spell, words she’d learned by heart from one of her ancient spell books. She felt the magic undulating inside her, strong and stubborn as a boa constrictor wrapping itself around the throat of its prey. Hold on, she told herself. Don’t let it get loose. Control it.

But suddenly the magic bucked and twisted, and she felt herself losing control. “No!” she snarled aloud, her outstretched hands shaking, her fingers twitching as green ropes of energy spun outward from her fingers and wrapped themselves around Ozma. The magic, sensing her weakness, tore free from her body and thrashed across the room in a long whiplike coil of energy. Mombi reached for the magic itself, trying desperately to corral it. More and more power poured through her, coming from somewhere deep within Oz itself.

Ozma’s body glowed with a violent green light that blazed outward like flames. Her eyes were wide open now and staring at Mombi with an almost adult awareness, an eerie calm. With her eyes fixed on Ozma’s, Mombi felt herself slowly, painfully regaining control of the runaway power.

But it was too much for her. She wasn’t strong enough to hold it in place long enough to complete the spell. With a violent crack of green lightning the magic tore away from her again. Her mouth swung open and green light poured out of her eyes and ears and nose and throat as she screamed wordlessly. Ozma hovered in front of her, floating on a torrent of power that roared through Mombi like a tidal wave.

A huge boom shook the walls of the cottage, knocking thatch from the roof and shattering the windows. Mombi collapsed backward, her clothes smoking. Ozma tumbled to the ground and began to cry. The magic was gone as swiftly as it had come. Ozma, childlike again now, wailed in terror. But Mombi had descended into a darkness so deep the child’s cries couldn’t reach her.

It was a long time before the witch regained consciousness. The first thing she became aware of was Ozma’s whimpering, although it sounded as though it was coming to her from a great distance. Gradually, the feeling returned to her fingers and toes. She stirred, sitting up slowly and painfully, and pushed her hair away from her face.

And then she frowned, staring down at her hands. Her previously youthful, soft skin was wrinkled and marked with spots. Her knuckles were as gnarled as an old woman’s, the bones knobbed and aching. The hair she had pushed out of her eyes was streaked with white. Stumbling to her feet, Mombi raced to her looking glass and almost screamed.

The magic had stripped away everything and left her unrecognizable. Her once-youthful face was withered and seamed with age. Coal-black eyes burned hatefully from underneath her sagging, fleshy brows. She patted her face in disbelief and refused at first to believe that the figure in the mirror echoing her every movement was truly her reflection. She sank to her knees, only then noticing that her dress was as age worn and ruined as the rest of her.

But as she glanced over at Ozma, she gasped: The spell had worked.

The baby looked almost exactly the same. It was only her eyes that were different. Instead of those bottomless depths of understanding, they were ordinary. Uncomprehending and human. Mombi rushed over to the baby, picking her up and cradling her to her chest. The baby’s tiny mouth opened in a wail. The blanket she was wrapped in fell away, and Mombi realized something else:

She had transformed the fairy princess into a baby boy.

He stared at Mombi with uncomprehending eyes, his face full of fear.

Mombi looked back, searching for some sign of the deep, ancient intelligence the princess Ozma had had. There was nothing there. No matter how hard Mombi looked, it was like staring at a blank wall. Not even the faintest glimmer of understanding.

She had only meant to change the princess’s appearance. To disguise her so thoroughly that Glinda would never recognize her. And that much she had done. Glinda was looking for a fairy princess, not an ordinary baby boy.

But she’d gone too far. Somehow, Mombi had transformed Ozma’s mind along with her body. Somewhere, the fairy peered out from behind this child’s face, but Mombi had no idea if she would ever be able to reach Ozma again.

She had transformed Ozma to protect her.

What if, instead, she’d lost the fairy forever? Lurline would never forgive her. And Glinda wouldn’t even have to find Ozma to win.

If Ozma was gone, Oz was without hope.

“I’m sorry,” Mombi whispered to the baby boy, wrapping him up tightly again and cradling him to her chest. “I’m so sorry. I promise I’ll keep you safe.”

But in her heart, hope was dying down like a banked fire. Not just for the child but for herself.

Because if she didn’t keep her end of her bargain, Lurline’s magic would never be hers.

PART

TWO

In the middle of a frozen winter night a teenage boy made his way slowly down the side of a mountain. An icy wind whipped snow around his skinny form. If you stood more than a few feet away, you wouldn’t have been able to see him at all through the whirling blizzard. But if somehow you had been able to peer through the curtain of snow and follow his movements, you might have noticed his course was steady and unwavering. If magical sight had given you a view of his face, you’d have been quite surprised to see that the boy seemed undaunted by the gale-force winds, the icy and near-invisible path, and the cliff that plunged thousands of feet mere inches from his toes. In fact, the boy had about him an air of confidence. A frown of concentration twisted his features as he picked his way around boulders, and his shoulders were hunched against the shrieking wind. Of course, you wouldn’t have been there to see any of this, because no one in their right mind would be clambering about in the Traveling Mountains in the middle of a winter blizzard.

Oblivious to these hypothetical deliberations, the boy stopped briefly and looked around. He adjusted the thick fur coat that offered him some protection from the storm and stomped his feet, knocking some of the snow off his heavy, thick-soled boots. “Almost there,” he said out loud, the wind tearing the words from his mouth. He moved forward again, this time a little more quickly.

Presently the boy made out a glint of light through the snow and let out a triumphant whoop, breaking into a shuffling near-run despite the force of the storm. Sure-footed as a snow troll, he scrambled down the path as he drew closer to the light’s source, until he stood outside a narrow stone passage hewn into the side of the mountain and ringed with glowbowls. He snatched a globe off its pole, the glowing mass of insects inside the hollow glass ball buzzing madly, and ducked into the passage. Inside, the low stone doorway broadened into a wide, smooth-walled tunnel extending at a gentle downward angle into the heart of the mountain. The boy held his glowbowl aloft, illuminating the passage as he moved forward into the dark. The violent noise of the storm rapidly receded until all he could hear was his own panting breath echoing against the tunnel’s walls.

At last he saw another faint glow at the end of the tunnel. The tunnel ended in an immense cavern, its walls dotted with more glowbowls in wrought-metal brackets. Their light stretched up into the darkness without reaching the ceiling of the huge chamber. The ashes of long-dead campfires dotted the hard stone here and there. Close to the tunnel’s entrance, a stack of fresh firewood was piled up, and the hearth here looked as though it had been used recently.

The boy sank to his haunches next to the fire pit, carefully piling kindling the way the witch had taught him. They had no love for each other—well, he didn’t have much love for her, at any rate; whether or not she even had emotions was mostly a mystery—but even so, he knew she had useful skills. He pointed at the pile, closed his eyes, and concentrated so fiercely his brow crinkled. A moment later, a thin wisp of smoke trickled upward from the little pile of twigs, and soon a tongue of fire was licking at the dry wood. When the kindling was burning steadily, he carefully placed larger logs on the fire. Only then did he pull off his snow-damp furs with a sigh of relief, stretching his legs out toward the crackling flames.

