Ruler of Beasts
Author: Danielle Paige
Date: 2016-02-16 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: kindle; fiction; sf; fantasy
Publisher: HarperCollins
Rights: All rights reserved

CONTENTS

1. One
2. Two
3. Three
4. Four
5. Five
6. Six
7. Seven
8. Eight
9. Nine
10. Ten
11. Eleven
12. Twelve
13. Thirteen
14. Fourteen
15. Excerpt from No Place Like Oz
16. One
17. Two
18. Excerpt from Dorothy Must Die
19. Back Ads
20. About the Author
21. Books by Danielle Paige
22. Copyright
23. About the Publisher

Guide

1. Cover
2. Contents
3. Chapter 1

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ONE

Oz hasn’t been interesting in a long time, the Lion thought, picking his teeth.

There was that whole business with General Jinjur, when he’d helped his old friend the Scarecrow attempt to oust the vicious and bloodthirsty usurper to the throne of Oz. Truth be told, the Lion had almost admired Jinjur. She might have been ruthless, but at least she wasn’t boring. He hadn’t had so much fun since he’d helped little Dorothy to defeat the Wizard. The battles had been terrible, of course, and he was sorry about the many casualties, but he had found that he enjoyed fighting—especially when he knew he was on the side of right. The Wizard had given him courage, but in battle he truly felt alive—as if he was channeling his real lionish nature. None of this loafing around the palace, watching the Scarecrow read encyclopedias thicker than the Lion’s paws.

But the battle with Jinjur was ages ago. Now, the Queen Ozma ruled Oz, and the Scarecrow had retired to a corncob mansion out in Munchkin Country. The Scarecrow had a good heart, but the Lion wasn’t sure if this dear old friend had been a very good king. He’d thought his newfound wisdom would make him a better ruler, but, as the Lion himself knew, it wasn’t wits alone that made a successful ruler. Ozma, on the other hand, seemed born to rule—which, technically, she was. She was a fair and just queen, making sure her subjects were happy and peaceful and content.

And bored. The Lion yawned and stretched. He was lounging on his platform at the heart of the Kingdom of the Beasts. Ozma had been queen for a year, and absolutely nothing had happened. No mysterious invaders, no battles, no bloodthirsty girl soldiers. His subjects were peaceful and obeyed his decrees. The birds sang prettily in the branches, beautiful wildflowers bloomed amid the rich carpet of moss that covered the forest floor, bees hummed merrily in the warm summer air, and if something didn’t happen soon, he was going to chew off his own paws.

“Cornelius!” the Lion roared. Moments later, his closest adviser appeared at his side, bowing deeply. Cornelius was a rabbit, but unlike most of his kindred, he was an extremely clever one. His pronounced buckteeth gave him a slightly sinister air, but he was always neatly dressed in the latest Ozian fashions; he made sure the most current catalog scrolls—printed in glowing sunfruit ink on leaves from the giant sailflower plant—reached the forest, so he could keep up with trends.

“Your Majesty,” the rabbit said, bowing again.

“I’m bored,” the Lion said petulantly, rolling over on his back and waving his paws in the air. “I’m dying of boredom. Nothing happens anymore. Everyone is so peaceful.”

“Isn’t that a good thing, Your Majesty?” Cornelius asked cautiously.

“NO!” the Lion roared, springing to his feet. The rabbit jumped about a foot in the air and stood eyeing the king nervously. Cornelius was important to the Lion—and useful—but the King of the Beasts had a reputation for snacking on his subjects a little too regularly for even his most trusted advisers to feel entirely safe.

“We could, er, invade a neighboring county,” the rabbit suggested hastily. “If His Majesty wishes. I am sure the beasts would be happy to go to war.”

The Lion sighed loudly, his breath none too sweet, and settled back on his paws. “No, you’re right,” he said sulkily. “War isn’t the answer. Not this time, anyway. Oh, if only something would happen!” He brightened. “Have I told you about the time the field mice had to rescue me from the poppy field?”

“No, Your Majesty,” said the patient rabbit, who had actually heard the story at least fifty times.

“Well,” the Lion began, “this was back in the early days, before I had my courage, and when little Dorothy was traveling through Oz—you wouldn’t have met her, of course, but she was . . .” The Lion trailed off, staring into space. He thought of the trip down the Road of Yellow Brick often. It was before he had courage. But that time with Dorothy, Tin, and Scare at his side remained the standard against which he compared every experience after. He had never felt more terrified. But he had also never felt less alone. He had been a part of something. And now he was alone with his crown. Was it possible that the seeking was better than the having? Or were his old friends just better than his subjects?

“She was?” the rabbit prompted.

Dorothy was everything. She had pushed them all to change from heartless to full of heart. From dumb to smart. From fearful to fearless. It had been forever, but he still hated that she had gone from here to home.

“Dorothy was interesting,” the Lion finally roared crossly, waving his paws. “Not like this bloody stupid forest and all these wretched animals! What am I going to do with the rest of my life, Cornelius? Being king was fun at first, but now all I do is sit around all day. I can’t even go on an adventure, because kings aren’t supposed to leave their subjects on their own.”

Cornelius’s whiskers twitched as his mind raced. “You could have a tournament, sir,” he suggested.

The Lion brightened. “A tournament!” he exclaimed, clapping Cornelius on the back with an enormous paw. The rabbit winced. “You’re a genius! That’s the perfect thing. It’ll kill an entire weekend, at least, and afterward we can have a feast. Spread the word at once.”

Cornelius hadn’t seen the Lion so excited in months. He raced off into the Forest of the Beasts to tell the Lion’s subjects, feeling very pleased with himself. He’d succeeded in distracting the Lion—and saving his own skin—for the time being. Let the Lion eat some other hapless forest creature. Cornelius was intent on keeping his post—and the Lion’s gratitude.

TWO

The morning of the First Annual Beasts’ Boredom Battle was clear and sunny. A cool breeze rustled in the branches. Cornelius had gone to great lengths to turn the Lion’s royal clearing into a suitable battleground. The grassy center had been dug up, and the earth beneath packed into a hard, flat surface. The perimeter of the clearing was hung with banners. A group of stoats and weasels played a rousing march on tiny trumpets, and birds fluttered through the air with brightly colored ribbons in their beaks like living streamers. Dozens of animals, ranging from fierce-eyed hares to massive, muscular wolves and bobcats, were assembled in the clearing, ready to fight. The Lion sprawled on his platform, eyes heavy-lidded, feigning indifference to the clamor below him. Only Cornelius could tell from the glint in his eyes that he was following the action eagerly.

Once upon a time, the Lion had feared them. It seemed almost impossible looking at him now. But a broken twig behind him in the forest would have sent him scurrying up a tree back then. Once, he had literally hid in one all night until the tiniest of hares had moved from his spot beneath it. The Lion knew he was larger than the hare, stronger than the hare, but it didn’t matter. He couldn’t bear to have the hare’s beady little eyes boring into his. Somehow, he would always blink first. Now he could gobble anything up before it had a chance to blink. Now they were his subjects. Now they were the ones who jumped at the mere hint of a wave of his tail.

The weasels blew a fanfare on their trumpets, and the first of the competitors stepped forward into the ring: a hare and a badger. The badger bared her sharp little teeth, and the hare boxed at the air with his powerful forepaws. Barely waiting for the signal, the two animals leapt at each other.

This is what he was waiting for. Action. The Lion clapped his paws in delight, and then remembered he was pretending to be bored and sank back on his haunches. The Scarecrow had told him once that a ruler was not supposed to appear to be excited about anything—he’d read it in one of his books. But the Lion wasn’t so sure. Wouldn’t his excitement encourage his subjects to do more of what he wanted? He wanted—he needed—more of this. He didn’t know how to put it into words like the Scarecrow could, but seeing the animals facing off in the makeshift ring was the first time he had felt anything at all in days.

The hare clocked the badger on the side of the head. Snarling, the badger sank her teeth into the hare’s side. The assembled animals cheered fiercely as the smell of blood carried across the clearing. Ordinarily, they were more or less peaceful, and took the worst of their disputes to the Lion to be settled. But they were still animals, and deep down there was something inside each of them that would rather bite and claw their way to a solution than talk it out.

The Lion wasn’t sure who he was rooting for. The hare was feisty and fast. But the badger was single-minded and would not let go. The hare pummeled the badger furiously with his fists, but she only sank her teeth in deeper. His eyes glazed over with pain, and finally he flopped to the ground in defeat. “I yield,” he gasped. The triumphant badger released him. The hare limped off to lick his wounds as the other animals crowded around the badger in congratulations. Cornelius quickly swept the ring to prepare it for the next fight.

The Lion stretched and leapt lightly down from his platform, pacing toward the defeated hare. “Good fight,” he said, nodding his head at the competitors.

“Thank you, sir,” the hare said, still cleaning blood from his fur. The Lion smiled and licked his lips, opening his jaws wide.

“Too bad you lost,” he said, and swallowed the hare whole.

The Lion had surprised even himself. He hadn’t intended on eating the hare. But seeing the hare give up had been too much for him. The Lion had run away one too many times in cowardice. Giving up was not to be tolerated.

A momentary hush descended on the clearing as the animals realized what had just happened. “No one will be permitted to drop out of this delicious contest,” the Lion remarked. “I haven’t enjoyed a meal this much in years.”

But what he really enjoyed was the reaction of his subjects. There was a tremble that went through the onlookers. One that he had caused.

“The winners will be awarded the finest dens and burrows in the Forest of the Beasts. The losers will be eaten!” he announced in a fit of genius that was worthy of the Scarecrow. He clambered back up to his perch, settling down with a satisfied burp. “Who’s next?”

As soon as the Lion’s subjects realized their lives were on the line, the fights grew even more fierce. “Law of the jungle!” the Lion remarked happily to no one in particular as a fox furiously battled a beaver. (The fox won; the beaver scrambled for the edge of the clearing, but the Lion quickly pounced and devoured him. “What fun!” he roared.) But as the afternoon wore on, the Lion grew full—and bored. The losers, at first resistant, gave up and stopped putting up a fight. The Lion pardoned several of them at random, just to give himself something to do. Relieved, they slunk off into the trees, fleeing the Lion’s temporary mercy without a backward glance. As the next competitors, a bobcat and a ferret, stepped into the ring, the Lion roared in exasperation.

He couldn’t explain it—somewhere between swallowing the hare and this moment, the thrill had subsided again.

“This isn’t interesting at all!” he complained. “Just go home, all of you.” The beasts froze, staring at him in confusion. “Go home!” he bellowed. “Did you hear me?” None of the animals waited for him to say it again. Seconds later, the clearing was empty except for the Lion and Cornelius.

The Lion sighed. “So much for that,” he said. “I thought a tournament would be exciting, but it’s nowhere near as fun as a real battle. Maybe I should go to war against the winged monkeys.” He brightened. “I’ve never eaten a monkey. I suppose they might taste interesting?”

“As you like, sir,” Cornelius said patiently, but his red eyes blinked more than usual.

“No, you’re right,” the Lion said. “That’s not the thing either. I thought it was so nice, being a ruler, when I first came here. But the forest is boring, and so are all these wretched animals. I miss adventure, and cities, and seeing new things. Maybe I’m just not cut out to be King of the Beasts.”

But he wondered—if not this, what? He had spent his whole life wanting not to be a coward. He had never really thought how it would really feel to be king. Cornelius tried not to let his surprise show. He’d never heard the Lion talk like this before.

“But Glinda gave you the forest to rule, sir,” he said. “Who else could do the job?”

“You could, probably,” the Lion said. “Or anyone, really. I wonder what she would think if she could see me now.” No sooner had he spoken the words aloud than the clearing filled with a soft pink light. A cloud of tiny pink fireflies swirled through the air in a spinning column that gradually took on the shape of a woman.

“Glinda?” the Lion asked in astonishment as the witch floated forward. She was dressed in her usual pink ball gown, and her hair was piled on top of her head and secured with amethyst-studded combs. She hovered daintily a few inches from the ground, fluttering her long eyelashes at the Lion.

“My dear Lion,” she said sweetly. “If I’m not mistaken, were you just questioning my judgment?”

THREE

“Oh no, not at all!” exclaimed the Lion hastily, sitting up straight and gesturing furiously to Cornelius, who leapt forward to pick bits of the tournament losers out of the Lion’s mane. “If only I’d known you were coming, I would have . . .” The Lion waved a paw at his filthy, matted fur.

He did not want to seem ungrateful. She had helped him, Scare, Tin, and Dorothy get everything their hearts desired. But just like Scare said once in one of his overly long letters, she hadn’t exactly given them any instruction on how to use their new gifts.

“Don’t trouble yourself, dear Lion,” Glinda said in her honeyed voice, although Cornelius was almost certain he saw a flicker of distaste in her eyes. “When I go to visit the Kingdom of the Beasts, I expect beasts!” She giggled, and the Lion relaxed.

“Cornelius, make our guest comfortable,” he ordered. How exactly Cornelius was supposed to do this was unclear. He quickly dusted fur and the bones of an animal carcass—the Lion’s breakfast—away from an area of the Lion’s platform and indicated that Glinda should sit before scampering off to find something for the witch to eat. Glinda looked down at the rough platform and actually frowned. The Lion was too busy cleaning his paws to notice. “Sit, sit!” he exclaimed through a mouthful of fur.

“Travel is so, er, cramping,” Glinda replied. “I’m much more comfortable standing, dear Lion, and anyway I won’t be here long. I have a message of the utmost importance for you—and a mission, if you’re up for it.”

