The heavy oak door of her private apartment clicked shut, the sound echoing like a gavel stroke, finally severing the connection to the demanding world outside. Pincus's anxious stammering was cut off instantly.
"Leave me," she had whispered, not daring to look at him, knowing the structural integrity of her face was already crumbling. "Just leave me alone."
Now, the silence was absolute. It pressed against her ears, ringing louder than the cheers of the crowd.
Glinda leaned her back against the door, squeezing her eyes shut. The corset felt like iron bands crushing her ribs; every breath was a shallow, painful sip of air. She remained there for a long moment, just breathing, letting the manic energy of the balcony performance drain out of her feet, leaving her hollow.
Her hands, still encased in the white opera gloves, shook at her sides.
She reached up and grabbed the base of the Bubble Crown. It was heavy, the silver combs digging into her scalp. She yanked it off, not caring that it pulled a few strands of golden hair with it, and let it drop.
Thud.
The symbol of her power hit the thick carpet and rolled onto its side like a discarded toy.
She pushed herself away from the door and walked deeper into the room.
Her apartment was a sanctuary of her own design, a sprawling space meant to comfort and soothe. It was a world of endless, aggressive pink. Towering archways lined with glowing rose-gold trim led into circular rooms that flowed one into another. Artificial cherry blossom trees, forever in peak bloom, stood in massive gilded planters, their silk petals catching the soft, ambient light.
It was filled with gifts. Mountains of bouquets from adoring citizens—lilies, roses, peonies—were stacked on every surface. The scent was overpowering. It didn't smell like a garden; it smelled like a funeral parlor.
She walked across the polished marble floor, her reflection a ghostly pink blur beneath her feet. She passed plush, curved sofas upholstered in patterned beige and blush fabrics, pristine and utterly uncomfortable.
It was beautiful. It was perfect. It was a mausoleum built of sugar.
She drifted toward the central salon, dominated by a massive, circular mirror framed in illuminated copper.
There it was.
Sitting on a sleek, art deco console table beneath the mirror, hiding in plain sight amidst crystal perfume bottles and porcelain figurines, was the Grimmerie.
It didn't belong here. Its leather cover was too dark, its energy too raw for this confectionery room. It seemed to pulsate, a dark heart beating in a pink chest.
Glinda reached out, her gloved hand trembling, and laid her palm flat on the cover. The leather was warm, buzzing with a static charge that made the hair on her arms stand up.
She opened it.
She didn't read the spells. She didn't need to; they were burned into her memory now. Instead, she just stared at the pages, letting the jagged, geometric script blur before her eyes.
Two years.
In the silence of the room, the expanse of time stretched out behind her. Two years since the bucket of water. Two years since she had let them raise a statue to her goodness while they burned Elphaba in effigy.
She ran a finger over the margin of a page, tracing a snarky note Elphaba had scribbled in ink during their Shiz days. Pronunciation matters, Galinda. Don't turn the cat into a cabbage.
Glinda let out a wet, choked laugh that turned into a sob.
"Look what I've done, Elphie," she whispered, the words echoing in the high ceilings. "I'm trying. I promise."
She lifted her chin, looking into the great circular mirror.
The reflection showed a Queen. Perfect blonde hair, slightly mussed from the crown. A dress that cost more than a farm. A face composed of serene benevolence, even as the mascara began to smudge.
A lie.
And then, the lie cracked.
The reflection in the mirror rippled like water disturbed by a stone. Glinda blinked. The pink room behind her reflection seemed to darken in the glass. The cherry blossoms withered and turned grey. The lights dimmed, casting long, jagged shadows across the floor.
And in the center of the mirror, standing just behind Glinda's left shoulder, she saw her.
It wasn't the monster the posters depicted. It wasn't the melting ruin from the nightmare.
It was the girl.
Elphaba stood there, draped in that textured black fabric that looked like scorched earth and crows' wings. Her skin was vivid green, stark against the gloom of the reflection. Her eyes were dark pools, staring directly into Glinda's own in the glass.
There was no anger in the hallucination's face. Just a profound, aching softness. A familiarity that hit Glinda like a physical blow.
Glinda couldn't breathe. She turned around slowly, terrified that if she moved too fast, the image would shatter like a soap bubble.
But she was there. Standing on the marble floor of the pink salon.
"Elphie?" Glinda whispered. The name tore out of her throat, wet and desperate.
Elphaba tilted her head, the brim of her hat casting a shadow over her eyes. She looked tired. She looked real.
"Hello, Glinda," the hallucination said. The voice wasn't an echo; it was clear, raspy, and familiar. It sounded like late nights in the dorm room, whispering secrets in the dark.
Glinda let out a sob, tears instantly flooding her eyes and spilling over her cheeks, ruining the perfect powder. She took a stumbling step forward, her satin dress rustling loudly.
"I missed you," Glinda wept, her hands shaking as she reached out. "I missed you so much. It's so quiet here without you. Everyone talks, but no one says anything."
Elphaba smiled—a sad, crooked little smile that Glinda remembered seeing only a handful of times. She opened her arms.