The boy’s name was Pete, and winter in the mountains was his favorite time of year. Not because he liked the cold—he didn’t—or because he was by now skilled at navigating the treacherous passes even in the most perilous of blizzards—although he was. But winter was when Mombi was most distracted, and that meant she largely left him alone. Summer was chore season, running endless errands for the old witch, replenishing her stores of herbs and potions and magical ingredients, constantly at her beck and call. But winter was when she holed herself up in her little cottage, studying magic and casting spell after spell. He could disappear for hours or even days at a time and she barely noticed. Just another thing, he thought, that proved how little she cared about him.

She wasn’t mean, not exactly. She was just . . . indifferent. Her moodiness would have been legendary if anyone besides Pete had been around to see it. She was ugly and old and cranky all of the time, and mostly she took her bad temper out on him. She treated him like a servant, not a son.

And that was because Pete wasn’t her son. He put another log on the fire with a sigh. That was pretty much all he knew about himself, and he was sick of it: that Mombi wasn’t his mother, and that he had no family. It was the only thing the old witch had ever told him about his past, sandwiched between reminders of how much she had done for him over the years. How she’d taken him in and fed him and clothed him and given him a safe place to live. He didn’t remember anything about his life before Mombi, and whenever he asked, all she did was go on about how lucky he was that she’d found him and spent the best years of her life taking care of him. Which wasn’t much of an answer at all. She didn’t care about him; all she cared about was having a servant handy while she obsessively learned magic. That much was obvious by how rarely she noticed his long absences in the winter.

He would run away altogether, except that he knew, once she wanted to, how quickly she could find him. She might not notice at first that he was gone, but as soon as she needed him to carry water or fetch some obscure magical ingredient, she’d miss him—and the free labor. Her magic was strong enough to pin him down no matter how far he ran. She’d told him so countless times. And he believed it.

Pete leaned back against the rough stone wall of the cavern. He’d discovered this underground network years ago, and it had become his refuge from Mombi’s ill-tempered harangues and constant barrage of orders. The warren of caves and tunnels went much farther than he’d ever dared to explore—miles and miles of cold, empty dark, stretching deep into the roots of the mountains. But he’d stocked the outer caves with firewood and dried food, blankets and Mombi’s discarded spell books, pretty rocks and bits of wood he’d found on his many expeditions. He wasn’t the first to use the caves, and he doubted he’d be the last, but for now he was the only one. Mombi, he was sure, didn’t even know they existed.

The caves were more of a safe place to him than Mombi’s little shack in the woods ever had been, but he couldn’t wait to leave them behind either. Someday, he was going to see the rest of Oz. Someday, when he escaped the old witch’s clutches for good. Someday, when he—

Something stirred in the darkness at the cave’s entrance, interrupting his now-familiar internal monologue. Pete sat bolt upright.

He wasn’t alone. And anything that was out in this storm was either very stupid or very dangerous.

“Hello?” he called uncertainly, feeling at his waist for the knife he always wore strapped there. It wasn’t magic, but it was sharp. “Who’s there?”

“Hello?” came back an answering call. The voice was low and deep and startled, but not afraid. “Is someone here?”

The speaker came into the light, and Pete blinked in surprise.

It was a Munchkin. He was tall for a Munchkin—at least, Pete assumed so, since he’d only seen a handful of Munchkins in his life and they’d all been much smaller than him. Mombi had occasionally taken him on outings to the nearest town, but she was always jittery and ordered him not to talk to anyone. He had envied the Munchkins—their colorful attire, happy camaraderie, and tendency toward impromptu song.

This Munchkin was easily as tall as teenage Pete, and broad-shouldered and muscular. Pete wondered if the Munchkin would get any taller, but he thought it impolite to ask. He was wearing sturdy clothes that looked made for traveling, and they were patched and repatched in places as though he’d been on many long journeys. His boots were scuffed but looked comfortable. He had a bow slung over one shoulder and a quiver full of arrows strapped across his back, and he carried a bulging leather pack. Long, black hair fell into his piercing blue eyes. His skin was weathered and tan, and fine lines creased the corners of his eyes as if he’d spent a lot of time squinting into the sun, although he couldn’t be much older than Pete himself.

And, Pete saw, one hand rested lightly on his own knife, tucked into a leather scabbard at his waist just like Pete’s was. Also unlike other Munchkins Pete had encountered, this one looked like he knew how to handle himself in a fight.

But there was nothing about him that seemed threatening; just alert and ready in case Pete proved dangerous. A flicker of something stirred in Pete’s chest. Something unfamiliar, that caught him off guard.

“Another traveler?” the Munchkin said lightly. “That’s a surprise in this blizzard. Where are you headed?”

“I live here,” Pete said, jumping to his feet. “I mean, not in the caves. I live nearby.” Suddenly he was anxious to impress this stranger. “I wander around in the mountains all the time,” he said. “I don’t mind the weather.” His tone came out more boastful than he’d intended, and he cringed a little, but the stranger only smiled.

“That’s a relief, then, because I’ve never been more lost in my life. I thought there was a pass through these mountains somewhere around here, but I’ve been going in circles for hours.”

“There is,” Pete said eagerly. “Only you’re too far south. I can show you where it is, if you want. I can take you there.” For some reason, he didn’t want this Munchkin to leave.

The Munchkin smiled and moved his hand from the hilt of his knife. “That would be amazing. But would you mind if I . . .” He gave the fire a significant look.

“Of course,” Pete said, flushing with embarrassment. What an idiot he was being—of course this stranger would want to rest. It was freezing outside, not to mention pitch-black. Pete could find the pass with no trouble, but if the Munchkin had been lost in the storm for this long, he had to be exhausted. “Please, sit down. I can make you something to eat. Or hot tea. There are blankets here, and I can build up the fire. You can stay the night here, and in the morning I’ll take you to the pass—” He realized he was babbling, and shut his mouth immediately, flushing even brighter.

The Munchkin didn’t seem to notice what an idiot he was being. What had come over him? The stranger only smiled again gratefully and sat down next to the fire, stretching out his hands to warm them. Pete bustled around the cavern, hanging an iron pot full of water on a tripod over the fire and throwing in dried vegetables and meat. Mombi had refused to teach him anything more than the most basic of spells, but at least she’d taught him how to cook. “It tastes better than it looks,” he assured the Munchkin.