“A mission?” The Lion left off his grooming to look up at Glinda quizzically. “What kind of mission?”

“I’ve just come from the Emerald City, where I’ve been visiting with the queen,” Glinda explained.

“How is she?”

Glinda blinked, and for the barest second the Lion thought he saw a scowl flash across her face. “She’s very well, of course,” Glinda said, a little coolly. “She’s really settled into ruling like a duck to water. Just born to run things.”

“She is part of the royal line,” the Lion pointed out.

“And she lets you know it!” Glinda giggled, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “I thought I’d have so much to teach her, but really she just runs circles around the Scarecrow and me!”

“But the Scarecrow’s in the countryside,” the Lion said. At first, the Scarecrow had sent him letters via Pixie Express, but the Lion didn’t always finish them. They were pages and pages long filled with what he was learning. Things that were well beyond the Lion’s brain. The Lion couldn’t help but think that Scare was trying to read his way back to the throne. “Yes, of course, you know that he felt he had to go when he realized Ozma didn’t have any use for him. And in fact, I’m on my way back to my summer palace myself. Ozma certainly doesn’t need me.” This time, there was no mistaking the irritation in her voice. The Lion wondered what had happened back at the palace to set Glinda and Ozma at odds, but he knew better than to ask. Glinda might look kind, but she was powerful—and he’d seen her cruel side. He’d think twice before pushing her. Glinda quickly got her expression under control and her voice returned to its habitual sweetness. “But I didn’t come here to talk about boring old politics,” she cooed. “I came here because I need you, dear Lion, and only you, to help me with a most important project!”

The Lion sat up straight again. “Me?”

“That’s exactly right. In fact, there’s no one else in Oz who can possibly help me with what I need done. Can I rely on you, dear Lion? On your courage—and your utmost secrecy?”

“Of course you can rely on my courage!” the Lion retorted indignantly, wondering if she was trying to suggest the Wizard’s gift was insufficient. He hadn’t lost the initial battle against Jinjur’s soldiers because he wasn’t brave enough, but because he was outnumbered. Surely she remembered that. Glinda laid a soft, perfectly manicured hand on his paw.

“Oh dear, now I’ve offended you. I didn’t mean to imply you aren’t the bravest lion in Oz, but what I’m asking of you will require more than just brawn. I need you to keep your mission a secret, and to conduct it with stealth.” Glinda lowered her voice and gazed deeply into the Lion’s eyes. “Can you do that for me? Is it too much to ask?”

The Lion drew himself up to his full height, returning her look. “I am at your service, lady Glinda, noblest witch in Oz,” he said huskily, though he hardly knew what he was doing. He didn’t even know what his assignment was to be, or who would look after the Kingdom of the Beasts while he was away. But Glinda was so persuasive and so compelling. Not to mention so beautiful. Her blue eyes glittered and she squeezed his paw tightly, covering his forehead with kisses. “I knew I could rely on you, my brave, wonderful Lion!” she exclaimed. Raptly closing his eyes in pleasure, the Lion couldn’t see that Glinda was holding her nose as she kissed him.

“Then it’s settled!” Glinda said happily. “You can prepare to leave in the morning. I’m sure you’ll have to make arrangements for the kingdom while you’re away. I can’t imagine your mission will take too long, but you never know.”

The Lion nodded, looking up at Glinda in adoration. “My mission,” he agreed, and then he frowned slightly. “What is my mission, exactly?”

Glinda giggled. “Oh, right! It’s very simple, really. I want you to protect Ozma. As you know, her army is gone. . . .”

The Royal Army had been a single man. And Jinjur had taken him out in a heartbeat right in front of him and Scare.

“But she has you,” the Lion said, puzzled. Glinda was powerful. And she had an army of her own.

Glinda frowned the tiniest of frowns before her forehead smoothed out again and she beamed at the Lion. “I’m—well, I have things to do elsewhere,” she said vaguely. “Very important things. And Ozma can be a little difficult. I think it’s best we spend some time apart. And to be honest, there is another reason. Ozma is so bored in the palace—as bored as you are! I thought you might do us all a favor and keep her company for a while. She’s in desperate need of cheering up. I know she’d love to see you, and you’ll make her a perfect companion!”

The Lion felt his heart lift, perhaps this was what he and his courage were looking for. A mission. A purpose. Perhaps a fight didn’t mean anything unless it had one.

“I will bring the beasts. I will train them up into a proper army,” he announced.

Glinda’s perfect eyebrows raised and she shook her head.

“Perhaps, in time. But you need to have Ozma get used to you. Trust you before bring in an army.”

“But how can I keep her safe? You saw how the last Royal Army of One ended up.”

“I will know if there is trouble, don’t you fret, Lion.”

The Lion nodded, swallowing her logic. But it left an aftertaste. Something not quite right. He suddenly remembered the other part of what Glinda was asking.

“Which part am I supposed to keep secret?” the Lion asked, his confusion growing.

“Oh, that! I’m planning a most wonderful gift for Ozma, and I thought you could do me a tiny favor while you’re staying in the palace. She can’t know, or it would spoil the surprise. The Wizard left a ruby necklace behind when he departed Oz, and I need it to finish Ozma’s gift.”

The Lion was getting more confused with every word out of Glinda’s mouth. Maybe he should have asked for brains instead of courage, too. Why couldn’t Glinda look for the Wizard’s necklace herself? Why was she leaving Ozma alone in the palace, if Ozma was bored and lonely? But it didn’t really matter in the end. Glinda knew what she was doing, and she’d chosen him to help her. He wasn’t stupid, but intrigue and palace politics weren’t his style. He was happy to assist the kind, beautiful witch with whatever she wanted, even if her request didn’t totally make sense.

“But how will you get the necklace?” he asked.

Glinda stared at him, her smile faltering. “I’m asking you to get it, Lion,” she said, her voice strained.

“Me?” he asked, astonished. “But I don’t know where it is!”

“No one knows where it is,” Glinda snapped, and this time her exasperation was clear. “That’s why I’m asking you to find it.”

The Lion nodded eagerly, anxious to please her. “Of course! Find ruby necklace,” he repeated obediently. “Keep Ozma company. That’s all you need from me?”

Glinda’s irritation vanished and she clapped in delight. “You’re just as clever as dear Scare, no matter what people say!” she said merrily.

“What people say?” the Lion asked, but Glinda didn’t seem to hear.

“But just to be absolutely sure you know what I’m asking of you, I’ll show you the necklace. And perhaps I’ll do a little spell, just to make sure you don’t have any problems keeping your promise.”

“Of course I won’t have a problem,” the Lion replied, slightly offended. But Glinda ignored him, closing her eyes and drawing a circular shape in the air with one finger. As she sketched, a translucent image of an elaborate ruby necklace materialized in the air. It was so elaborate that it was really more of a breastplate. A heavily worked gold setting housed dozens of rubies, ranging from the size of the Lion’s claw to the size of his entire paw. The dazzling red stones pulsed with a hypnotic red light of their own. The Lion leaned forward. He could almost see an image reflected in each of the glowing red stones. Whirling clouds forming a dense gray funnel over a broad, empty prairie with a single clapboard farmhouse sitting all by itself in the middle of nowhere. A girl was standing in the doorway; she was too tiny for the Lion to make out her features, but something about her was incredibly familiar . . .

“Where is that? Is that . . .” the Lion asked. Glinda clapped her hands and the image of the necklace vanished with a pop.

“Never you mind about that,” she singsonged. “What matters is that you recognize the necklace if you see it again. Will you?”

“Of course,” the Lion said, irritated. He realized suddenly that maybe Glinda wanted him to see it. Glinda wanted him to know that Dorothy was the gift she was planning for Ozma. And Lion would do just about anything to bring Dorothy back to Oz.

“I’m sorry, dear Lion,” she said. “I don’t mean to imply you’re not perfectly capable of the task. It’s just so important to me to make Ozma happy that I get stressed about the details.”

Something in her voice didn’t entirely ring true, but the Lion let it go. Before he knew it, both of Glinda’s hands were resting on his head, bathing him in a throbbing pink light. “And now I bind you to your promise,” the witch murmured. “Nexus necto offendix leo.” The Lion felt a creeping sensation, as if hundreds of tiny fleas were crawling through his fur. He tried to twist his head to nip at them, but he was frozen in place by Glinda’s spell. The bugs were burrowing under his skin. He could feel them like tiny sparks burning through his coat. He roared in pain and surprise but no sound came out of his open mouth.

“All done!” Glinda exclaimed, passing one hand over his head. He blinked. He was sitting on top of his platform in the Forest of the Beasts, a familiar woman standing in front of him with a blinding smile affixed to her face. He knew her. He was supposed to be doing something. His skin burned briefly, and it all became clear. A vision of a ruby necklace hung glittering in the air before him, its powerful pull on him drawing him closer and closer. But as he reached out a paw to touch it, the image burst in a shower of red sparks. He had to find the necklace. He simply had to. It was a compulsion.

Glinda, watching him, smiled and nodded. “Very good. Don’t forget your quest.” And then it all came flooding back. He was going to the Emerald City on an important errand for Glinda the Good Witch. He’d help her find a magical necklace so that she could present it to Ozma, the Queen of Oz. He’d been specially chosen for the critical task. His chest puffed outward with pride. It wasn’t just anyone who Glinda handpicked for her special missions.

At that very moment, Cornelius returned to the clearing, bearing a tray piled high with fruit. The tray looked as though it had been hastily woven together from leaves and branches—which it had, since the Lion’s subjects had very little use for dishes. Glinda delicately selected a few fresh dazzleberries, which exploded into bursts of tiny edible jewels in her hand. The Lion, still full from his tournament, waved the tray away.

“I’m going to leave the forest for a few—for a while, Cornelius,” he said importantly. “I trust you will be able to look over things while I’m gone?”

The rabbit’s ears twitched in surprise, but he only said, “Of course, Your Majesty.”

“Then it’s settled.” The Lion turned to Glinda. “How will I contact you when I’ve found the—” Glinda shot a warning look at Cornelius. “Cornelius is my most trusted adviser,” the Lion said.

“If anyone knows, it’s not a secret,” Glinda said, and there was no mistaking the coldness in her voice this time. “Don’t worry, Lion. I’ll know when you find it. And I’ll know if you tell anyone other than me.” Cornelius busied himself cleaning his whiskers, pretending not to listen.

“Yes, Glinda,” the Lion said, trying not to show that she had rattled him. But surely keeping the bored young queen company and finding a necklace couldn’t be anything too dangerous. Glinda would never do anything that wasn’t in the best interests of Oz, or of Ozma herself. After all, Glinda was the one who had made Ozma the new queen. And more than that—more than everything—Glinda might be bringing his friend home. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, and his thinking, wishful or otherwise, had never been as smart as the Scarecrow’s. But how much better Oz would be with Dorothy in it again.

Glinda smiled, and just like that she was a sweet, innocent witch again. Had the momentary flash of cruelty been his imagination after all? Already the air around her was sparkling, and her outlines shimmered and began to fade. In moments he could see through her, as if she were a ghost. “Don’t fail me, Lion,” she called as she vanished.

“Was that encouragement, sir, or a threat?” Cornelius asked quietly. The Lion didn’t bother to answer. What had he just gotten himself into?

FOUR

It was good to be traveling again. He’d made this journey before, and not all that long ago—though that time he’d been leaving the Emerald City, not heading toward it, and he and the Scarecrow had been fleeing Jinjur’s soldiers, afraid for their own lives. When he’d traveled with Dorothy, the Scarecrow, and the Tin Woodman, they’d had such an eventful and occasionally dangerous journey that he’d never had time to pay attention to the landscape. But Oz was safe and stable now. The Wicked witches had been killed or exiled, and no possible threat faced him on the road. Despite Glinda’s ominous farewell words, he dawdled as much as he dared along the way to the Emerald City, stopping often to nap in a sunny patch of starflowers or drink lavender-scented water from one of the many brooks he passed. It didn’t take long for his paws to find the Road of Yellow Brick, and once he did he quickened his pace. Soon enough, the city was a dazzling green smear on the horizon that solidified into towers, turrets, and thatch-roof houses as he drew closer to the gates.

Unlike the Wizard, Ozma left the gates of the Emerald City unguarded, as clear a sign as any that Oz had returned to a state of peace and harmony. The Lion slipped past the heavy wooden doors and found himself on the main road to the palace.

The Emerald City was designed like a wheel, with the Emerald Palace at its heart and straight, even roads radiating outward like spokes until they met the city walls. The main roads were paved with a sparkling crust of green gemstones that were eerily smooth under the Lion’s paws. Near the city walls, the buildings were mostly neat green houses. Munchkins cheerfully pulled weeds and watered flowers in well-tended gardens, waving at the Lion as he walked by. The closer he got to the palace, the buildings grew larger and more elaborate. Vendors selling green scarves, green songbirds, green pastries, and green suits and dresses hawked their wares to passersby. Here, the streets were crowded with people. Munchkins ran back and forth, on their way to some urgent task or another. An emerald-studded trolley ran past on a shining green track, so full of people that Munchkins hung out its windows and clung to the outside of the car. The Lion licked his lips, realizing how hungry he was from his journey. There were so many Munchkins in the Emerald City—surely no one would miss just one? But he wanted to make a good impression on Ozma, and eating one of her subjects was probably considered poor form.