"I know," Elphaba whispered. "I missed you too, Gaa-linda."
Glinda didn't hesitate. She threw herself forward. She expected to fall through empty air, to crash onto the cold floor.
But she didn't.
She hit solid warmth. She felt the scratchy wool of the black dress against her cheek. She smelled the ozone and the old books and the green scent of her friend.
Glinda buried her face in Elphaba's neck, clutching the black fabric with her white gloved hands, sobbing uncontrollably. The release was agonizing. For the first time in two years, she wasn't Glinda the Good. She was just a girl holding onto her best friend.
"I'm so sorry," Glinda cried into the shoulder, staining the black wool with her tears. "I'm so sorry I didn't save you. I'm so sorry I took the credit. I hate it. I hate the statues. I hate the pink."
"Shhh," Elphaba soothed, her green hand coming up to stroke Glinda's golden curls. "It's okay. You did what you had to do. You always do. You were always the best at the game."
"I don't want to play anymore," Glinda whimpered, clinging tighter. "I'm so lonely, Elphie. They all look at me, but nobody sees me."
"I see you," Elphaba murmured, holding her tighter. "I always saw you."
For a moment, the world stopped. The guilt vanished. The pain in her hands faded. Glinda closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of her friend, feeling safe. It was a miracle. It was forgiveness.
Then, the arms around her tightened.
It wasn't a hug anymore. It was a vice.
"You look beautiful," Elphaba whispered, but her voice had changed. It had dropped an octave. It sounded wet. Bubbling. "You look so... expensive."
Glinda frowned, trying to pull back to look at her face, but Elphaba held her fast. The embrace became suffocating.
"Elphie?"
"Does the dress fit well?" Elphaba asked, her voice right in Glinda's ear, cold as the grave. "It should. You bought it with my blood."
Glinda gasped, shoving against the black chest. "No... that's not..."
"And the crown," Elphaba continued, her grip shifting. Her hands moved from Glinda's back to her shoulders. "It shines so bright. Does it distract them from the smell?"
"What smell?" Glinda whimpered, panic rising in her chest.
"The rot," Elphaba hissed.
Glinda looked up.
The face above her wasn't soft anymore. The skin was melting. The eyes were hollow pits of green fire. The lips were pulled back in a rictus snarl, revealing teeth that looked like broken glass.
Elphaba's hands clamped onto Glinda's shoulders. The long, black fingernails—sharp as talons—began to dig in.
"Elphie, you're hurting me!" Glinda screamed, struggling, her crystal heels slipping on the marble.
"You hurt me!" the hallucination roared, the voice distorting into a cacophony of screams. "You let me burn! You let me melt! And then you walked out on that balcony and sang! La la la!"
The green hands slid inward, moving toward Glinda's neck. The sharp nails hooked over her collarbone, right above the diamond choker, finding the soft flesh exposed by the corset.
"Please!" Glinda begged, grabbing Elphaba's wrists with her gloved hands. "I'm trying to be Good! I'm trying to fix it!"
"Good?" Elphaba mocked, her face inches from Glinda's, dripping green sludge onto the pink satin bodice. "There is no Good, Glinda. There is only the survivor. There is only the liar."
Elphaba's fingers curled. The nails drove down.
They pierced the pink satin. They pierced the skin.
Glinda screamed as she felt the sharp, agonizing flare of pain. It felt like hooks tearing into her flesh, grinding against the bone. It was burning hot and freezing cold all at once.
"Feel it!" Elphaba shrieked, driving her nails deeper, anchoring herself into Glinda's body. "Feel what it's like to dissolve! Give me your perfection, Glinda! Give it to me!"
"Stop! STOP!"
Glinda thrashed, blinded by pain and terror. The weight of the hallucination was crushing her. She could feel warm blood trickling down her chest, staining the expensive silk.
"You are mine!" Elphaba's melting face lunged forward, jaws snapping.
Glinda screamed, a raw, primal sound, and swung her arm out blindly. Her hand swept across the console table.
CRASH.
Heavy crystal perfume bottles shattered. Porcelain figurines exploded against the floor. The sound was deafening.
Silence rushed back in.
Glinda fell to her knees, gasping for air, clutching her chest.
She looked up wildly, tears blurring her vision.
The room was empty. The cherry blossoms were pink. The mirror was just glass, reflecting a woman on the floor in a pile of debris.
There was no Elphaba. There was no melting witch.
Glinda looked down at her chest, sobbing, expecting to see her dress torn to ribbons, expecting to see open wounds where the claws had dug in.
The pink satin was pristine. The diamond choker was unbroken. There was no blood.
But the pain in her collarbone was blindingly real. It throbbed with a dull, sickening ache, exactly where the phantom nails had been. She touched the spot with her gloved hand, wincing. It felt bruised. It felt branded.
Glinda curled into a ball on the cold marble floor amidst the broken glass and spilled perfume. The scent of a hundred crushed roses rose up around her, choking her.
She was the most powerful woman in Oz. She was the Good Witch.
But as she lay there, shaking in her beautiful, empty apartment, she knew the truth. She wasn't being haunted by a ghost. She was being hunted by her own mind.