“It smells delicious,” the Munchkin said. He’d taken off his snow-soaked outer layers and carefully arranged them by the fire to dry. He ran his fingers through his long hair. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Pete,” Pete said, extending a hand belatedly. The stranger shook it gravely. Pete blushed and looked away, too shy to meet the Munchkin’s steady gaze. His skin felt prickly and hot, as if he was feverish, but he knew he wasn’t sick. It was as if just being around the Munchkin was making him burn up. “Um, what are you doing in these mountains?”

“I’m Jasper,” he said. “And to answer your question, heartbreak. What else would drive a man into these parts? I’m traveling until I stop seeing him everywhere I look.”

“Heartbreak.” Pete said the word out loud and let it sink in.

But Jasper went on unfazed, oblivious to Pete’s reaction.

“He was a real charmer. I should have known it would end this way, but I guess love makes you blind. . . .”

Pete nodded but he didn’t know. He hadn’t experienced so much as a first kiss, let alone some kind of heartbreak.

Jasper shook his head, reading him. “Or perhaps you don’t know. . . . So, where can you possibly live in these mountains?”

“With Mombi,” Pete said. Jasper looked puzzled. “She’s a witch,” Pete explained. “A very important one,” he added with a flourish. “I’m her—her—apprentice. She lives at the base of the mountain. It’s not far.”

Jasper looked impressed, and Pete was gratified. “An apprentice witch? I’ve never met a witch. I have to say I’m glad about that.” When he saw Pete’s stricken expression, he laughed. “I don’t mean you! I didn’t even know there were cute witches.” Pete felt himself flushing again. “The only witches I’ve ever heard stories about have been Wicked. Except for Glinda, I suppose.”

“Mombi’s talked about Glinda,” Pete said cautiously. “She doesn’t trust her.” In fact, Mombi had warned him to get away from Glinda as quickly as possible if he ever encountered her pink witchiness. Mombi never offered an explanation why. And Pete had never asked. But now the opportunity for answers had presented itself.

“Really,” Jasper said thoughtfully. “Hmm. She was very close with Dorothy the Witchslayer, they say. She’s quite powerful herself, but I don’t know if she’s the best . . .” The Munchkin trailed off and glanced at Pete, something in his eyes suggesting that he thought he’d said too much. “She’s quite powerful,” he said again. It was clearly not what he’d originally been about to say.

“Dorothy?” Pete asked, puzzled. “Who’s Dorothy?”

At this, Jasper looked astonished. “You don’t know who Dorothy is?”

“I don’t . . . get out much,” Pete said, flushing again. He didn’t want the Munchkin to think he was ignorant, but it was the truth.

“I see,” the Munchkin said. “I guess you wouldn’t, living all the way out here. Well, I’ll tell you about her while we eat, if you like.”

“I’d love to know,” Pete said gratefully. “The soup should be done.” He ladled stew into two wooden bowls, handing one to Jasper with a wooden spoon he’d carved himself. Jasper inhaled the aromatic broth, closing his eyes in pleasure.

“It’s been a long time since I had a hot meal, let alone anything this good,” he said after he took a bite. “This is delicious.”

Pete blushed again, staring at the floor. “Thanks,” he said. “It’s not much.”

“It’s wonderful.” Jasper settled back against the stone wall, sighing in contentment as he slowly ate his soup. “Dorothy came to Oz from the Other Place—”

“The Other Place?” Pete interrupted, puzzled. “You mean, another country? I didn’t know there was a country other than Oz.” This time, he was too curious to be embarrassed by his ignorance.

“Not another country,” Jasper explained. “Another place. Another world, they say. It’s impossible for any of us to go there. Dorothy was brought here by a mighty tornado—some people say it was fairy magic, working to save Oz from the clutches of the Wicked Witches.” He saw Pete’s confusion and laughed. “I’m getting ahead of myself, though. Dorothy came to Oz many years ago—brought here by a cyclone, like I said. She was beautiful and kind. She landed in Munchkin Country, which was then under the control of the Wicked Witch of the East.”

He shuddered, his expression serious. “My parents tell stories about the Wicked Witch of the East,” he said quietly. “She was awful. Heartless and cruel. She enslaved my people and killed anyone who defied her. She imprisoned and tortured any Munchkins who tried to rise up against her rule. But Dorothy killed her with a single mighty blow, setting my people free. For that we’ll be grateful to her forever. There’s a big statue of her in Munchkin Country; you’ll have to see it sometime.”

“I’d like that,” Pete said.

The Munchkin smiled. “It’s beautiful,” he said. “We built a big square for it. It’s one of my favorite places in Oz. It serves as a reminder of the time none of us were free, and how lucky we are to have escaped it.”

“That’s why you don’t trust witches,” Pete guessed.

Jasper nodded. “None of the Munchkins do,” he said. “We don’t even trust Glinda. Any one person with that much power . . .” He shook his head. “It’s not good.”

“Mombi wouldn’t do anything like that,” Pete said. He didn’t think Mombi would do anything like that anyway.

Jasper nodded again. “I’ll have to take your word for it,” he said. “Anyway, after Dorothy killed the Wicked Witch of the East, she kept traveling through Oz. She met many of its citizens, and she became friends to three of them—the Cowardly Lion, the Tin Woodman, and the Scarecrow. She freed all of them from different places. Each one of them wanted different gifts—the Lion wanted courage, the Woodman wanted a heart, and the Scarecrow wanted brains. They knew the Wonderful Wizard of Oz had the power to grant their wishes, so Dorothy agreed to go with them to the Emerald City and—”

“The Wizard?” Pete interrupted. “Who’s he?”

“The Wizard?” the Munchkin echoed in astonishment. “You don’t know—” He cut himself off as if he didn’t want to embarrass Pete again. “Well, you wouldn’t,” he said in a different tone. “If this Mombi keeps you as isolated as all that. He was the ruler of Oz for a long time, and he was in power when Dorothy arrived. He was incredibly powerful, but he was from the Other Place, too—he didn’t belong as the ruler of Oz. Dorothy didn’t know that then, of course; she just wanted to help her friends, and for the Wizard to use his magic to send her back home.”

“This Wizard is powerful enough to send people to other worlds?” Pete asked.

“He was,” the Munchkin said, nodding. “But I’m getting ahead of myself again. Dorothy and her friends traveled to the Emerald Palace, where they found the Wizard. He agreed to help them, but at a price: they had to kill the Wicked Witch of the West, too, who was the ruler of Winkie Country. She was just as cruel and evil as her sister, but Dorothy wasn’t afraid. And although the Wicked Witch of the West nearly enslaved her companions and killed Dorothy, in the final battle, Dorothy prevailed. When she’d killed the second Wicked Witch, she returned to the Emerald City and the Wizard was forced to keep his promise. He gave the Scarecrow, Lion, and Woodman their gifts, but he refused to send Dorothy back to the Other Place, saying he wanted to save his magic to go himself. He appointed the Scarecrow ruler in his place, and then he vanished.”