The Lion made his way slowly through the teeming streets, until at last he reached the gardens outside the Emerald Palace. The exterior of the palace was dramatically different from the last time the Lion had seen it. The Scarecrow had kept things simple and functional. But now, under Ozma’s rule, it was clear that appearance was more important. The gardens were even more elaborately planted. Tiny jewel-colored hummingbirds flitted between enormous green blossoms, and golden butterflies the size of the Lion’s head drifted idly from flower to flower. An army of Munchkin gardeners toiled busily: raking the immaculate green gravel paths, planting seedlings in the tidy beds, and trimming the already flawless lawns. Huge green banners emblazoned with the golden crown of Oz fluttered from tall green poles. Courtiers strolled in the gardens, dressed in elaborate, tiered court gowns and well-cut suits of green velvet. Ozma had clearly been busy since the Scarecrow had left the Emerald City. The Lion wondered what his old friend had thought of her changes. But Ozma was the rightful ruler of Oz, after all. It made sense that she would want her palace to be as beautiful as possible.

“Your Highness!” one of the gardeners exclaimed, catching sight of the Lion. He rushed forward, bowing as he ran. “We were not expecting a royal visit! Does Her Majesty know you’re here?”

The Lion was pleased to be recognized, but realized quickly he should have sent word to Ozma that he was coming to the city. “Er, I thought I would surprise her,” he said. The gardener looked startled, but recovered quickly.

“How wonderful, sir. I’m afraid we are not prepared to receive you properly, but allow me to escort you to the palace.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” the Lion said. “I don’t need anything fancy.” He followed the gardener through the huge main gates of the palace, and his stomach rumbled. It definitely wouldn’t do to eat one of Ozma’s staff, but he was terribly hungry, and the Munchkin was so tempting.

Inside, the palace was even grander than the outside. Ozma’s touch was everywhere, in the giant tapestries that covered the walls and the soft, thick carpets scattered across the stone floor. More servants bustled back and forth on various errands, carrying trays laden with delicacies, cleaning supplies, or stacks of books and papers. It was almost hard to believe that this was the same palace where he’d once lounged with the Scarecrow, and where they’d fought a bloody battle against General Jinjur. The palace even felt different. He could almost smell the magic humming in the air—Ozma’s magic, he realized. It buzzed faintly in his ears like a distant beehive. The Emerald Palace had never felt like this before. For the first time, it had a true ruler.

“If you’ll just wait here for a moment, Your Majesty,” the gardener said. Before the Lion could reply, he was running off down a hallway. Moments later, another servant appeared. This Munchkin was clearly someone important in the palace: his uniform was a beautifully tailored suit, and he wore an emerald pin on his lapel.

“We are honored to have such an illustrious guest. I am Reedus Appleall, at your service,” he said, bowing. “The queen is just finishing some business, but will be ready to receive you soon, Your Highness.” He looked at the Lion’s dirty, matted fur with the faintest expression of disapproval. “Perhaps His Majesty would like to refresh himself before seeing the queen?”

“I would love some refreshments,” the Lion said happily.

“Very well, sir. This way, please.”

The Lion followed Reedus down the familiar corridors of the palace. Ozma’s touches were everywhere: every alcove was filled with fresh flowers, the floors were spotless and polished, the walls hung with beautiful Ozian landscapes. He recognized the lush field of poppies where he had once fallen into a most perilous sleep. Rainbow Falls was depicted in all its dazzling, multicolored splendor; real mist drifted from the painting and left a faint, sparkling rainbow dust on his fur. Leaning in to examine an image of distant mountains, he could feel a cool breeze drifting from the tall, snowy peaks. The servants all wore matching uniforms and identical expressions of contentment. “The place looks nice,” the Lion remarked.

“Ozma is a wonderful queen,” his guide agreed earnestly. He ushered the Lion into a large chamber. Huge picture windows looked out over the palace gardens, and an elaborately carved four-poster bed nearly the size of the Lion’s entire platform in the forest dominated the far end of the room. The Lion flopped down on the bed with a sigh of satisfaction, ignoring the expression of horror that flashed across the Munchkin’s face at the sight of his muddy paws dirtying the lace bedspread.

“About those refreshments,” the Lion growled. Bowing and nodding, the little servant backed into the hallway and disappeared.

Moments later, the room was full of activity. A team of a dozen Pixies flew in, steering a huge tub of steaming water that rolled along atop an invisible bubble of magic and a pile of towels. A Munchkin brought a platter of roasted meat, and another hurried toward the Lion with a brush and comb. The Lion was far more interested in a meal than in hygiene, but he allowed himself to be hustled into the bathtub. He munched happily as the Pixies shampooed his fur and combed the tangles out of his mane and tail. When he was thoroughly clean, more Pixies took away the bathwater while a Munchkin toweled him dry and brushed his fur until it shone. Finally, another Munchkin brought him a mirror. The Lion admired himself for a moment. “I look so respectable no one will recognize me!” he exclaimed.

Reedus reappeared. “Ozma is ready to receive you, Your Highness,” he said. The Lion followed him down another series of hallways to the Emerald Palace’s throne room. As with everywhere else in the palace, Ozma had redecorated the throne room to within an inch of its life. Elaborate murals depicted the history of Oz, and stained-glass windows refracted the sunlight into hundreds of patches of emerald green. Ozma sat regally in her throne, her golden crown sparkling in the sunlight and her rich green robes spilling to the floor around her. But other than a few servants, the throne room was nearly empty, and she looked tiny and lost all alone in the vast space.

“His Highness the Lion, King of the Beasts,” Reedus announced, but Ozma was already rising to her feet.

“Lion!” she exclaimed, picking up the hem of her robe and scampering toward him like a little girl. She flung her arms around his neck. “It’s so good to see you!” The Lion was so surprised at her delight that he began to purr.

Ozma leaned back and looked at him closely. “You’re looking very well, dear Lion,” she said. The Lion refrained from mentioning this was due to the attentions of her minions. “What brings you to the palace?”

The Lion realized he hadn’t thought of a cover story for his trip to the palace. He couldn’t exactly tell Ozma that Glinda had said she was bored and lonely. Glinda had made it clear he wasn’t supposed to mention her at all. Now, with Ozma staring at him quizzically, he could barely think.

“It, uh, seemed time to pay my respects,” he said, feeling slightly ridiculous. But Ozma only laughed.

“But you were here for my coronation! You didn’t need to come all this way just to see me again!”

Suddenly, the Lion was seized by a fit of inspiration. “To tell you the truth, Your Majesty, being king isn’t quite what I thought it would be,” he confessed in a low voice. “Being in power is a little lonely. I thought you might have some advice.”

Silently, he congratulated himself on his cleverness as Ozma’s cheerful smile turned to a look of sympathy. “I know just what you mean,” she said quietly. “Have you eaten, dear Lion?”

“No,” the Lion said untruthfully. Ozma rang a silver bell next to her throne and the servants leapt to attention. “Please serve dinner for my guest and me in my chambers,” she ordered. “We wish to dine privately.” She turned to the Lion. “Come, dear Lion. We have much to discuss.”

FIVE

Ozma’s chambers were beautifully appointed, and the Lion cast an admiring glance at the soft, thick carpets and gorgeous antique furniture. “The palace didn’t look half so nice when Scare was king,” he remarked, and a troubled look passed across Ozma’s face.

“Do you think?” she asked politely, but something was clearly bothering her. Glinda had been vague about why the Scarecrow had left the Emerald City and retired to his mansion, and the Scarecrow had never mentioned the reason himself. Or at least he’d never actually gotten to that part in Scare’s letters. He regretted now not finishing them.

“Did something happen between you and Scare?” the Lion asked. Ozma flushed.

“We both thought he would be happier away from the palace,” she said quickly, but it was clear she wasn’t telling him the whole truth. She shot the Lion an uncertain look, and then sighed. “To be honest, I’m not sure the Scarecrow has the best interests of Oz at heart. I know he’s your friend, and I don’t mean to speak ill of him. But he and Glinda—well, they spent a lot of time together whispering in corners, if you know what I mean. Glinda has her own ideas about how to run Oz, as I’m sure you know.” His first thought was to defend Scare. Scare may have had his head too deeply in his books and he might have missed the throne, but he was a threat to no one, and especially not to Oz. He was surprised by the bitter note in her voice, and for a moment he nearly told her that Glinda herself had sent him. But then he remembered the menace in Glinda’s parting words and thought better of it. There was some mystery here to be unraveled, and he was beginning to realize that Glinda hadn’t been entirely honest with him about her motives—or about why she’d left the palace.

“I haven’t spoken to Glinda since the coronation,” he said carefully. “Did you quarrel?”

Ozma looked at her hands. “I thought it best if both of them leave the Emerald City for a while. It took some persuading, but they finally agreed.” A note of determination entered her voice, and for the first time since he had seen her he realized what a formidable opponent she must be underneath the sweet, girlish surface. If Glinda had had her own ideas about how to govern Oz, she must have been unpleasantly surprised to realize how stubborn its new queen was.

“I see,” the Lion replied. Ozma looked as though she was about to say something else, but at that moment the door opened and a procession of servants bearing trays of food entered the room. The Lion sniffed greedily, immediately distracted from his interrogation of Ozma. The Emerald Palace didn’t skimp when it came to meals. The servants’ trays were piled high with sweet pastries and pies, tureens of soup and baskets of steaming, freshly baked bread, a roasted piglet with an apple in its mouth, and all kinds of hors d’oeuvres. A steward poured champagne into an emerald goblet for Ozma and a green bowl for the Lion, who didn’t waste any time before diving into the feast. Ozma, who picked daintily at her food, could only laugh at the Lion’s dubious table manners.

At last, when he was full, he ordered another bowl of champagne and settled back on a pile of green cushions. He and Ozma had been discussing something important before dinner arrived, and he cast about for a way to pick up the thread again. As if reading his mind, Ozma sighed and looked into her glass. She seemed distant and sad, as if the true Ozma was slowly being revealed to him.

“It’s good to have a friend nearby again,” she said quietly. “The palace staff is wonderful, of course, but I haven’t really been able to talk to anyone in ages.”

“Ruling is lonely business,” the Lion agreed, and she brightened.

“Isn’t it? I knew you’d understand. I’m honored to be the Queen of Oz, and it is my birthright, after all. But so few people understand what it’s like to have this much power. I’m responsible for the well-being of everyone in Oz, and I worry about failing my subjects or making some terrible mistake that will send the country into ruin.”

The Lion had never worried all that much about the welfare of his subjects, but he made a sympathetic noise. He’d had no idea Ozma took ruling so seriously. Little word of the Emerald City reached the Forest of the Beasts. No wonder she was sad, if she fretted this much. He patted her on the arm with a reassuring paw. “Perhaps in that way we are the same. We have to figure it out as we go along,” she said with a smile. He felt some comfort that she didn’t know everything instinctively. He certainly had spent the last few months wondering how to be a king. But his concern had been for himself and not others. Ozma had heaped the welfare of the whole kingdom atop her delicate shoulders.

“I think we’re supposed to serve, not just rule,” she continued.

Lion shook his head. “The other beasts used to delight in scaring me. And I don’t forgive and forget. I usually just eat those who cross me.”

She laughed. “In that we differ. I forgive, but I never forget.”

“What you need is to lighten up a little,” he suggested. “Take a vacation. Or if you can’t get away from the palace, at least take some time off to have fun.”

Ozma smiled wearily. “Oh, Lion. Maybe it’s that easy in the Kingdom of the Beasts, but for me, it’s not so simple. The whole country of Oz depends on me. I can’t just take a vacation from being queen.”

“Can’t you at least go stay in Glinda’s summer palace for a while?” he prompted. He was determined to get to the bottom of whatever had come between the witch and the fairy. But Ozma only shook her head. “That time is past now,” she said quietly, and he saw that he wouldn’t get anything else out of her on the subject of Glinda.

Ozma pushed her plate away, and a servant immediately appeared to clear the remains of their meal. The vulnerability vanished from her expression, and she smiled brightly at the Lion. “How long will you be staying with us, dear Lion?”

The Lion’s mind raced as he tried to decide how to answer her question. Glinda hadn’t said how long it would take to find this mysterious necklace, and the palace was huge. Ozma laughed again at his consternation. “Of course, you can stay as long as you like!” she exclaimed. “As long as you really can leave the forest to itself, I’ll be glad of the company. You mustn’t think I’m trying to get rid of you.”

“That’s very generous, Your Highness,” the Lion said.

“But only if you promise to call me Ozma,” she added in a mock-serious tone. “We’re friends, after all. And we’re practically equals. Now, I’m sure you must be tired after your journey. I’ll see you in the morning?”

The Lion knew a dismissal when he heard one, but at least Ozma hadn’t realized his motives for visiting her weren’t entirely selfless. He bowed deeply, stifling a burp, and returned to his chambers, leaving Ozma sitting alone in her enormous room like a lost, lonely doll.

SIX

The Lion quickly found that he did not miss the Forest of the Beasts—or being a king—at all. Despite all the servants and palace staff, Ozma was strangely alone in the Emerald Palace. The Lion was the closest thing she had to a friend, and soon Ozma was spending all her free time with him. Ozma loved to stroll through the palace gardens, and never grew tired of pointing out new plantings of flowers or trees. She braided flowers into the Lion’s mane and tail while he napped idly in the soft grass of the palace lawns. Occasionally, if she had a free day, the queen would disguise herself in a shabby old dress and cloak, and she and the Lion would wander through the streets of the Emerald City. The Lion had never spent much time in the city itself, and he grew to love its mysterious back alleyways and odd little shops where Ozma bought exotic herbs and spices, rich fabrics from the farthest corners of Oz, and rare old books in languages the Lion didn’t know. He suspected that the shopkeepers often recognized the queen but respected her attempt at hiding her identity, and always pretended not to know her.

