The fire in the grate of the West Wing study crackled, spitting tiny, glowing embers against the wrought-iron guard.
Glinda stood before the hearth, her icy pink wool suit still damp at the hem from the puddles of the mail depot. In her white-gloved hands, she held the last of the Shiz University envelopes. She didn't open it again. The words were already burned into her retinas. Our sources inside the palace confirm she is actively using the Grimmerie.
She dropped the heavy parchment into the flames.
The fire flared an unnatural shade of blue for a fraction of a second as the sealing wax caught, then settled back into a hungry orange, reducing the evidence of her kingdom's betrayal to fragile grey ash.
Glinda turned her back on the fire and walked to the mahogany desk.
The Grimmerie sat in the center of the leather blotter. It was closed, but the air around it felt thick, static-charged, like the atmosphere right before a lightning strike. She didn't hesitate. She unhooked the iron clasp and threw the heavy cover open.
The smell of ozone and old blood filled the room.
Glinda grabbed her fountain pen. She didn't bother sitting down. She leaned over the desk, her silver tiara catching the firelight, and drove the nib of the pen into the blank margin of a page detailing a flesh-binding curse.
Shiz University is funding the Unionists, she wrote, her handwriting sharp and furious. They know about the book. They know I am using it.
She lifted the pen and waited.
The seconds ticked by. The grand grandfather clock in the corner of the study seemed to echo with a deafening rhythm. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
For a terrifying moment, she thought the Ghost was gone. She thought it had abandoned her now that the trap was sprung. But then, the parchment rippled.
A drop of jet-black, glistening ink welled up from the fibers of the paper, spreading outward like a drop of blood in water. It moved with deliberate, agonizing slowness, forming tall, jagged letters.
I told you the fire started in the North.
Glinda gripped the edge of the desk. Are you one of them? she wrote, pressing so hard the nib nearly tore the ancient paper. Are you a Shiz operative? Are you pushing me to use the magic so they can hang me for it?
The response was instantaneous. The ink flared, bleeding rapidly across the page, the handwriting losing its usual elegant control and spiking with what looked like genuine anger.
If I were Shiz, I would have let the silos burn. If I were Shiz, I would not have taught you how to part the earth.
Glinda stared at the wet, black words. She let out a shaky breath.
Then who are you? she wrote. If we are at war, I need to know who is standing in the dark with me.
The ink pooled. It swirled for a long time, as if the entity on the other side was hesitating. Finally, it formed a single, cryptic line.
I am a shadow in a field of straw. Go to the University, Galinda. Look beneath the library. The rot goes deeper than the roots.
The ink dried instantly, sinking into the yellowed parchment and fading away completely, leaving the margin blank once more.
"A shadow," Glinda whispered to the empty room. Her mind raced. A field of straw.
She closed the book and threw the iron latch. There was no time for riddles, but the directive was clear. Go to the University.
"Absolutely out of the question!"
Pincus paced the length of the Harmony Chamber, his usually immaculate hair looking slightly frantic. He waved a sheaf of reports in the air like a white flag of surrender.
"Your Royal Goodness, the Governors are in an uproar! Minister Borris has been admitted to the infirmary suffering from what the clerics are calling a 'nervous collapse,' the Northern Unionists are rioting, and you want to leave the capital? On a... a Goodwill Tour?"
Glinda sat at the head of the long birch table. She had changed out of her damp suit and was now wearing a day dress of soft, non-threatening lavender silk. The sharp silver tiara was gone, replaced by a velvet headband. She was carefully constructing the illusion of the oblivious, bubbly monarch.
"Pincus, you are overreacting," Glinda chirped, her voice pitched perfectly to that airy, musical soprano she despised. "The people are tense! What do they need when they are tense? They need inspiration. They need nostalgia. And what is more inspiring than a return to the halls of academia?"
"They need bread and stability!" Pincus argued, stopping at the end of the table. "Going to Shiz University now makes it look like you are fleeing your responsibilities."
"On the contrary," Glinda smiled, folding her hands neatly. "It shows I am investing in the future. The Wizard loved Shiz. He funded their engineering wing. By visiting, I am honoring his legacy. It will pacify the Governors, calm the academics, and remind the youth of Oz who their Good Witch is."
Pincus deflated slightly, rubbing his temples. "The security logistics will be a nightmare. Shiz is an open campus."
"Then we won't bring a legion of guards," Glinda said smoothly. "That looks too aggressive. Just my personal retinue. Mistress Malla, a few handmaidens, and Barnaby to manage the luggage. Keep it small. Keep it intimate."
"And the Council?"
"Let them bicker," Glinda said, standing up. The lavender silk swished softly around her legs. "Have the Royal Train prepared for a midnight departure. We will arrive in the Gillikin Country by dawn."
"Midnight?" Pincus blinked. "But the packing—"
"I pack light, Pincus," Glinda lied effortlessly. "Go. Inform the station master."
As Pincus hurried out of the room, Glinda's smile dropped. She looked at her reflection in the polished surface of the white birch table.
She was walking right into the viper's nest. And she had to do it wearing a smile.
11:45 PM - The Emerald Station
The Royal Train was a marvel of Wizard-era engineering. A sleek, emerald-green steam locomotive trimmed in polished brass, it looked like a mechanical dragon resting on the tracks.
Steam hissed from the undercarriage, billowing across the private platform in thick, white clouds.
Glinda stood on the platform, wrapped in a heavy cloak of white mink to ward off the midnight chill. Around her, the controlled chaos of departure was in full swing. Barnaby the Bear was effortlessly loading massive steamer trunks into the luggage car, while Mistress Malla directed the handmaidens with sharp, clipped gestures.
"Is everything secure?"
Glinda turned. Sola stood in the shadows of the platform's towering archway. The Crane wore a dark cloak over her linen tunic, blending into the night.
"The Palace is locked down," Sola reported softly, her black eyes reflecting the golden light of the train's lanterns. "I have placed the Avian Guard on the perimeter. If the Council tries to move while you are gone, we will know."
"Watch Pincus," Glinda murmured, stepping closer to the bird. "He is loyal to the crown, but he is terrified of the magic. Fear makes men do stupid things."
"I will watch him from the chandeliers," Sola promised. She tilted her head, looking at the massive, armored train. "You are flying into the storm, Glinda."
"It's the only way to find the eye of it," Glinda replied.
She reached out and briefly touched Sola's wing—a silent gesture of solidarity—before turning and ascending the iron steps into the private royal carriage.
The interior of the carriage was a suffocatingly plush recreation of her palace quarters. Pink velvet upholstery, brass fixtures, and the ever-present smell of forced floral perfumes.
Glinda dismissed Malla and locked the heavy sliding door of her cabin.
She set her modest leather traveling bag on the bed. She didn't open it to check her gowns. She unbuckled the false bottom of the bag, pulling back the leather lining to reveal the Grimmerie, resting snugly against a velvet cushion, flanked by the Star Wand.
The train lurched. The whistle shrieked, a high, mournful sound that echoed off the glass roof of the station.
As the locomotive pulled out of the Emerald City, beginning its long journey North toward the Gillikin Country, Glinda sat by the window. She watched the glowing green lights of her capital fade into the blackness of the night.
Look beneath the library.
She closed her eyes, leaning her head against the cool glass. She was going back to the place where she had learned to be a politician. She was going back to the place where Elphaba had learned to be a revolutionary.
Tomorrow, Shiz University was going to welcome back its most famous, most beloved, most utterly compliant alumna.
They had no idea what was actually coming for them.