“He vanished?” Pete said. “Someone that powerful just . . . disappeared?”

Jasper shrugged. “No one has seen or heard of him since. Dorothy was able to return home with help from Glinda. The Scarecrow has ruled Oz ever since, although some of us think . . .” He trailed off as if he’d said too much again.

“Think what?” Pete prompted.

The Munchkin sighed. “That he’s not particularly suited to ruling Oz himself,” he said. “He’s not cruel, not like the witches. But he’s obsessed with book learning, to the detriment of Oz. He shuts himself up in the palace all day and ignores the concerns of his subjects. He’s obsessed with becoming more and more intelligent, not with being a good king.” He looked rueful. “Sorry—I’m always going on about politics. I’m sure you don’t care about all that.”

“I think it’s fascinating,” Pete said truthfully. “All the way out here—I suppose I’ve never thought about who rules Oz, or whether it matters.”

“I can’t imagine it does matter much to you,” the Munchkin said. “This place is so remote and isolated, there’s no reason for you to think about it. But everything in the rest of Oz feels as though it’s on the brink of something huge. With the witches dead and the Scarecrow oblivious, the future of Oz is up in the air.”

“Couldn’t the Wizard help? If he’s so powerful?”

“Like I said, no one knows where he is.”

“What if he’s still in the Emerald City?”

“I suppose he could be, but nobody’s seen him for years,” the Munchkin said dubiously. But Pete’s mind was racing ahead and he wasn’t paying attention to the Munchkin or his words.

This Dorothy had gone on a quest. She’d done things—meaningful things. She’d defeated tyrants and seen all of Oz. She’d had the kind of adventures Pete had always dreamed of but never known were actually possible. And at the end of it, she’d found a magician powerful enough to accomplish anything he wanted. Certainly powerful enough to set Pete free from Mombi’s clutches forever. Pete didn’t need courage or brains or heart—he had all of those in spades. All he wanted was freedom. And the Wizard, whoever he was, had the power to grant it—if he could only find him.

“How far is the Emerald City from here?” he asked, interrupting whatever Jasper was saying. Jasper raised an eyebrow.

“Far enough,” he said. “Unless you find the Road of Yellow Brick—and not everyone does. It’s a journey of several weeks, at least.”

“Can you tell me how to get there?”

“I’m going that way myself. It’s time for me to head back home, and the Emerald City is just past Munchkin Country.”

Pete stared at the stranger, his heart racing. Was Jasper inviting him to travel with him? His face was open and welcoming. That was exactly what he meant, Pete realized.

But Mombi would never let him go. There was no use. He had to find a different way to get to the city. He sighed in resignation, slumping back against the wall.

“I can make you a map,” the Munchkin said gently, reading the struggle on Pete’s face with an expert eye. “The city will always be there. You don’t have to travel with me to get there. And if you ever pass through Munchkin Country, I’ll owe you dinner and a place to sleep.”

“Thank you,” Pete said. “I—I hope I can do that.” He stared at the fire, unwilling to bring himself to look at Jasper’s face. In the morning, the Munchkin would leave, and Pete would never see him again. Who was Pete kidding? He’d never get out of these mountains. He’d never get away from Mombi. He’d never know this feeling again—the feeling that he was on the verge of making a true friend.

Jasper was already yawning. And soon, with a mumbled goodnight, he wrapped himself up in Pete’s blankets and drifted off to sleep before the fire. Pete was exhausted, too, after his difficult journey through the mountains, but he was much too wound up to sleep. Jasper was the first person he’d ever met close to his own age. And certainly the first person he’d ever met who made him feel this way—feverish and content all at the same time. He stared at the fire as the flames flickered and ebbed, leaving behind a nest of glowing coals. Finally, after hours of tossing and turning, he, too, fell asleep. His sleep was filled with restless and colorful dreams.

In the morning, Pete awoke to the clanking of pots. Jasper had found water—a spring toward the back of the cave that Pete had never seen run dry—and boiled it up for tea; he’d also made biscuits out of a dense, yellow cornmeal slathered in thick, creamy butter. He held a plate out to Pete, who took a biscuit and sank his teeth into the fluffy, buttery goodness.

“This is delicious,” Pete said excitedly through a mouthful of food, and Jasper laughed at him good-naturedly. Pete blushed, embarrassed, until he realized that Jasper was enjoying his enthusiasm, not mocking him.

“There is so much about this world that I don’t know,” Pete blurted between bites. “I guess a lot about myself, too. I haven’t met a lot of people my age,” he added quickly.

“The world’s not all happy, you know. These are strange times in Oz.”

Pete waited for Jasper to explain.

“I should tell you to stay up here in your safe little bubble with your Mombi, where you can’t ever get hurt. But Oz—the rest of Oz—it’s worth it. Even when your heart is broken, there can be magic just around the corner or in a cave at the top of the next mountain. You just have to keep looking for it. And sometimes you don’t even have to look. Sometimes it finds you.”

Pete opened his mouth to speak, but the words didn’t come. He felt the tiniest bit dizzy. He knew from Mombi that the right words strung together could effect change, but he was unfamiliar with the kind of spell Jasper was casting.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?” Jasper asked, stowing his things away in his heavy pack. “The company would be awfully nice. It’s a long journey.”

Pete’s heart leapt up in his throat, but he knew what his answer would have to be. Mombi would find him easily, and she’d never let him go gallivanting off with a boy he’d just met to go to someplace as dangerous as the Emerald City. Or at least, he assumed the Emerald City was dangerous. Mombi had always made it sound that way.

They hiked out to the cave’s entrance. The blizzard had blown itself out in the night, and a fresh coat of snow sparkled white and pristine on the surface of the mountain. Pete couldn’t see another person for miles in any direction. He and Jasper might have been the only two people left in the entire world.

Stay with me, he wanted to say, but he couldn’t get the words out. And what if Jasper laughed at him? What had come over him anyway? Why was he so taken with the Munchkin?

When they reached the entrance, Jasper dug around in his pack for parchments and a pencil. He handed one piece of parchment and the pencil to Pete, who drew directions for how to find the pass through the mountain. Then Jasper squatted down on the ground, sketching out a rough map that he folded into quarters and handed to Pete. Pete tucked it away carefully in a pocket over his heart. “For finding your way to Munchkin Country,” Jasper said. “And me,” he added, looking Pete in the eyes. Pete flushed a brilliant red. And, unexpectedly, Jasper flung his arms around him. Pete could feel his heartbeat pick up speed. He had never been hugged before. Mombi gave out lessons and lists of chores, but never hugs. Pete now knew what he was missing—and it was wonderful. He didn’t want to let Jasper go. “Take care,” Jasper said, his voice hoarse in Pete’s ear. “Come find me sometime.”

And then he was gone, bounding away down the mountain, one hand raised behind him as if in benediction.