But Ozma was often busy with royal duties. Not all of the Emerald City had recovered from Jinjur’s brief, catastrophic rule, and Ozma was occupied with overseeing reconstruction of areas that had been destroyed. Ozma always invited him to attend her various meetings and conferences with her, but the Lion was easily bored by the endless talking and planning. As the King of the Beasts, he had never had to do much administration. The Lion waited patiently for a good moment to search for Glinda’s necklace, but someone was always around—if not Ozma, one of the many courtiers who advised her.

At last, his chance came. Ozma called an important meeting and everyone from her most trusted counselors to the least important state undersecretary shut themselves up in the banquet hall. He was alone and could start the search Glinda had compelled him to perform.

The occupied parts of the palace seemed like an unlikely place to find it; surely someone would have noticed something as unusual as a ruby necklace. Instead, he began his search in the wine cellars, where huge barrels of wine lay in a thick coat of dust. The Lion idly poked his paw into the cracks between barrels, feeling almost silly. What could Glinda possibly want with some silly old piece of jewelry, anyway, even if he was able to find it? His search dislodged an avalanche of dust and debris, and he sneezed violently.

“Hello?” called an anxious voice from the stairwell. The Lion looked around for a hiding place, but the gaps between the wine casks were too narrow. The wine steward, a short, fat Munchkin with an enormous beard that obscured most of his face, came down the stairs and stopped short at the sight of the Lion.

“Your Highness,” he said suspiciously. “What are you doing down here, sir?”

The Lion had to stifle a laugh when he realized the steward thought he was trying to steal a drink. “Just, er, checking to make sure everything looks all right down here,” he said. “You know how Her Majesty worries.”

The steward’s eyes narrowed. “It’s my job to make sure the cellars are in order.”

“And an excellent job you’re doing, too,” the Lion said loftily, sweeping past him and bounding up the stairs. “Keep up the good work.”

He tried again a few days later after dinner, ducking out of the banquet hall just as dessert was being served. (He didn’t care for ambleberry custard, which had a habit of walking away from the person trying to eat it.) But he’d barely gotten away from the busiest part of the palace before he heard Ozma’s anxious voice behind him. “Lion! Dear Lion, I was hoping you might have tea with me in my chambers.” The loneliness in the queen’s voice was unmistakable.

“Of course, Your Highness,” he said. He wasn’t sorry to turn away from his task. It had seemed so important, so burning, when Glinda had left him. But as the days passed in the palace her request seemed less and less important. It was as if the palace itself—or perhaps the continual hum of Ozma’s magic—was insulating him from Glinda’s will.

After his second attempt, he more or less gave up searching for Glinda’s necklace. He must have imagined the threat in her tone when she’d visited him in the Kingdom of the Beasts. As the days turned into weeks, the Lion happily ate his way through the palace stores and spent time with Ozma whenever he could. He forgot the joys of running through the forest with the wind in his fur and the satisfaction of hunting his own prey. He grew lazier and lazier, soon reluctant even to accompany Ozma on her walks. He could have stayed at Ozma’s side in the Emerald Palace indefinitely—and he would have, if Ozma hadn’t decided it was time to save Oz.

SEVEN

The Lion had gotten into the habit of sleeping in every morning and ordering a late breakfast in his room, but that morning Ozma summoned him just after dawn. She did not seem to have slept, and her face was worried and exhausted. She sent a servant to fetch them breakfast and then turned to face the Lion. “I’ve been thinking all night,” she began, skipping any formalities. “I think it’s for the best you’ve come to the palace now. My dear Lion, I’m afraid I need your courage—and your counsel. No one else knows yet, but Oz is on the brink of war.”

The Lion stared at her. “War? Again? With who?”

She sighed wearily and rubbed her forehead with the heel of one hand, looking far more vulnerable than he had ever seen her. “Do you know of the Land of Ev?”

“Ev? But that’s just a legend, isn’t it?” The Lion had heard stories of the fabled country beyond the Deadly Desert, but he’d always assumed they were just children’s fairy stories. “There’s nothing past the Deadly Desert but the Other Place.”

“I wish that were true. But Ev is another country just like Oz, though the fairies didn’t have any hand in founding it. And just like Oz, it has its own counties and rulers. My ancestors traveled through Ev to reach the place where they created Oz, and brought with them stories of their journey. Ev is a far less kind place than Oz is, peopled with strange, cruel creatures who do not love peace the way we do. Many of them have searched for years for a way through the desert to Oz, and now one of their most evil tyrants has found one.”

“Who?” the Lion breathed.

“The Nome King,” Ozma said. The Lion had never heard of such a person, but something about the way Ozma said the name sent a chill through him. “He lives in an underground palace, and rules over a people who are the distant kin of fairies. He is evil, through and through; he thrives on the pain and suffering of others, and all but the most powerful of his people live like slaves. He forces them to mine the earth for precious metals and jewels, and in addition to being powerful, he’s incredibly rich. He’s like the fairies in that he can’t die—he’s hundreds of years old, maybe even older. For a long time he’s been building a network of tunnels under the Deadly Desert, and he’s finally reached his goal. He’ll be at the Emerald City in a matter of days. His magic is so strong that I can sense him coming. I can even sense his plans. He’s not trying to hide; he knows how vulnerable we are here.”

“How can we stop him?” the Lion asked, and Ozma shook her head.

“I don’t know yet. He’s incredibly powerful, and the Emerald City has no army.”

“Glinda—” the Lion began, and then stopped as Ozma smiled sadly at him.

“Glinda has an army, yes. But I can’t trust her, Lion. Not the way I can trust you. I don’t think she would throw in her lot with the Nome King, but she has her own ideas about how to govern Oz, and I can’t count on her support. It’s down to me—and you, if you’ll help me. You fought bravely in the battle against Jinjur, and I need every strong fighter we have on my side. The people of Oz aren’t used to war.”

“Of course,” the Lion said immediately. He had come here to protect Ozma, right? He hadn’t promised Glinda he wouldn’t help Ozma—only that he’d search for the Wizard’s necklace, and keep an eye on Ozma while Glinda was away from the city. And he was already coming to care for the young queen. She was such an intriguing combination of youth and wisdom, strength and vulnerability—and she’d treated him like an equal and a friend. Even Glinda hadn’t done that. If he hadn’t bound himself to Glinda back in the Forest of the Beasts, he would have abandoned his vows to her altogether. He knew Glinda’s spell had compelled him to help her, but it seemed as though the strength of it was weakening the longer he was in the palace. He’d worry about Glinda’s desire for the necklace later. If the Emerald City fell to the Nome King, he wouldn’t be doing much looking for jewelry anyway.

“Do you have a plan?” the Lion asked. “Of course I’ll fight with you, but strategy is Scare’s department, not mine.”

Ozma frowned. “I’d rather not bring him into this if I can help it.”

So things really had gone south between the three of them. What had the Scarecrow and Glinda tried to do in the aftermath of the battle with Jinjur? Never mind, the Lion thought. Palace intrigue is Scare’s thing; I just eat and fight. Let him and Glinda try to outmaneuver each other. He wondered briefly what would happen if he disobeyed Glinda altogether. How powerful was the spell that bound him? Surely she wouldn’t actually hurt him if he decided not to obey her orders? The situation was far more complicated than he thought, and it seemed entirely possible that Glinda wasn’t on Ozma’s side at all. Suddenly, he realized Ozma was still talking.

“. . . can convince him otherwise, we might be able to avoid fighting altogether. I was hoping you would agree to be my bodyguard.”

“Yes, of course,” the Lion said, and then, “what? Isn’t that Tin’s department?”

Ozma laughed. “You have to pay better attention before you make promises, dear Lion!” Did she know about the deal Glinda had forced him into? He stared at her in panic, but her beautiful face was guileless. “You’re here, and Tin isn’t. We have to act now. I think if we can meet the Nome King underground, before he reaches the Emerald City, I might be able to convince him that there’s nothing for him in Oz. My magic is powerful, but it’s not strong enough to hold him back if something goes wrong. I could use you as a bodyguard.”

“We’ll have an escort?”

“If anyone in Oz finds out about this, there will be a terrible panic. If I can prevent—if we can prevent the Nome King from ever setting foot in Oz, no one will ever have to know.”

“We’re going underground, alone, to confront an ancient enemy of Oz who might have an entire army with him?”

“Oh, I’m sure the army isn’t with him yet,” Ozma said cheerfully. “I would probably have sensed it if they were. He’ll just be supervising the final construction of the tunnels. The army won’t come through until he’s ready to invade Oz. It won’t be the least bit dangerous—I’d just feel better if you were there. A lion is a very impressive-looking lieutenant.”

Probably have sensed an army? The Lion wondered briefly if the stress of the situation had caused Ozma to lose her mind. But she looked happier than he’d seen her since he arrived at the Emerald Palace, now that he’d agreed to go with her. He couldn’t let her down now—not if the future of Oz was at stake.

“If you think it’s a good idea, I’m sure it is,” he said. Ozma’s face lit up again and she threw her arms around his chest.

“I knew you’d help!” she cried.

“When will we leave?”

“Why, right now, don’t you think? There’s no sense in wasting time.”

“Right now? Are you sure?” The Lion’s stomach rumbled, even though he’d just eaten. “What about lunch?”

Ozma laughed. “You can bring something to eat along the way. The Nome King is very close—it won’t take us long to find him. Why, we could be back in the Emerald Palace by dinnertime if all goes well. There’s an old tunnel system underneath the Emerald Palace that we can use to reach the Nome King’s tunnel.”

“Why hasn’t the Nome King used them himself?”

“The fairies—my ancestors—passed down the knowledge of the tunnels among themselves, but no one else knows about them anymore,” Ozma explained. “They’re very, very old—older than the Emerald Palace itself. Some people say they were there even before the fairies created Oz, although no one knows for sure. They may have been created by the Nomes themselves, ages ago, even before the Deadly Desert formed and separated us from the Land of Ev.”

The Lion’s eyes widened. “I didn’t know there was anything before the Deadly Desert.”

Ozma laughed. “Of course there was, silly! Nothing is forever. And the Nomes are an ancient people, nearly as old as the fairies, though luckily for us they’ve forgotten as much as we have about the prehistory of our lands. The Nome King would have invaded long ago if he knew the tunnels existed. Anyway, we should be able to find a way to get close to where the Nome King is digging. My magic connects to the magic of Oz, and I can feel any disturbances, especially this close to the Emerald City. It’s difficult to teleport underground, but if we get close enough, I can do it if we have to.”

The Lion got to his feet, eyeing the empty breakfast plates sadly. Ozma, seeing his look, snapped her fingers and a heavy bundle appeared. “There’s your lunch,” she said, still laughing, and handed it to the Lion. He tucked the bundle over his shoulder, feeling much better about the adventure now that there was food involved.

“Lead the way!” he said, and followed Ozma out of the room.

EIGHT

It was still early, and the palace halls were nearly empty. Ozma led him down out-of-the-way corridors, anxious to avoid anyone who might ask questions about where the queen was going. She had magically transformed her royal gown into a plain traveling dress and covered herself with a drab gray cloak, but she wore her golden crown, and there was no mistaking her queenly air. She was so fiercely intelligent, so alert, that it would have been difficult for her to ever truly disguise herself, the Lion thought. Her intensity shone from her electric green eyes and was clear in her precise, alert movements. Oz’s new queen was formidable indeed.

Ozma led him farther and farther into the depths of the palace, and soon they saw no one at all. This part of the castle was silent and oppressive. They were too deep for any natural light to reach them, and the hallways were lit with sooty, guttering torches that flared into life as they approached and then extinguished themselves again, leaving the hall behind them in thick, velvety darkness. Without light from the outside, the Lion had no sense of the passage of time, or how long they had been walking. Down here, the hallways were carpeted with a thick layer of dust that drifted up into his nostrils and made him sneeze. No one had been down here in a long, long time. Here and there, and then more frequently, the cut stone walls gave way to sheer rock, and the floor pitched steeply downward.

“We’re going underground now,” Ozma said unnecessarily. Hers were the first words either of them had spoken in a long time, and her voice rang out harshly in the dense silence so that both of them flinched. Ozma took a deep breath and straightened her back. “This is a very old part of Oz,” she said more firmly, “but it’s not a hostile one. You have nothing to fear here, Lion.”

He suspected her words were meant to reassure herself as much as him, but he only nodded. The line of torches ended soon after she spoke. Ozma muttered something under her breath and snapped her fingers, and a tiny ball of cheerful yellow light sprung to life and darted back the way they had come. “Over here!” Ozma called, and it dutifully fluttered back to hover directly over Ozma’s head, where it seemed to shrink a little.

“Can you make it go ahead of us so it lights the way a little better?” the Lion asked. Ozma said something to the ball of light and it shivered violently.

“It’s afraid of the dark,” Ozma said apologetically.

“I’m not afraid of the dark,” the Lion said. But despite the Wizard’s gift of courage, he wasn’t quite as confident as he sounded. The darkness itself closed in like a living thing, its menace creeping into his heart and stealing away his bravery. In the distance, he could hear a faint dripping noise, as if water was slowly dribbling from a great height. He could feel the weight of the stone above them, as if the ceiling was beginning to sink. What would they do if the tunnel crumbled? he thought, beginning to panic. He huddled on the floor, covering his head with his paws as if that would somehow protect him, but he knew the feeble gesture was useless. This was the end. He’d never see the light again, or run through the forest, or feel fresh air riffling through his fur. They’d be trapped down here, down in the darkness forever . . .

“Stop!” Ozma’s voice rang out into the darkness, and her ball of light blazed a little brighter. “I am Ozma of Oz, direct descendant of the fairy Lurline and rightful ruler of Oz! I come on a mission of protection!” Her wings fluttered, the golden veins catching the light and scattering it like a shower of fireworks. Suddenly, she was every inch a queen, all trace of the lonely, frightened girl he knew completely erased. As she spoke, the panic that had gripped the Lion eased immediately, and the feeling that the tunnel was collapsing around him slipped away. He took a deep, relieved breath.

“This place is very old,” Ozma said again in a normal tone of voice. “It doesn’t like strangers.”

The Lion had nothing to say to that, but he let Ozma go ahead of him as they continued down the tunnel, and he stopped more than once to listen carefully, making sure no one was following them.

As the tunnel continued to descend, the air grew warmer and warmer. The Lion’s fur itched in the heat, and even Ozma looked a little wilted in the wan light from her orb. Moisture ran down the rough stone walls and trickled past their feet. Ozma stopped suddenly, and the Lion nearly ran into her. “What is it?” he asked. Ozma pointed at a yawning patch of darkness in the tunnel wall, and it took the Lion a moment to realize it was another tunnel branching off from theirs. Ozma closed her eyes, holding up both hands to the hot, stifling air for several long, tension-filled seconds before dropping them again and opening her eyes. “This way,” she said, continuing down the same tunnel.

“Are you sure?” the Lion asked. Ozma didn’t answer. The ball of light bobbed slightly, as if it were shrugging. The Lion kept his doubts to himself and padded along after Ozma.

They began to pass side tunnels with increasing frequency. At each juncture, Ozma stopped and performed the same mysterious ritual, her face upturned and her palms lifted, before deciding which way to go. Some of the tunnels they passed opened up on vast, jewel-encrusted caverns where even the orb’s meager light was reflected into dazzling brilliance. Once the Lion peered into a doorway, entranced by a dim green glow. He saw a huge, empty hall. Its floor was an elaborate tiled mosaic that had mostly crumbled away. Its walls were painted with rich murals nearly swallowed up by an eerie moss that was the source of the sickly green light, but here and there sections of the paintings remained. Unable to resist his curiosity, the Lion wandered in for a closer look. The murals were so vivid their subjects seemed almost alive: long-limbed, pale-skinned people with thick white hair cascading down their backs moved through endless candlelit libraries, or painted beautiful pictures of cave crystals and pools, or played instruments the Lion didn’t recognize. One of the paintings depicted them seated at a huge table in the hall itself, piled high with strange-looking foods. At the head of the table sat a stern, pale man wearing a silver crown. His eyes were cold and hard and cruel.

At the far end of the hall a huge, pale marble staircase led up into the darkness as far as the Lion could see. The marble, like the moss that covered the banquet hall’s walls, glowed with a pale, unearthly light. It was cracked and pitted, and in places chunks of the staircase were missing altogether, leaving black, cavernous gaps. As soon as he saw the staircase, the Lion couldn’t look away. Where did it lead? The question throbbed in his brain until he was unable to think of anything else. He had to know. Before he knew it, his paw was on the first stair. The marble was as cold as ice and burned like fire. Welcome, it seemed to whisper. Come with us . . .

NINE

“Lion!” Ozma’s voice was loud and clear in the huge room. The Lion jumped and lifted his paw away from the marble stairs. Immediately, the voice in his mind lessened its grip and he shook his head furiously, trying to dislodge it. Ozma was at his side in seconds, one hand on his shoulder and her light bobbing behind.

“We are still under the Deadly Desert,” she said quietly, “but this was once part of the Nome Kingdom in the Land of Ev. The Nomes’ magic lingers here even now, all these centuries later.”

With Ozma at his side, the pull of the staircase was gone entirely. The Lion padded back to the murals, studying them carefully. “These are Nomes?”

Ozma nodded, looking over his shoulder. “Some people say they are actually fairies themselves, who went down under the earth long ago and became a distant branch of our people. There are fairies living underground in Oz who look very much like them.”

“They don’t look very nice,” he said simply.

“The Nomes are not a kind people.” Ozma stared at the cruel-eyed man in the painting of the banquet hall and shivered. “This place is tainted. Its power nearly trapped you. Come back to the tunnel, and be careful not to leave my side again.”

After that, the Lion made sure to stay in the circle of Ozma’s light. They passed more and more tunnels, but now Ozma seemed sure of where they were going and only rarely stopped to find the way. Soon, the Lion could hear a faint, distant noise echoing through the tunnel. “What is that?” he asked.

“The king,” Ozma said quietly. “Digging.” As they drew closer, the noise grew louder: a repetitive clanking, like metal striking stone.

Ozma stopped. “We’re close,” she said. “If you want to rest, now is a good time. We may not be able to later.”

The Lion had been so overwhelmed by the strangeness of their descent that he’d forgotten his hunger for the first time in his life, but at Ozma’s words his stomach rumbled loudly. Ozma smiled, some of the strain leaving her pale, drawn face as she laughed at the Lion’s discomfort. “Even down here, some things never change,” she said teasingly.

They found a dry patch on the tunnel floor and settled down. The Lion tore eagerly into his bundle and found a hunk of dried meat, some fruit, and a jug of water. Ozma nibbled starfruit and sipped water while he happily gnawed the meat. They sat in silence for a while, letting some of the weariness fade from their limbs.

“What happens when we meet the Nome King?”

Ozma stretched, and the air around her shimmered for a second as if her magic was stirring with her. “I’ll talk to him and explain to him how important it is that Oz remains free.”

The Lion thought that this seemed like a naive view of the situation. “I could fight him,” he offered, puffing up his chest. “I certainly will if he tries to attack you.” Presumably that was why Ozma had brought him along. If things went south, he could protect her. But as brave as he was, he secretly had his doubts about taking on who knew how many evil fairy-like creatures. His only real fighting experience was the battle with Jinjur, and her soldiers had been mortal girls.

As if Ozma could read his mind, she smiled at him. “You don’t need to worry, Lion,” she said confidently. “I know you think I’m being silly, but I can be very persuasive when I have to.” Her words had that steely hint behind them, and he remembered how she had sounded when she talked about Glinda. If anyone could talk an ancient, evil, homicidal king out of invading their country, Ozma was probably the one.

Ozma’s magic light bobbed anxiously. “It’s time to go,” she said, reaching forward to scratch the Lion behind the ears. “I’m so glad you’re with me. You don’t know what a difference it makes to have you here. It’s so lonely down here in the dark.” Her voice sounded wistful now, and she resembled the sad, brave creature he’d left sitting alone in her chambers on his first night in the Emerald City. Ozma might be powerful, but she was still barely more than a child.

The Lion stood up and lashed his tail fiercely. “I won’t let anything happen to you, Your Majesty,” he said. “Not here and not anywhere else. I’ll be glad to protect you until—until the day I die.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, but thank you.” Ozma continued down the tunnel. The Lion followed.

In just a few moments, the clanking noise they’d heard earlier was so loud it was almost deafening. It echoed down the long, dark tunnel so powerfully that the Lion was tempted to cover his ears with his paws. Ozma stopped in front of a blank wall. Even the ball of light was nervous; it wobbled in tiny circles overhead.

“He’s here,” she said. “Thank goodness. I wasn’t actually sure he would be.”

“You came down all this way and you didn’t even know if the Nome King would be here?” the Lion asked in disbelief.

“It seemed likely he would be,” Ozma said serenely. “But you never know.” She rested her palms on the rough stone wall and the air around her began to glow. Her huge, beautiful gold-veined wings unfurled from her back like a butterfly’s and spread outward in the still, hot air, glowing with a brilliant emerald light. “We won’t have long to get through,” she gasped, her voice thick with exertion. “When I say the word, you have to follow me right away.”

As the incredulous Lion watched, the stone began to glow red-hot around Ozma’s palms. The red glow spread outward like molten lava, running in channels to form the outline of a door covered in mysterious runes. A golden doorknob, glowing with the same emerald light as Ozma’s wings, protruded from the door. “Now!” Ozma yelled, yanking at the doorknob. The entire door-shaped section of wall swung inward, and Ozma leapt into the darkness on the other side with the Lion and the ball of light at her heels. The Lion was half convinced he’d slam into solid stone, but instead he felt as though he were falling from a great distance. And then, with a bone-jarring thump, he landed on the floor of another tunnel.

“Well, well, well,” hissed a sinister, sibilant voice. “What under the earth do we have here?”

TEN

The Lion rolled to his feet, looking around frantically. Ozma lay crumpled next to him, her head lolling at an unnatural angle. She looked unconscious—or dead. The Lion swallowed hard. She had to be fine. She had to be. Panic welled up in his chest. What was he going to do now? Everything was up to him! He remembered the terrible darkness in the tunnels, the way he’d thought it was alive. He didn’t want to die down here in this awful place.

But then he remembered Ozma’s strong, powerful voice when she’d challenged the darkness, and felt ashamed of himself. He was a Lion—and not just any Lion but a king bearing the Wizard’s gift of courage. He would be strong. He looked around again, confidence flooding through him.

They had landed in some kind of cavern. The walls were lined with torches that burned with a blue fire and did little to dispel the darkness. The ceiling was high enough to be lost overhead in blackness. The clanging noise was almost deafening, and the air was even hotter than it had been in the tunnel they had just left.

The man who had spoken was looming over him. The Lion recognized him instantly. He looked exactly like the pale, terrifying king from the banquet hall. His skin was a sickly white. His icy pale eyes glittered evilly in the blue torchlight, and he wore robes as densely black as the darkness that surrounded them. But instead of the long white hair the king in the painting had had, this creature was as hairless as an egg. He seemed both ancient and ageless at the same time—there was something fathomless, cold and cruel and very, very old, in his eyes. An iron crown, wrought in the shape of thorny branches, rested on his bald head. He carried a staff topped with a glowing blue crystal. There was no mistaking him for anyone other than the Nome King.

The Lion drew himself upright, hoping his voice sounded more confident than he felt. “I am the Once-Cowardly Lion of Oz, bearer of the Courage of the Wizard of Oz and King of the Beasts, and I demand you desist your invasion of Oz at once,” he shouted over the clanging, hoping fervently that Ozma would wake up any minute.

The Nome King laughed and waved one hand. Around him, the darkness seethed, and suddenly he was surrounded by pale, thin warriors in black armor, their faces hidden by black helmets. The Lion’s heart missed a beat, but he held his ground, determined not to show his fear.

“You’re a long way from home, little cat,” the Nome King hissed. “Do you really think you’re in a position to be making demands?” He leaned forward, and the Lion took an involuntary step backward. The crystal on top of the Nome King’s staff blazed with blue-white light. At last the Lion saw the source of the terrible metallic noise. At one end of the huge cavern, a vast, many-armed machine of iridescent blue metal the Lion had never seen before was chipping away at the rock. More bald Nomes—these stoop-shouldered and scuttling, wearing leather aprons over their shirtless chests—stoked a furnace at the heart of the machine, dumping load after load of coals into the glowing inferno. They wore thick black glass goggles on tattered leather straps to protect their eyes from the heat. Huge leather gloves clanking with chain mail kept the coals from burning their hands. They were all pale as mushrooms but coated in black dust, their lean, wiry bodies scarred and burned where the leather had not been enough to protect them. Many of them had carved elaborate designs into their bare arms and chests and packed the cuts with coal dust so that their skin seemed covered in dense black lace. Others had shoved chunks of iron through their earlobes, noses, or lips. Moving together, they looked like an army of sinister beetles pushing their burdens back and forth like ants carrying food back to their nests.

“I have been working for a very long time to reach the glorious country of Oz,” the Nome King snarled. “Do you think I’ll stop now because a snippy little house cat says I should?”

“You’ll stop because the Queen of Oz tells you to,” said a high, clear voice behind the Lion. The Nome King’s sneer transformed momentarily to a look of shock. The Lion whirled around. Ozma stood tall and proud, her wings spread out to their full span and their golden veins glowing. Her dark hair whipped around her head, crackling with electricity. Her green eyes had darkened to black and her enchanted orb blazed with a green light that rivaled the Nome King’s crystal. The two rulers stared at each other, neither of them giving an inch.

“If it isn’t Lurline’s little protégé, the Princess of Oz,” the Nome King laughed, recovering quickly from his surprise. “Do you really think your magic is a match for mine, child?”

“I’m the Queen of Oz now,” Ozma said coldly. “And you know it is, old man. Abandon this foolish plan and leave my country in peace. There is no reason for war between our peoples.”

“Oh, there are plenty of reasons,” the Nome King said, waving his arm again. The cavern wall behind him shimmered and dissolved into a window onto another world. The sky was a dark, stormy gray over barren fields where blackened stalks of corn and wheat looked like skeletons. A harsh wind blew dust storms across the desolate landscape, whipping against the crumbling stone walls of a tiny village that looked abandoned. But as the Lion looked more closely, he saw gaunt, desperate faces in the windows of the houses. A starving dog limped through the empty streets, too hungry even to howl. And the wall was lined with—the Lion flinched in horror—heads. Some were human, and some were creatures he didn’t recognize at all. Creatures he’d never seen before.

As they watched in horror, a group of strange, terrifying creatures descended on the desolate village. Their bodies were human but their arms and legs were the same length so that they moved on all fours. How can they move so quickly? the Lion wondered, and then he saw that the creatures’ feet and hands had been replaced by whirling, spiked wheels. As they drew closer to the village, he could see their clothes—crazed, clashing patchworks of garish colors that stood out harshly against the washed-out landscape. Their eyes were mad and wild. One of them hefted a blazing torch aloft and with a screech of laughter hurled it at the nearest house. The straw roof caught immediately, and soon the entire hovel was ablaze as its inhabitants poured out into the dirt street in terror. More of the wheeled creatures set fire to the village, shrieking with glee and laughing and pointing at its helpless, sobbing inhabitants.