Feeling more alone than he ever had in his life, Pete began the long trek back to Mombi’s cottage.

“Where have you been?” the old witch snapped when he pushed aside the heavy door. He knew better than to tell her about his meeting with the mysterious Munchkin. For some reason, Mombi was crazy about keeping him isolated from other people. She always sent him away when anyone arrived, and he was never introduced to new people. It was almost as though Mombi was ashamed of him, and wanted to keep him in hiding. She somehow managed to be wildly overprotective and completely indifferent to him at the same time. And her swings between ignoring him for days on end and paranoid insistence that he stay hidden in her crummy old cottage drove him up the wall.

“I was scouting for new firewood,” he said sullenly. “The usual places are picked clean. You’re the one who wants me to do all the work.”

Mombi glared at him, her wrinkly brow bunching up over her beetly eyes. “So I can do my work,” she said. “Which is some of the most important work in Oz right now.”

“You say stuff like that all the time,” Pete said boldly, “but I can’t tell if anything you do is important at all.” Pete had always kept his mouth shut before when Mombi lectured him, but he couldn’t help mouthing back this time. His encounter with the Munchkin had made him feel . . . different inside somehow. As if realizing that there was another world outside the one he lived in had set him free just a tiny bit.

It wasn’t just the world outside, he realized. It was Jasper.

Jasper made him braver. Jasper made him want to leave Mombi behind forever.

He braced himself, waiting for the tirade he knew was probably coming. But instead, to his surprise, Mombi heaved a long sigh and put down the spoon she was using to stir a disgusting-looking mixture in the cauldron that always hung over the fire.

“Come here,” she said with uncharacteristic gentleness. “I won’t bite, I promise.”

He eyed her warily but obeyed. And he was astonished when Mombi pulled him to her in an awkward hug.

“I know this isn’t an easy life for a—for a boy,” she said. As if she’d been about to call him something else—but that didn’t make any sense at all. “I’m sorry.”

Mombi was saying she was sorry? That had never happened, not once, in the entire time he’d lived with her.

“It’s all right,” he said. He didn’t know what he was reassuring her about, but she seemed genuinely worried.

“I made a promise to someone to protect you a long time ago. You’re in there somewhere. I know you are,” she whispered, looking deep into his eyes. As if she was searching for something there. And a flicker of disappointment crossed her face. Whatever she’d been looking for, she hadn’t found it.

“Who?” he asked eagerly. She never talked about his past. “My parents? Did you know them?”

Mombi shook her head. “I’m sorry, child. I know things here are difficult for you. But your safety is more important than you realize. I might have failed you already. . . .” she trailed off, looking impossibly sad. “It’s my job to keep you safe. I can’t tell you anything more, Pete. You have to trust me.”

Anger flooded through Pete. Trust her? When she spoke in riddles and would rather keep him locked up than let him see the world but refused to tell him why?

“Why should I trust you?” he asked angrily. “You don’t even trust me enough to tell me the truth.”

“I can’t,” she said.

“Why not?” he yelled. “You think I can’t handle it? You think I don’t want to know where I come from? What’s wrong with you?”

But she only shook her head tiredly, picking up her spoon again. “This will go nowhere, Pete. I’m sorry. Go to your room.”

He stared at her, burning with fury and hurt. She wasn’t going to tell him anything. Not one single thing. And she was sending him to his room as if he was a child.

“I hate you,” he snarled. He wanted to run out of the house and slam the door in her face. But Jasper would be long gone. All around Mombi’s house were just miles of wilderness that felt even emptier and lonelier now that he knew what he was missing. There was nowhere else to go.

He turned his back on Mombi, stomped into his room, and slammed the door. He made so much noise that he didn’t hear the faint whisper that followed him as Mombi stirred away at her pot.

I’m sorry. . . .

When he looked out the window, he could see a slick, purple web twirling around the house again and again.

She was locking them in.

Mombi didn’t unwind the web until Glinda’s sister, Glamora, paid Mombi a visit. Pete knew little about either of the sisters—he and Mombi received visitors only very rarely, and almost never did they have important ones.

Just as he expected, Mombi sent him to his room as soon as Glamora arrived, looking faintly alarmed, but Pete silently opened his door a crack and leaned against the jamb, listening carefully as the two witches chatted.

“What brings you this far to the north, Glamora?” Mombi asked, pouring the beautiful witch a cup of steaming bitterroot tea. Glamora took a sip and grimaced prettily.

“I don’t know how you drink that stuff,” she said in her low, musical voice.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Mombi said.

Glamora sighed. “Always it’s right to the point with you, isn’t it,” she said. It wasn’t a question. Mombi waited calmly and Glamora sighed again.

“It’s Glinda,” she said quietly. Mombi picked up a metal poker and stirred the fire.

“What about Glinda?”

“She’s hiding something from me, Mombi. Something important. Possibly something big. I think it has to do with the Wizard. Or with who’s ruling Oz.”

It was only because Pete had spent so many long years with Mombi that he immediately recognized the strain in her voice. “Ruling Oz?” she asked, keeping her voice casual, but there was no mistaking the tension underneath the words. Glamora, who didn’t know Mombi nearly so well as he did, only nodded, missing the witch’s sudden stillness. “I think she’s interfering with the succession,” Glamora said dramatically.

To Pete’s surprise, Mombi laughed. “Of all the silly ideas, Glamora! Why on earth would she do something like that?”

“I don’t know,” Glamora said petulantly. “But you know how power-hungry my sister is. You know what she’d do if she got her hands on any of the Wizard’s magic. She’s getting bolder and bolder—not even hiding what she’s doing. Without a clear heir to the throne to stop her . . .” She sighed. “It’s not good,” she finished.

“What do you want me to do about it?” Mombi asked gruffly.

“You’re nearly as strong as she is now,” Glamora said. “You could question her. Find out what she’s up to, what she wants.”

Mombi’s laugh was a harsh bark. “Find out what she wants? Are you serious? Glamora, you’re being paranoid and insane. Glinda doesn’t want anything at all except to eat strawberry ice cream in that confection of a palace and sleep with her stable boys. She’s harmless.”

She’s lying, Pete thought. Glamora seemed mollified, but he knew Mombi better than that. She was lying through her teeth. What was more, she was scared.

What was so bad about Glinda? Why was Mombi worried about her?

“I think that—” Mombi began, and then stopped. Pete strained to hear what she was saying. Why had she fallen silent? He pressed his ear up against the door even more tightly.

And then Mombi yanked it open and he tumbled over into the hall.

“So,” the old witch said, her voice furious. “Eavesdropping, are we? Were you invited into this conversation, boy?”

Glamora had gotten up and was now peering over Mombi’s shoulder. “Goodness,” she said sweetly. “Who’s this? Where on earth did you come up with a child, Mombi?”

Mombi glanced over at Glamora, and Pete saw again that, to his shock, her eyes were suddenly full of fear. “Got him for the scullery,” she said curtly, turning her back on him and trundling her bulk toward the fire. “He’s harmless, but it’s good to keep an eye on the help, I find.” She shot Pete a murderous look. But the fear hadn’t left her eyes, and she kept looking back and forth between Glamora and Pete as if she’d done something she regretted. As if letting Glamora see him had been some kind of mistake.

Pete tamped down the angry flare of hurt and resentment. Mombi was mean, and old, and tiresome, and it was clear she didn’t want him to interact with Glamora. Was it because Glamora was pretty, and wise, and kind? Did Mombi think he was too ugly, too clumsy, too stupid and ill-read to impress the beautiful young witch? Shut up in his room, he seethed in hurt, outraged silence. Outside his door, he could hear the rise and fall of Mombi’s and Glamora’s voices. They’d be at it all night, he knew from experience. It would be hours before they did anything interesting.

And, he thought, it would be hours before they noticed he was gone. This was his chance. He had Jasper’s map. He could look for the Munchkin—and the Wizard. He knew Jasper had felt whatever connection ran between them, too. He just knew the Munchkin would be overjoyed to see him again. Jasper had invited him along on his travels, hadn’t he? He’d told Pete to come find him. Pete felt that strange, feverish sensation overtake him again. He definitely wanted to find Jasper again.

And Pete was sick of the old witch, sick of living in the cold miserable middle of nowhere, sick of runny noses and frozen toes and lonely hearts. Moving silently around his room, he packed a small satchel with belongings: a change of clothes, a notebook, the map Jasper had drawn him, a canteen for water. He unearthed his tiny stockpile of gold coins he’d pilfered from Mombi over the years from under the bed. He hurled the bag through his open window, letting it land silently on the cold snow before he climbed out after it. He dusted snow off his trousers and set out into the icy night without a backward glance at the cottage that was the only home he’d ever known.

PART

THREE

First Pete had to find the Wizard. And then he could find Jasper.

Based on what Jasper had told him, he’d decided that the only way to escape Mombi for good was to ask for the Wizard’s help. Otherwise it was just a matter of time before she found him again and brought him back to that terrible hovel in the woods to spend the rest of his life locked away behind powerful magic, bored out of his mind. Jasper had said the Wizard had vanished, but maybe Pete could find him.

Pete knew the woods and mountains around Mombi’s cottage like the back of his hand, but he’d never gone more than a few miles in any direction. Once he came out of the countryside he knew, he got lost almost immediately. Jasper’s map was little more than a rough sketch, and it soon became clear that the Munchkin had traveled enough to take for granted landmarks that meant nothing to Pete. Plus, the map had gotten wet in his escape from Mombi’s, and whole sections of it were blurred and unreadable.

But he couldn’t bring himself to throw the map away, even though it was useless. Jasper had been the closest thing to a friend he’d ever made in his short, lonely life. At night, sleeping curled up in makeshift shelters of leaves in branches like a forest animal, wrapped in his lone blanket, he clutched the tattered paper to his chest as if it could show him the way in his dreams.

The farther he journeyed from the mountains, the more frequently he passed through villages and towns. In Gillikin Country, people were cheerful and friendly. Seeing that he was alone and often hungry, they offered him meals and even a place to sleep for the night. If he was hungry enough, he accepted their offers, but for the most part he was too painfully shy and tongue-tied. He was reminded again and again how strange and sheltered his life had been with hardly any contact with anyone besides Mombi.

When he passed other children laughing and playing, it occurred to him he had only read about things like games in books, never experienced them himself. The people he passed eyed him curiously; he was certain it was because he was lonely and freakish, although in truth it was mostly because strangers didn’t often come through Gillikin Country, and they were only curious.

His resentment of Mombi, always strong, only deepened. It was her fault he didn’t know how to talk to anyone. Her fault he was so painfully shy that he fled, speechless, from most offers of help. She hadn’t taught him anything; she hadn’t even taught him magic, the one thing she did know.

As the days passed, no matter how far he walked, the Emerald City only seemed farther and farther away. And once he found it, then what? He had no idea who in the city to ask for help, or if they would even help him. Jasper had said Dorothy was beautiful and kind and surrounded by friends. He was none of those things. What could he offer in return for assistance?

Finally, he passed into Munchkin Country. Hills and forest gave way to golden fields and rolling farmland. And that was where the Road of Yellow Brick found him. Or rather, he tripped over it. He had been following a dirt path that skirted a field full of cows when he stumbled on something solid and square embedded in the dusty earth and looked down.

It was a brick. Not an ordinary brick; it was made of a dully gleaming gold that shone through its coat of dust like a beacon. He looked around and saw another brick embedded in the grass at the edge of the pathway, and then another, and another. Farther away, more and more bricks were appearing even as he watched, stretching in a glittering path across the field he had been avoiding.

He looked around him. The air was cool and silent. It was early in the day still, and no one was about. Even the birds flitting across the flower-strewn field were quiet.

This was the road that Jasper had talked about. The road that would help guide him more quickly to the Emerald City. There was no doubt about it: it had found him. And now it stretched out in front of him as though it had been there forever, not appearing out of nowhere.

He was tired and lonely and sad and Jasper’s map was useless. The road was the only direction he had. Even if he’d wanted to go another way, there was nowhere else to go.

He took the first step onto the golden bricks. A current of something like electricity ran through him. For just a moment he saw something in front of him shimmering in the air like a mirage: a girl, about his age, with long dark hair and fathomless green eyes. And then the vision was gone again, and he was alone, feeling shaken and strangely afraid despite the balmy sunshine and beautiful landscape.

Something was about to change. Something huge. He could feel it in his bones.

And it scared him.

Had Mombi found him? Or was it something far worse or more frightening than that? Whatever it was, he wasn’t going to stand around in a field waiting for it to find him. He set off down the Road of Yellow Brick with a new determination in his step. He was tough and resourceful. He could find his way through the mountains of Gillikin Country alone and survive on his own for days. Whatever was waiting for him, he told himself, he could face it.

Mombi had refused to teach him magic, but from an early age she had taught him how to defend himself and how to hide. If he was ever in trouble, she said, she would know, and she would come for him. He hoped now that neither Mombi, nor whatever great danger she was afraid of, was ever coming. But he would use those skills again and again as he made it through the strange and treacherous Land of Oz. Oz was indeed full of magic, and he knew not all of it was Good.