“Behold the Land of Ev,” hissed the Nome King. “The Deadly Desert is expanding. The drought is so severe nothing can grow. The Wheelers terrorize my subjects. The magic itself is seeping out of the land. Unless Oz shares its bounty, the country is doomed.” He glanced back at his warriors. “Plus, I’m getting really tired of living underground,” he said in a more conversational tone. “Bad for the complexion, you know? And the only thing to eat is mushrooms. I’m really sick of mushrooms.”

Ozma looked stunned. “I did not know it was so bad there,” she whispered.

“The people above the earth are starving,” the Nome King said. “The riches of Oz are vast. Why would you not agree to share them? From what I hear, the Emerald Palace is plenty big enough for two.” His words were reasonable, but there was a dangerous glitter in his pale eyes.

The Lion remembered himself. He was the King of the Beasts and the Protector of Ozma, and he was not to be trifled with. “You didn’t ask to share!” the Lion roared furiously. “You’re tunneling under the Deadly Desert to invade Oz!”

The Nome King barely flinched at the Lion’s fierce roar. He drew himself up to his full height, his eyes blazing. “Did you expect us to beg, Lion? To come crawling through the desert like some poor relation? Oz is no greater a country than Ev, and no more deserving of its riches!”

“But why are you invading?” the Lion protested. “You could have sent a messenger! Anything other than spending years digging under the desert in secret.”

“The Wizard was no friend of the Land of Ev,” the Nome King said coldly. “I did not know Ozma had replaced him.”

The Lion narrowed his eyes. He’s lying, he thought. Did Ozma guess? If she did, she was hiding it. What did she have up her sleeve? He made a noise of protest, but Ozma held up a hand to silence him.

“My dear, brave Lion,” she said gently. “The Nome King is right. If the Wizard is partly responsible for the suffering of the people of Ev, it’s our duty to help them. I will do what the king asks, if it means avoiding war.”

How could the Wizard be responsible if no one knew for certain that Ev even existed? Ozma wasn’t making any sense. But the Nome King’s eyes lit up, and his warriors took a step back, apparently deciding they would not be needed to defend him.

“We have been preparing for war for a long time, and my people are angry,” he said. “Peace will not be quite as easy as you think, Ozma. Ev is not some charity case that you can dismiss with a few loaves of bread.”

“How can we avoid a battle?” Ozma asked, her eyes wide. Lion couldn’t believe she was still negotiating, when it looked like she had already lost.

The Nome King was silent for a long moment, and then a slow, nasty smile spread across his face. The Lion shivered. And cursed his courage for leaving him when he needed it most.

“I will make you a bargain,” he said. “You will allow me to use my magic to disguise you. If your little companion can recognize you, I will return to Ev.”

“And if he fails?”

The Nome King smiled. “If I am to sacrifice everything, then your cost must be a great one, too. If he fails, you will remain enchanted—forever.”

Ozma tilted her head, considering. “If you return to Ev, you’re not sacrificing anything at all except a war with my people.”

“You see what Ev is like now,” the Nome King hissed. “This is our last chance to survive. If you defeat me, Princess Ozma, my kingdom is ruined. My people will starve. I would not dream of asking any less of you.”

“No!” the Lion roared. “If you are enchanted, Princess, he will claim Oz for himself!”

“Perhaps,” the Nome King said idly, picking his nails with a triumphant look in his eyes.

“That’s not—” the Lion began desperately, but Ozma cut him off.

“He gets six guesses,” she said.

The Nome King laughed. “Are you kidding?”

“Five.”

“Three,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“I’m not—” the Lion said.

“Agreed,” Ozma interrupted, extending her hand to the Nome King. He took it, and their clasped hands blazed with a searing green light. Green lightning cracked across the cavern, and for just a second a cool, refreshing breeze wafted past them. The Nome King yelped in surprise and yanked his hand back.

“What have you done, witch?”

“I’m a fairy, not a witch,” Ozma said calmly. “And I’ve bound you to your word with all the power of Oz.”

The Nome King stared at her, his eyes glittering with suspicion, but Ozma returned his gaze with an innocent smile. “May I speak to the Lion before you enchant me, Your Highness?” she asked sweetly.

He scowled. “If you must, but be quick about it. My people are hungry. I am not interested in delays.”

Ozma knelt down beside the Lion and hugged him. “Trust me, dear Lion,” she whispered into his ear.

“How will I know you?” the Lion asked. “What if I fail?”

“You won’t,” Ozma said confidently. “You can’t.”

That was hardly reassuring, but Ozma was already standing up to face the king. “I’m ready,” she said.

The Nome King’s smile was so sinister that even the Lion’s courage faltered. He raised both arms, and his robes opened slightly, revealing an elaborate ruby necklace glittering at his throat. A ruby necklace the Lion recognized immediately. It was the necklace Glinda had shown him in the Forest of the Beasts. He blinked. Was it possible? Did the Nome King have the necklace Glinda was looking for? How had he gotten it? Ozma’s eyes narrowed. She’d seen the necklace, too. Did she know what it was?

But there was no time to think about that now. The Nome King flicked his wrist, and the cavern began to fill with a silvery, foul-smelling mist. The Lion covered his face with his paws, but he couldn’t help breathing in the noxious fumes. “Replicatum scatterorium,” the Nome King hissed, and the weird mist evaporated. Coughing, the Lion looked up. The floor of the cavern was covered with tiny silver figurines that looked exactly like the Queen of Oz, and Ozma was gone.

ELEVEN

The Nome King yawned loudly. One of his warriors hurried to bring him a silver stool. He settled onto it, stretching ostentatiously and yawning again. “Hurry up, house cat,” he said, examining his silver nails. “We haven’t got all day down here.”

The Nome King wasn’t just an evil tyrant hell-bent on taking over Oz, the Lion thought irritably. He was also incredibly annoying, and he was clearly pretty powerful. But for whatever reason, Ozma had thought this was a good idea, and now it was up to him to save her and the entire Land of Oz.

The Lion bent down to sniff at the silver figurines. Each miniature Ozma was slightly different. Some of the Ozmas were smiling, and others looked like they were about to cry. A few seemed angry. Some of the tiny Ozmas had tiny accessories: one was holding a miniature scepter, and another was carrying a giant cake. They all had one thing in common, however: each one looked exactly like the queen. The Lion almost groaned aloud. How was he supposed to tell which one was the real Ozma?

“Do I get a hint?” he asked, stalling for time. The Nome King only snorted, not bothering to reply.

The Lion didn’t have magic and he knew deep down he wasn’t particularly smart. But Ozma had seemed to know what she was doing. Why had she thought he’d be able to solve this puzzle? What did he have to help him? Courage wasn’t going to do him much good.

“I’m waiting,” the Nome King said.

“Oh, calm down,” the Lion snapped, and the Nome King looked momentarily surprised. He obviously wasn’t used to anyone talking back to him. Was that what set the Lion apart? He paced the cavern floor, examining each of the dozens of tiny Ozmas until he found one that seemed to have an extra bit of difference. Its face was just a teensy bit more realistic than the others, and something about the silver folds of its dress looked familiar. “That one,” he said, pointing with his paw. With a pop, the silver figurine exploded into confetti.

The Nome King giggled. “Not even close,” he said. “You’re really bad at this, aren’t you? What was Ozma thinking, putting you in a position of responsibility? In my kingdom, only qualified people get to be in charge.”

“I wish you’d stop talking,” the Lion muttered under his breath, trying not to panic. He still had two more guesses. There was still a chance to save Ozma—and Oz. But the Nome King was getting restless. His warriors shifted where they stood, their armor clanking.

“Maybe I should just kill you,” he said thoughtfully.

“You can’t,” the Lion said quickly. “You made a bargain. Ozma sealed it.”

“The deal was that if you recognized Ozma I’d let you both go,” the Nome King said. “I didn’t say anything about not killing you.”

“I can’t recognize Ozma if I’m dead,” the Lion pointed out. “So technically you did agree to keep me alive.”

“An unfortunate technicality,” the Nome King said peevishly, sinking back onto his stool. The Lion was proud of himself. That line of argument had been worthy of the Scarecrow’s brain. Maybe he wasn’t so stupid after all. Maybe that was the secret to finding the real Ozma: using his brain. What would set enchanted Ozma apart from the rest of the silver figurines? She was the Queen of Oz, obviously. Her magic was green. She was young, but somehow also ageless. The Lion was thinking so hard he could practically feel gears turning in his brain. Was this what it felt like to be the Scarecrow? Thinking was exhausting work. He looked up. The Nome King’s soldiers had surrounded him. “You can’t kill me,” he said again, his heart pounding.

“I suppose I can’t,” the Nome King said. “But if they do it . . .” He didn’t have to finish.

“That one!” the Lion yelped in a panic, pointing to another statuette. It disappeared in a flash of silver smoke, and the Nome King leapt to his feet, clapping.

“Never mind!” he exclaimed. “This is rather fun! You’re doing my work for me, you stupid cat. Watching you suffer is almost making up for how boring this whole afternoon has been.” He waved at his soldiers, and they advanced toward the Lion in a terrifying ring.

The Lion’s fear turned to anger. He was still the King of the Beasts of Oz, and he did not appreciate being bullied by this creepy king. The Lion reared back on his hind legs, roaring fiercely. To his satisfaction, the soldiers took a step backward. It was impossible to read their expressions behind the black helmets, but he imagined they looked impressed and a little afraid. “That’s more like it,” he said.

“Oh, whatever,” said the Nome King. “You’ve only got one guess left, anyway, and I’m sure you’ll botch that one, too.” He sat back down, looking sulky.

The Lion’s mind raced. This was it. If he chose wrong, both Oz and its queen were toast. His stomach rumbled loudly. He hadn’t eaten since he and Ozma had had their little snack. He was starving. If he screwed up now, he wouldn’t even get the benefit of a last meal.

Suddenly, he got a whiff of something delicious. His nostrils flared. The Nome King and his army smelled flat and metallic, like hot iron being quenched in water. This was the smell of something living, flesh and bone and blood and edible.

And then in a flash he knew why Ozma had trusted him to choose correctly. Ozma wasn’t human, and she wasn’t mortal, but she was flesh and blood. Under other circumstances, he might have eaten her. Obviously he wouldn’t dream of snacking on the Queen of Oz—and his friend—but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t smell like something delicious, especially if he was hungry. He closed his eyes, letting his hunger overwhelm him. His stomach growled again. He let everything else fall away—the king, the warriors, the cavern, the impossible task at hand. He was back in the Forest of the Beasts, hunting for his prey. He crouched low, lashing his tail, his nose to the ground. There it was again: the faintest scent of breathing, living flesh.

“What do you think you’re doing?” shrieked the Nome King, but the Lion ignored him. He was on the prowl in the forest, ears tuned to the slightest rustle, all his senses on full alert, placing his paws carefully and noiselessly. There, in the bushes ahead, was his target. He gathered his strength, his muscles coiling like springs, and pounced.

He landed with a clatter of pebbles and opened his eyes. He’d dislodged a tarnished silver figurine from the floor of the cavern, where it was mostly hidden by a pile of gravel. It was duller than the other statuettes, and the rough silver face looked nothing like Ozma. He knew without question that this was the one.

“You weren’t supposed to hide her,” he said to the Nome King. “That’s cheating.” He nudged the figurine with his paw. The Nome King leapt to his feet, his white face purple with rage.

“I won’t have this!” he shrieked. “I won’t tolerate you, you fleabag!” But he was too late. At the Lion’s feet, the figurine grew rapidly until it was life-size. The dull silver metal turned iridescent, like oil on the surface of a pond. The multitude of colors swirled together and turned green before dripping away, revealing the queen. She smiled up at the Lion.

“I knew it would work,” she said, flinging her arms around his neck and burying her face in his mane. “I knew. My brave, wonderful Lion!” But she was almost sobbing, and the Lion guessed that she’d been nowhere near as certain she would survive as she insisted. His heart leapt with sympathy and fondness for the brave, beautiful queen. She’d trusted him with her life, and she’d had enough faith in him to believe he could rescue her. Her crazy gamble had paid off—because of him. He felt tremendously close to the queen in that moment. He knew he’d be as willing to risk his life for her as she had for her kingdom.

The Nome King was sputtering like a teakettle, impotent with fury. Ozma rolled her eyes. “He always was a bad loser,” she said, and snapped her fingers. His warriors exploded silently into columns of silver smoke. The clanking noise of his digging machine ground to a halt and its fire went out. The huge cavern immediately cooled to a comfortable temperature. The Nome King stood alone in front of them, speechless with rage and brandishing his fists. Ozma snapped her fingers again and he froze into place, pinned by her magic.

“You have something that belongs to Oz,” Ozma said cheerfully, skipping over to him and lifting the ruby necklace over his head. “I’ll take this back now, thanks.” His eyes blazed with fury but his power wasn’t enough to break Ozma’s spell. This whole quest had been proof that Ozma’s power was far greater than the Lion had realized.

Ozma fastened the necklace around the Lion’s neck. Somehow it expanded without his seeing it change, so that by the time she fastened the clasp it was big enough to fit him. The cool stones rested on his chest like a breastplate. He stared down at them, lost in their entrancing sparkle.

“Careful,” Ozma warned, snapping him out of his reverie. “That’s old, old magic, dear Lion. It’ll trap you if you’re not careful.” She turned to face the Nome King. “Even you can’t break the bargain we made,” Ozma said, her voice clear and authoritative. “You’ll abandon this ridiculous plan of invading Oz, and you’ll go back to your own country and stay there. I don’t ever want to see you again. Is that clear?”

Slowly the Nome King nodded. Ozma released him just enough so that he could speak.

“My bargain was with you, little princess,” he hissed. “But it lasts only as long as you are the ruler of Oz. Don’t think you’ve seen the last of me.” The air around him began to glow with a silver light that grew brighter and brighter until the Lion was forced to cover his eyes. The light brightened still further and then vanished. When the Lion opened his eyes again, he and Ozma were alone in the abandoned cavern.

“Phew,” she sighed in relief. “I wasn’t totally sure that was going to work.”

TWELVE

“What do you mean, you weren’t sure that was going to work?” the Lion demanded. Ozma shrugged.

“All the legends about the Nome King say he’s obsessed with riddles and gambling, and he loves turning people into furniture and tchotchkes and that sort of thing. I knew there was no way we could actually talk him out of invading Oz, and we’re certainly not strong enough to fight him. I was hoping he’d pull something like this, but I couldn’t be sure.” The Lion stared at her, speechless. Ozma had bet the farm on a handful of legends about a king no one else knew existed and the might of his stomach?

“It worked, didn’t it?” she said, as if she could read his mind.

The Lion had no response to that, so he decided to think about something else. “But what will happen to the people of Ev? If the Nome King was invading Oz to help them—”

“Oh, that,” Ozma said dismissively. “That was a load of hooey. Ev is incredibly rich. If the people are suffering, it’s his fault—his and the Princess Langwidere’s. There’s nothing I can do about that from here, although once I’m sure Oz is stable, I might look into deposing them both.”

“The princess who?”

“Langwidere,” Ozma said. “She’s horrible beyond belief. She has as many heads as there are days in the month and she exchanges them at will. Pray you never meet her—or the Wheelers.” The Lion thought of the strange, patchworked creatures he’d seen in the Nome King’s vision and shuddered.

“Anyway, we won!” Ozma exclaimed happily. “And we got the Wizard’s necklace back, too!”

Should he tell Ozma that Glinda was just as eager to find the necklace as she was? He decided against it. He’d figure out a way out of his deal with Glinda on his own. There was no way to tell Ozma about Glinda’s desire for the necklace without confessing she was the one who’d sent him to the Emerald City in the first place. All this intrigue was making his head hurt, especially after the stress of saving Oz from the clutches of the Nome King and rescuing Ozma from certain doom.

“We shouldn’t rest here any longer,” Ozma warned. His heart sank. He’d been hoping for a nap. But he knew the queen was right. They were practically in the Land of Ev, after all, and he’d seen all he wanted of the Nome King. “He has to obey the bargain we made, but if I know anything about the Nome King, he’ll already be trying to find a way around it,” she added. “We should go back to the Emerald Palace before he tries to return this way.”

Ozma didn’t sound too worried about the possibility that the Nome King might persist in his attempt to invade Oz after all. Was she brave, or just foolhardy? Whatever the case, he had no interest in sticking around either. “Can you teleport us back to the Emerald Palace?” he asked hopefully.

“Through a mile of solid rock?” Ozma laughed. “I’m powerful, Lion, but no one is that powerful. Magic doesn’t work like that. We could step into the Darklands and travel that way, but I’d worry about losing you.” Her gaze turned thoughtful. “Although,” she mused, “the Wizard’s necklace wants to return to the palace; I can feel it. Maybe that’s not such a bad idea after all. The necklace will make sure you get there, even if I can’t.”

At last, he could ask about the necklace without arousing her suspicions. “What is this necklace?”

“No one really knows. It’s much older than the Wizard, of course, and how he came by it—well, I’m just not sure. It’s possible it’s from the Other Place, and he used its power to get here somehow. But now it’s bound up in the Deep Magic of Oz, and it will always try to go home.”

“To the Emerald City?”

“Exactly. Its magic is incredibly strong, but no one really knows what it’s for.”

Glinda does, the Lion thought, remembering her eager face as she showed him the vision of the ruby necklace. She knew, and she had a plan for it. Of that he had no doubt.

“Everyone thought the necklace was lost when the Wizard disappeared,” Ozma continued. “It’s possible he had it with him when he left Oz in his hot air balloon, and somehow lost it over the Land of Ev. I don’t know how else the Nome King could have gotten hold of it. He was probably using it to guide his tunneling to the Emerald City. That would explain how he was able to get so close so quickly.”

She fell into a thoughtful silence. The necklace seemed to throb slightly against his chest, as if it knew they were talking about it. But that wasn’t possible. It was just a bunch of gold and rubies; even magic objects couldn’t eavesdrop on people’s conversations. Could they?

Ozma roused herself. “The Darklands is too risky,” she said decidedly. “It’ll take much longer, of course, but we’ll have to go back the way we came.”

The Lion almost groaned aloud. He was so tired, and the thought of the return journey was almost unbearable. Still, a risky magical journey through a place he’d never heard of where a ruby necklace was his only link to safety sounded even worse. He stood and stretched. Ozma rested one hand on his back. “Are you ready?”

He nodded agreement, and Ozma raised her other hand. The cavern wall in front of them began to glow again. But this time, the lines of Ozma’s magic ran in feeble rivulets down the wall, refusing to form a door. “Being turned into a statue really wore me out,” she gasped. “We’re going to have to do this the hard way.” Without waiting for his reply, she grabbed his mane and dragged him toward the wall. He opened his mouth to protest, but before he could say a word they were plowing into solid stone. And it hurt. Somehow, Ozma was dragging them both through the wall. It was like forcing his way through liquid concrete. Stone filled his ears and mouth, and for a long moment he thought he’d be stuck there, trapped inside the wall forever. But with one last, insistent tug, Ozma pulled him through to the other side. They collapsed on the tunnel floor.

“Sorry about that,” Ozma wheezed. “Close call. It’s a good thing I didn’t have to actually fight the Nome King.”

The journey back up through the tunnels to the Emerald Palace seemed to take even longer than the journey down. Both the Lion and Ozma were exhausted, but neither of them wanted to rest in the creepy, dark warren of tunnels. Ozma was so tired that several times she lost the way, and they had to backtrack. But finally the steep upward slant of the tunnel floor evened out, and the side tunnels came to an end. The Lion was so relieved to see the first of the torches that marked the corridor down from the Emerald Palace that he nearly cheered aloud, and Ozma perked up visibly.

“Not sure I’ve got much more in me,” she panted. “I’m glad we’re almost home.”

It was odd seeing her weakened like this. And even more than that, hearing her admit it. He had never once seen Glinda drained of her power. He himself had never let his guard down in front of his subjects, or even Cornelius. Ozma shared her vulnerability with him freely. He felt honored and at the same time, he wanted to warn her that it wasn’t the best idea. Someone else, someone other than himself, could pounce when you show your soft underbelly.

At last, the rough-hewn rock of the tunnel walls gave way to the cut stone of the Emerald Palace’s corridors. The Lion almost wept in relief. Ozma pulled up her hood in an attempt to conceal herself if they encountered any of the palace servants, but the halls were empty. “That’s strange,” she said, frowning. “I couldn’t begin to guess what time it is, but at least a few of the servants are up at all hours. I don’t know where everyone is.” With a snap of her fingers, she exchanged her plain dress for a regal ball gown of emerald-green satin embroidered with a pattern in gold thread that echoed the delicate gold veins of her wings. Invisible hands piled her disordered curls into an elegant updo secured with jeweled golden combs, and dazzling emerald earrings appeared in her ears. Not to be outdone, the Lion quickly licked down his mane. The ruby necklace was hidden in his thick fur.

Ozma gave him an approving nod. “We don’t look like we’ve been mucking around in nasty old tunnels and defeating an evil king!” she declared. “No one will ever be the wiser. The fact that we just saved Oz will remain between the two of us.” She winked, and the Lion felt an answering surge of pride. They had just saved Oz—if you got right down to it, he had just saved Oz, more or less by himself. If Scare and Tin could see him now! He might not have done so impressively in the battle against Jinjur, but there was no doubting the courage he’d shown while facing the Nome King.

“Your Majesty!” Both he and Ozma jumped at the sudden cry. One of the palace servants was hurrying toward them—Jellia, the Lion remembered. She was the queen’s handmaid; that was why he’d memorized her name. “Thank goodness you’re here! Where on earth have you been? We’ve been looking all over for you—your guest is here!”

Ozma looked puzzled. “My guest?”

“Oh yes, and she’s in an absolute state, the girls are running themselves ragged—please, Your Majesty, you really must come at once!” Without waiting for them to reply, the maid took off in the other direction. Ozma raised her eyebrows at the Lion, shrugging, and followed, with the Lion close on her heels. “I guess we’ll have to wait just a bit before we rest,” she said ruefully. “I know I didn’t invite anyone to the palace. I wonder who’s here.”

Jellia led them to Ozma’s throne room and threw open the doors, curtsying deeply. “Her Majesty, Queen Ozma of Oz!” she announced breathlessly, staying in her curtsy with her eyes cast down as if unwilling to face whoever awaited them. Ozma swept past her, her bearing regal. Beyond her, the Lion could see a figure silhouetted against the throne room’s huge picture windows. At first, he thought she was just incredibly tall. And then he realized she was hovering several inches off the ground.

“My goodness,” she said in a syrupy-sweet, all-too-familiar voice, turning to face them. “Look what the cat dragged in.” She giggled, and something about the sound was infinitely more terrifying than any of the Nome King’s threats. “Welcome back, dearest Ozma. And of course, Your Highness,” she added, bowing to the Lion in a gesture that was subtly mocking. “I think you have something of mine. I’ve come to get it back.”

THIRTEEN

“Glinda.” Ozma’s voice was cold enough to freeze boiling water. “What exactly brings you back to the Emerald City after I suggested you not return?”

Glinda laughed. “Dearest Ozma, I’m sure you know. The Lion certainly does.”

Ozma shot a startled look at the Lion. His heart sank. He had been stupid not to be completely honest with Ozma. Now it was too late. The queen would realize the extent of his deceit and never forgive him. His time in the palace was clearly over, but more than that, he was sorry to lose someone who had become a real friend. “What does Glinda mean, Lion?” Ozma asked.

“It’s nothing,” the Lion blurted. “I have no idea.”

Ozma’s eyes narrowed. “Which one is it? Nothing, or no idea?”

Glinda laughed again. “Now, now, Lion. It won’t do to try to break the promise you made me. We’re connected now—how else do you think I knew you’d found my necklace?”

Ozma was looking back and forth between the two of them. “What promise?”

“Glinda found me in the Kingdom of the Beasts,” the Lion said miserably. “She made me promise to find the Wizard’s necklace. I had no idea she was going behind your back.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Ozma gasped.

“Glinda put a spell on me,” the Lion said. “She commanded me to keep it secret. Anyway, it didn’t seem important until we actually found the necklace. But by then we’d defeated the Nome King and I guess it just . . . it just slipped my mind,” he finished, well aware of how feeble he sounded. Ozma’s expression was a mixture of fury and disappointment.

Glinda cleared her throat. “My necklace, please.”

“It’s not your necklace,” the Lion said bravely, lashing his tail as he faced Glinda. “It belongs to Oz. I’ve—I’ve changed my mind. I won’t give it to you.”

“No matter what you get in return?”

He thought of the image of the girl in front of the house. Then he thought of Ozma pulling him through the wall. He wanted Dorothy back, but not at Ozma’s expense.

“No matter what,” he said firmly, feeling stronger and better as each word landed. At that, Glinda threw back her head and laughed even harder. “Oh, Lion,” she chuckled. “Silly, silly Cowardly Lion. You don’t understand, do you? I’m not giving you a choice.” She flicked her wrists, and bolts of pink lightning shot toward the Lion’s chest. At the last second, Ozma made a slashing motion, and a wall of green energy sprung up around the Lion. Glinda’s bolts slammed into Ozma’s force field and splintered harmlessly, crackling and smoking.

He realized at that moment that Glinda hadn’t wanted him to protect Ozma from danger. Glinda was the danger.

“You’ve enchanted one of my subjects without my consent, barged into my palace, and now you want to steal something that isn’t yours from under my nose?” Ozma snarled. “After all your promises to help me? We could have been friends, you know.”

Glinda hissed, her terrifyingly rigid smile turning to a scowl. “Are you kidding me, you little ingrate? I made you queen, and this is how you repay me? By throwing me out of the Emerald Palace and accusing me of treason? The Scarecrow might have been an incompetent idiot, but at least he knew his place.”

“He’s not an idiot!” the Lion protested. Both Glinda and Ozma glanced at him as if they had only just remembered he was there before returning to stare at each other, the air between them crackling with energy.

“What have you done with it, Ozma?”

“I’m not going to tell you,” Ozma said coldly. The Lion blinked. Glinda didn’t know where the necklace actually was—she just knew one of them had it, and of course she’d assumed it was Ozma. If he could get out of the throne room unnoticed, he could hide it somewhere safe until Ozma took care of Glinda. Once the coast was clear, he’d give it back to Ozma and restore her faith in him. It was a plan worthy of the Scarecrow himself.

The air around Glinda was glowing pink and turquoise. She raised her hands, crackling bolts of energy forming between her fingers.