He walked for a long time, until the sun was high in the sky and hot on his shoulders. In its own way, the road seemed to be taking care of him, which was reassuring: just when he thought he was about to die of thirst, the road led him past a merrily bubbling brook where he could refill his canteen. When his stomach began to growl, he passed a grove of talking apple trees who politely offered him some fruit. (It was delicious.) He ate his fill, packed up his knapsack, and thanked them; they waved their branches in what looked like an apple-tree version of a bow. When the sun began to sink toward the horizon, he started looking for a good place to sleep, and found it a little while later: a pumpkin patch, strewn with bales of hay that would make a clean and relatively soft bed, watched over by a friendly-looking pumpkin-headed scarecrow with bright black eyes and a cheerful smile painted on its orange face. He sat down at its feet on an enormous pumpkin, stretching out his legs and wiggling his aching feet, before digging around in his pack for more apples. The next day he would try to find a village where he could buy something a little more exciting to make his meals out of, but for now he was grateful to have anything to eat at all.

The same feeling that had come over him that morning as he’d started on the road took hold of him again. The air was quiet, as if the pumpkin patch was holding its breath. The strange current ebbed through him, and for a moment the world shifted as if a veil had been drawn back; he saw a brilliant rainbow citadel in the clouds, the same dark-haired girl he’d thought he’d seen that morning, another girl, this one older but not by much, with bright pink hair in what looked like a prison cell, each vision flashing before him like pictures on a screen. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, and the strange visions faded. Somewhere in the grass nearby, a frog made an inquisitive sound.

He sighed and leaned back against the scarecrow’s post. “Weird,” he muttered aloud. He looked up. He could have sworn the scarecrow had tilted its pumpkin head just a bit, as if it were listening to him. But that wasn’t possible. Not even in Oz.

He didn’t think it was possible anyway. “Are you watching me?” he asked it dubiously. It didn’t move. “You’re being crazy,” he muttered aloud to himself. “Seeing things. You need to figure out how to make friends before you lose it completely.”

The scarecrow still didn’t move, but there was something inexplicably comforting about talking to it. “I’ve come a long way, you know,” he told it, settling back against its post again. “A long, long way. If I can just get to the Emerald City before Mombi finds me, then I can look for the Wizard and ask him to set me free. To send me on adventures, like he did Dorothy.” He thought dreamily about what his life might look like then, if he was given an important assignment by the Wizard. He could find Jasper again and they could travel all of Oz together, spreading the Wizard’s gifts to people who needed his help. He didn’t realize he was still talking out loud until he’d finished, and then he turned bright red when he realized he’d told all of this to a scarecrow. “I sound completely insane,” he said sheepishly. “I’ll never find the Wizard, who am I kidding? But there has to be a way to get away from Mombi. There just has to.”

“Oh, there is,” the scarecrow said.

Pete’s jaw dropped and he whirled around. The scarecrow was regarding him calmly.

“You—you didn’t just talk to me,” he whispered. “A scarecrow didn’t just talk to me.”

The scarecrow laughed, and then the shell of its pumpkin head split apart and began to peel away. Its clothes tore apart at the seams. Its post split down the middle with a crack. And stepping out of the wreckage was someone who needed no introduction.

“Of course a scarecrow didn’t just talk to you, silly,” Glinda said, smiling. “Even in Oz, that would be a bit ridiculous. Unless, of course, it was the Scarecrow, but he doesn’t work in the field anymore. Darling, I’ve been looking for you everywhere. I’m so glad I finally found you.”

Pete looked around, bewildered, as if there were someone else she might be talking to. “You’ve been looking for me?”

“Indeed I have,” Glinda said. She was somehow even more beautiful than her sister; her hair just a touch more lustrous, her eyes a clearer and gentler blue, her skin even softer and more radiant. She extended one hand to him and drew a shape in the air with the other. A pink silk tent materialized out of the cool night air.

“Let’s go somewhere a bit more comfortable where we can talk,” she said, leading him through its open doorway. Inside, soft, velvety cushions were arranging themselves into piles. Beautiful pink carpets were unrolling themselves across the hard-packed earth of the pumpkin patch. Tea was pouring itself into pink china cups at a little table, and a bowl of pink fruits and pastries appeared out of nowhere. Glinda daintily selected a pink-frosted tart and popped it into her mouth. “Delicious!” she proclaimed.

Pete’s eyes were wide with awe and shock. She looked at him and smiled. “Haven’t you seen real magic before, dear heart?” she asked in her sweet, musical voice.

“I’ve seen Mombi’s spells,” Pete said, shivering at the memory of the spider webs wrapping around their house.

“Oh, Mombi,” Glinda said, as if the name pained her. She sank gracefully down into a pile of cushions and patted the ground next to her. “Come, have something to eat and drink and sit with me. We have much to discuss.”

Pete didn’t need to be told twice. He wolfed down several of the pink pastries and drank a cup of tea in one gulp. And then he refilled his plate and cup, remembering that he was in civilized company, and sat down next to Glinda, eating more politely for the second helping. Glinda pretended to ignore his uncouthness, but he had a feeling she had noticed and didn’t like it much. He felt embarrassed.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Living out there in the woods with Mombi I forget . . . I forget my manners sometimes.”

It was the right thing to say. Glinda brightened, and he immediately felt better. But he had been warned about Glinda most of his life. And getting her approval felt like an affront to Mombi. He reminded himself that Mombi did not deserve his loyalty. But some small part of him looking around at all the pink that Mombi had described raised some kind of alarm. And the sweetness . . .

He pushed the thought aside. He was accustomed to Mombi was all. And no one was as sour as Mombi.

“Of course,” Glinda said. “How could you be expected to know any better? Mombi’s kept you all locked up like a prisoner. It’s lucky I finally found you. You don’t even know who you really are, my dear. And if Mombi had her way, you never would.”

“Who I really am?” Pete asked in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“I really have been looking for you forever,” Glinda said. “For thirteen years, to be precise. It took all the magic and cunning I had to figure out where she’d hidden you. Old Mombi was cleverer than I gave her credit for, I must admit. Her magic has grown far more powerful than it was when she came crawling to me, begging me to show her all my secrets.”

“I don’t understand,” Pete said. “Did you know my parents? Do you know where I came from?”

He had asked Mombi for years about where he came from. Who he was. She’d taught him to fear. But she never taught him why. Was Glinda finally going to give him the answers he always wanted?

“Oh yes,” Glinda said, turning to him and taking his hands in hers. “I know all about where you came from and who you are, my dear. The truth is that everything Mombi has told you, your entire life with her, was a lie. You aren’t Pete. You’re the rightful ruler of Oz, and your time has come.”

Pete stared at Glinda, his mind reeling. What she was saying didn’t make any sense. “The rightful ruler of Oz?” he asked in bewilderment. “But isn’t that . . . isn’t that the Scarecrow?”

Glinda laughed dismissively. “The Scarecrow? That little fool? Heavens no, child. He was only ever meant to be a temporary solution, and he can’t even manage to get that right. Dorothy defeated the Wizard, as you know, and sent him away. But she didn’t do it just so the Scarecrow could run Oz into the ground. She did it to prepare the throne for you. For when you were ready to rule. And that time, my dear, is now. Mombi has hidden you away all these years, trying to take your power for her own. But I’ve finally managed to find you, and she’ll never take you from us again. I promise.”

“I don’t understand,” Pete said slowly.

“And how could you? You have been kept in the dark your whole life. Shall I start at the beginning, my dear?”

He bit his lip and nodded. “Yes, please,” Pete said.

“Like all the true rulers of Oz, you were born in the Emerald City,” Glinda began. “You should have grown up there, and taken over the throne when you were old enough to rule. But Mombi—who is, I am afraid, a very Wicked witch—kidnapped you as a tiny child, bringing you away to the North and enchanting you so that none of the witches who would protect you from her could find you. She raised you there in secrecy and seclusion, and for many years, none of us were able to find you. It took your magic—yes, my dear, yours—to escape the circle she had drawn around her cottage and flee from her dark powers. When you set foot on the Road of Yellow Brick, I knew at once that you had come back to us. That you would need me more than you’d ever needed anyone in your life. I am here to protect you, my dear, whatever it takes. I will ensure that the throne returns to you.”

Pete could hardly form words, he was so shocked. Mombi had been unkind and cruel much of his life . . . but evil? A kidnapper? Glinda had been looking for him this whole time? What would his life have been like if he could have spent it with this kind, beautiful, gentle witch instead of old Mombi?

“But then you knew my family,” he said, as realization dawned. “Do I have a family? Are they in the Emerald City? Glinda, who am I?”

“You are the last descendant of Lurline, the oldest of the fairies, and the rightful ruler of Oz.” Glinda looked into his eyes and gave his hands a gentle squeeze. “The rightful queen of Oz,” she said quietly. “You are a fairy, and your name is Ozma.”

A shock went through Pete at the word Ozma that started at the crown of his head and spread throughout his entire body. Ozma. As soon as he heard it, he knew it was true. Ozma. The word radiated out through him and sank into his very bones.

“Say the word and I will restore you to your true form, my princess,” Glinda said. “Tell me you are ready to accept the responsibility before you. Tell me it is time.”

“But why—why would Mombi do that to me? Why would she hide me away and raise me to be nothing but afraid of the outside world?”

“For the same reason that anyone does anything, darling,” Glinda purred. “Power. Or in her case, magic. She loves it to the exclusion of everything and everyone else.”

Pete felt the bristle of truth. Mombi did love magic more than him. She always had. He felt himself making up his mind. He almost laughed but it caught in his throat. Imagine that. He was never going back to that shack in the woods. He was going to have all the magic in Oz. He half wished Mombi could see him take it.

“Yes,” Pete breathed. “I’m ready. It’s time.” Glinda squeezed his hands again, even more tightly this time, and he felt magic pouring through her body into his like a wave of electricity.

And then he felt his body begin to transform. Not just his body, but the very essence of his being. He felt Glinda’s magic flooding through him and awakening something inside of him that had been long dormant, as if a locked box were being not just opened but smashed to pieces to release everything that had been inside.

He felt power. His own power. The oldest, deepest magic of Oz, coursing through him at last as his bones lengthened and his body altered. The skin on his back felt as though it were burning and splitting open, and then he felt huge, golden wings unfurling from his shoulders and spreading wide in a glittering arc of light.

And it was then that Pete knew it all the way down to his bones: What Glinda had said about Pete was true. Ozma had existed before Pete. Magic always wants to be something else. And sometimes it makes something new.

Pete tried to hold on to Mombi’s words. To hold on to himself. But Glinda’s light was so very bright.

As the transformation completed itself, Ozma fluttered her eyes open.

“Ozma?” A sugary far-off voice called to her.

She blinked hard. Some strange shadow lingered. A tiny voice at the back of her head, crying out in protest. A piece of herself that she recognized as the boy she’d been for her entire life.

“Pete?” she asked out loud, reaching for the name but not quite understanding its meaning.

Pete wasn’t real, she told herself. Pete had never existed. Pete was Mombi’s creation. Pete was a lie. But she could feel his pain and confusion. She could almost hear him.

She stretched out her arms. She touched her velvety soft skin. She felt real. The boy was the dream; one she had woken up from. The boy was the spell, she told herself.

But she couldn’t shake the feeling, no matter how good it felt to be herself again.

There was a tiny scream inside her. Something that felt separate and constant and distant from her. But there all the same. She pushed it down.

“Ozma?” Glinda said again gently.

Ozma nodded. She was Ozma again at last.

“Welcome back to us, Princess Ozma,” Glinda said. But instead of triumphant, her voice was thoughtful. “The transformation spell was so strong,” she murmured, her eyes distant.

“Magic wants to be something else. . . .” Ozma murmured the words that were not hers.

Glinda’s perfect eyebrows dotted up in concern. “You need to rest. There are echoes of something else still lingering. I had no idea Mombi had such power. Perhaps she did not act alone . . .” She blinked and shook herself. “Never mind,” she said brightly, turning back to Ozma. “You have returned, and that is all that matters now. Would you like to see your palace, my dear?”

“My . . . palace?”

“The Emerald Palace, of course.” Glinda smiled, delighted by Ozma’s surprise. “It’s yours now, my dear. Your true home.”

As soon as she said it, Ozma knew it was true. The Emerald City. The Emerald Palace. Hers.

Because it was her destiny. Because she was the true ruler of Oz, and her time had come at last to take the throne.

Ozma took Glinda’s hands again and smiled, incredibly grateful to the witch who’d saved her. Who’d seen what she truly was, underneath Mombi’s dark magic. Glinda had helped her more than she would ever know. Because now she knew the truth about Oz: protection was a lie. Trust could be broken. Power twisted those who had it.

She was Ozma, and Oz was hers and hers alone. Hers to rule to the very best of her abilities. Its people were her responsibility, its health her calling. No one would ever take that away from her again. Mombi had used her as a pawn to her own ends. Glinda might have restored her to her true self, but she knew better than to fully trust anyone with that kind of power.

She was Ozma, the Queen of Oz. And she was never going to be anyone else’s prisoner again.

EXCERPT FROM NO PLACE LIKE OZ

SEE HOW DOROTHY ROSE TO POWER IN:

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.

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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

The End of Oz

Prequel 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

Dark Side of the Rainbow

The Queen of Oz

Collections

Dorothy Must Die: The Other Side of the Rainbow Collection

Novella Collections

Dorothy Must Die Stories

Dorothy Must Die Stories Volume 2

COPYRIGHT

THE QUEEN OF OZ. Copyright © 2017 by HarperCollins Publishers. 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 © 2017

ISBN: 978-0-06-242382-5

EPub Edition © February 2017 ISBN 9780062423825

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FIRST EDITION

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