“Do you really want to do this, Glinda?” Ozma said grimly. “Battle me in my own palace? Declare war on the Queen of Oz?”

“It’s only your palace because I put you in it,” Glinda snarled, hurling a bolt of energy at Ozma’s head. “I can take you out of it just as easily.”

Ozma flicked her fingers, and Glinda’s magic crashed into the wall behind her, leaving a smoking crater. “I’m giving you one last chance, Glinda,” she said. “Leave now, and we can forget about this.”

In response, Glinda threw another bolt of magic at Ozma. Ozma dodged it neatly, rolling her eyes. “Fine,” she said in exasperation. “You know, I’ve had a really long day. All I want is to go to bed. But apparently a queen’s work is never done.”

“There’s no rest for the Wicked,” Glinda snapped. Ozma threw up another shield just in time as Glinda sent more magic at her. The Lion was torn, unsure of what to do or who to fight for, but feeling ready to pounce. He had never had much use for magic, but watching them fight he wished he had some of his own. “You were supposed to be the good witch,” Ozma said, returning Glinda’s fire. Glinda ducked and flew out of range.

“You were supposed to be a good investment,” she snapped. “You don’t know the first thing about ruling a country. You should have listened to me.”

“Since you’re such an expert?” Ozma flicked her fingers, and green lightning crackled toward Glinda. Glinda waved one hand, and the energy fizzled into tiny sparks. The Lion took a step toward the door, and then another. Self-preservation had kicked in, finally ruling out over his desire to know who would win this fight. He was almost clear of the throne room.

“I know a lot more than you do, child,” Glinda hissed.

“I’m not a child!” Ozma yelled. “I’m the last of the line of Lurline and the rightful ruler of Oz!”

“Oh, Lurline,” Glinda simpered mockingly. “Nobody even cares about that old story. Next you’re going to try and sell me on some bogus hooey about tapping into the Deep Magic of Oz in order to be a better queen. Face it, honey: you like that throne, but that doesn’t mean you’re qualified for it. If you’d listened to me from the beginning, none of this would have happened. You’d still be in power, and I’d be right behind you.”

“I am still in power,” Ozma said. “And I’m enjoying it a lot more without you breathing down my neck.” She whipped a fireball at Glinda so quickly that the witch didn’t have time to get out of the way. It hit her solidly in the chest, and she shrieked in rage as her dress began to blacken and burn. Glinda slapped at her chest with one hand, pink spreading outward again to replace the blackened burned sections.

“Don’t you dare ruin my dress!” Glinda screamed, hurtling toward Ozma with her fingers outstretched. The Lion saw his chance. He turned around and bolted for the door—and slammed into an invisible wall.

“Not so fast, dear Lion,” Glinda said from directly behind him. “I think I know where my necklace is.” An invisible hand gripped his tail, dragging him backward. He tried to sink his claws in the stone floor, but Glinda’s magic pulled him toward the center of the room.

“Leave him out of this,” Ozma growled. “You’ve done enough damage to my friends.”

“Oh, but the Lion was my friend first. Isn’t that true, Lion?”

The Lion looked miserably toward Ozma as Glinda reached for his neck. But Ozma’s eyes were closed, and she was mumbling to herself. This was it, then. She’d lost the rest of what little strength she’d had left after defeating the Nome King. Glinda was going to win, and there was no use resisting her. Would Glinda banish Ozma from the throne, or continue trying to rule through her? “It’s time for a new queen in town,” Glinda snarled, answering his unspoken question. He felt the necklace loosen itself from around his neck and float upward as he watched it helplessly. At least his part in this was almost over.

“Encomiendum absolum!” Ozma cried, opening her eyes wide and flinging her arms out. An explosion of green light rocked the throne room. Tiles crumbled from the walls, narrowly missing the three figures that stood frozen in the shock wave from Ozma’s spell. Glinda’s jaw hung open, one hand still outstretched toward the Wizard’s ruby necklace. “Verteum clausus!” A green portal opened next to her, revealing a desolate, barren landscape on the other side.

“No!” Glinda screamed as a huge green hand reached out from Ozma’s portal and wrapped its fingers around her. “You can’t do this!”

“Oh, but I can,” Ozma said, her wings unfurling and her entire body outlined in a haze of green light. “It’s a last resort, but you’re the one who pushed me to it.” Glinda kicked and struggled, but Ozma’s spell dragged her slowly, inexorably, toward the portal. At the very last second, Glinda lunged through the air, snatching the ruby necklace where it drifted in the air.

“You just wait, little queen,” she hissed. “I’m going to use this necklace to make a very special present for a very special person. You’ll regret the day you did this to me, mark my words.”

“Whatever you say, Glinda,” Ozma said tiredly. The green hand heaved Glinda through the portal and the doorway snapped shut on her furious screams. Ozma collapsed to the floor as the entire throne room shuddered.

“We have to get out of here!” the Lion exclaimed as more tiles crashed to the ground. Freed from the grip of Glinda’s spell, he raced over to Ozma. The queen weakly dragged herself onto his back, and he bounded out of the throne room just as the rest of the ceiling fell in.

“Your Majesty!” cried Jellia, hurrying toward them at the head of a small army of servants. “Are you all right? What do you need?”

“I need you to put me to bed,” Ozma said distinctly. “And then I need you to let me sleep for the next forty thousand years.” She tumbled from the Lion’s back, unconscious, and landed on the floor with a thud.

FOURTEEN

Ozma didn’t sleep for forty thousand years, but she did sleep for several days. Long enough for the Lion to sleep off his own exhaustion—after a restorative trip to the kitchens, first—wake up again, and then eat his way through an impressive quantity of the palace’s stores. Finally, Jellia told him the queen was awake and receiving visitors. The Lion bounded joyfully up to her chambers, barreling through her open door and pouncing on the bed, where Ozma lay propped up against a raft of silk pillows. She laughed and scratched him behind the ears as he licked her face with his rough pink tongue.

“Oof, Lion—you really ought to brush your teeth.”

“Sorry,” the Lion apologized, backing away and settling down at the foot of her bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Like a wrung-out washcloth,” the queen admitted. Her skin was pale, and there were dark hollows under her green eyes. But she was smiling, and she managed to look almost perky despite her evident exhaustion.

“You look well,” the Lion said, not entirely truthfully.

“I’ll be better soon,” she agreed. “Battling the Nome King and Glinda in one day was a lot. I’m powerful, but I’m not a superhero.”

The Lion sobered instantly at the thought of Glinda. “I owe you an apology,” he said, hanging his head. “I should have told you from the very beginning that Glinda sent me here.”

“Yes, you should have,” Ozma said sternly, her face severe. “Who knows how much of that disaster we could have avoided if you’d been honest with me from the moment you arrived in the Emerald City.” Her face softened a little. “But I know you didn’t mean any harm, and Glinda can be—well, let’s say I know how persuasive she is, and how convincing. I’m sure you had no idea you might be betraying me.”

In fact, the Lion had suspected he was doing something furtive—he just hadn’t cared until he’d realized how much he liked Ozma. But her cheerful willingness to see the best in everyone was working in his favor, and he wasn’t going to argue.

“Where is Glinda now?”

“Banished,” Ozma said succinctly. “She’ll have a heck of a time getting out of the prison world I put her in. I suppose she’ll figure out a way eventually—nothing in Oz stays the same forever, as you know—but I’ll have plenty of time to figure out what I’m going to do about her when she frees herself.” Ozma sighed. “I don’t like fighting with people,” she said a little sadly. “I just wish Oz could stay calm and peaceful and everyone could get along.”

“She got the Wizard’s necklace,” the Lion said.

Ozma shrugged. “It won’t do her any good in there. It’s a powerful weapon, but there’s no one for her to fight.”

“She said she was going to make a present for someone.” He didn’t say anything about Dorothy. He just couldn’t.

Ozma shook her head. “I have no idea what she meant by that. She’s trapped, and it’ll take a lot more than a fancy ruby necklace to get her out of there.”

The Lion nodded, but he wasn’t convinced. Neither, he was sure, was Ozma. She was too canny to dismiss Glinda’s threat so easily. More likely she didn’t trust him to the extent that she once had—or at least she wasn’t going to trust him with any serious information. He’d already proven that Glinda could control him. Ozma wouldn’t let him fail her twice. But the green eyes that gazed up at him were as guileless as ever, and she quickly changed the subject. “Did you get enough to eat while I was resting?”

“Oh yes,” the Lion replied, eager for a safer subject. He’d had enough of politics. Let Ozma worry about Glinda’s sinister plans—he suddenly remembered that he had a forest of his own to rule. “I suppose I should return to the Forest of the Beasts,” he said, hoping Ozma would protest. She didn’t.

“I think that’s a good idea.”

“I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

“No,” Ozma agreed, batting her eyelashes at him to soften the harshness of her reply. His heart sank a little. Thanks to Glinda, his cushy stay at the palace was over. It had been good while it lasted.

Ozma gave him a kiss on the forehead, and he allowed himself one last, wistful glance around her chambers. He could have stayed here like a prince if he’d played his cards better. But at least he was returning to being a king.

“You said once that we were the same. Both of us figuring out how to rule,” he offered. It wasn’t a plea. But he was still holding out for a reprieve.

“I thought so, too, at first. But we are more different than we are the same. You are not Wicked, dear Lion. But sometimes you put what you want over what is good for Oz. I don’t know how much you care about good over bad, Lion. I think that you just like the thrill. You love the fight more than you love what you are fighting for. Be careful, there.”

Her words stung more than Glinda’s spell had. He blinked hard at Ozma. “How should I get back to the Kingdom of the Beasts?” he asked, hoping Ozma would offer a magical ride back to his home. She looked surprised.

“The same way you got here, I would imagine. Thank you again for coming to visit me, and for all your help. I’m afraid I must rest now. Please do come see me again someday.”

He was dismissed. He slunk back into the corridor, his ears burning. It was true that he hadn’t been entirely honest with Ozma, but he’d still risked his life to help her battle the Nome King. He’d saved her in the caverns—not only that, he’d saved Oz. He was the one who’d found the necklace and carried it to safety, and he was the one who’d faced the worst of Glinda’s wrath. He could have been killed at any point. And what did he get in repayment? A summary dismissal, without even the offer of a last meal with Ozma before he left the Emerald City? The queen had a lot of nerve sending him away like a bad kitty who’d peed on her best quilt. Was it his imagination, or did even the servants give him pitying glances as he slunk past them down the hall?

Resentment burned within him—resentment and something else. It was almost as though seeing Glinda had somehow reactivated the spell she’d put on him. He could feel those same fiery sparks crawling through his coat—only this time they were invigorating. Glinda had power, Glinda had a plan, and Glinda had trusted him with an important mission, too. Ozma had treated the witch the same way she’d just treated him—throwing her out like a houseguest who’d stayed past her welcome. Maybe he and Glinda had more in common than he thought. Maybe that was why Glinda had chosen him. Not just because of his courage. Because she saw something in him that Ozma didn’t. That Ozma couldn’t. She saw how powerful he could be if the right person believed in him.

He didn’t bother stopping in the chambers Ozma had given him while he’d stayed in the palace. He didn’t say good-bye to anyone else, or acknowledge any of the servants’ greetings as he passed them. He kept his head down on the way out of the palace, seething as his ire grew.

The street outside was as bustling as it had been the day he’d arrived at the Emerald Palace what seemed like months ago, though really it had only been a few weeks. He raised his nose to sniff at the city air, full of the scents of spices and cooking and exotic wares.

He thought of Ozma’s words. She was wrong about him. Wasn’t she? I don’t know how much you care about good over bad, Lion. I think that you just like the thrill. The words pierced his pride. But that did not mean that there wasn’t some truth in them. She had forgiven him, but she would not let him in again. She was not, after everything, his friend. Not like Scare or Tin or Dorothy. They were his friends. They were the ones he would do anything for.

Had Glinda been right after all? Was Ozma too temperamental and unstable to rule? Ozma had said Glinda would find a way to escape her prison someday. Maybe it would be soon. He’d find his way back to the Emerald Palace somehow, and next time he wouldn’t be sent home quite so easily.

The Lion felt like fighting again. He felt like gobbling up the world. He set his paws on the Road of Yellow Brick and turned his face toward the Kingdom of the Beasts. For now, he’d wait in the forest. But the wind was shifting. This time, when Glinda returned, he’d be ready for her.

EXCERPT FROM NO PLACE LIKE OZ

SEE HOW DOROTHY’S RISE TO POWER BEGAN:

ONE

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

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

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

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

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

Things we do put truck in:

Hard work.

Practicality.

Gumption.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TWO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE GIRL WHO RODE THE CYCLONE.

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

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

If only those things were in my scrapbook!

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

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

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

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

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

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

EXCERPT FROM DOROTHY MUST DIE

FOLLOW AMY GUMM’S MISSION TO TAKE DOWN DOROTHY:

ONE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Madison gave me a blank look. She snorted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe it was the pregnancy hormones.

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

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

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

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

“Kick her!” Amber hissed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mom?” I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I got suspended,” I told her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Madison Pendleton.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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

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BOOKS BY DANIELLE PAIGE

Novels

Dorothy Must Die

The Wicked Will Rise

Yellow Brick War

Novellas

No Place Like Oz

The Witch Must Burn

The Wizard Returns

Heart of Tin

The Straw King

Ruler of Beasts

Order of the Wicked

Collections

Dorothy Must Die: The Other Side of the Rainbow Collection

COPYRIGHT

RULER OF BEASTS. Copyright © 2016 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 © January 2016 ISBN 9780062403964

Version 10182016

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FIRST EDITION

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