The crash had been loud.
It echoed through the thick oak door, vibrating down the hallway where the housekeeping staff was waiting for the signal to change the linens.
Inside the pink apartment, Glinda lay curled on the floor, her breathing jagged and shallow. The air was thick with the suffocating scent of a dozen shattered perfume bottles—rose, jasmine, and sandalwood mixing into a cloying, chemical fog that burned her throat.
She clutched her collarbone. The phantom pain of Elphaba's nails was fading, replaced by a dull, throbbing ache that existed only in her mind. She waited for the hallucination to return. She waited for the green hands to reach out from the shadows of the artificial cherry blossom trees.
But the only thing that moved was the door handle.
Click.
Glinda flinched, scrambling backward on the cold marble, her heavy pink satin dress tangling around her legs. She tried to stand, tried to find her mask, tried to wipe the tears and the snot from her face, but her limbs felt like lead.
The heavy door creaked open.
It wasn't Pincus. It wasn't a guard.
A long, slender neck craned around the edge of the door frame. Feathers, white as snow and tipped with slate grey, caught the soft light. A pair of sharp, intelligent black eyes blinked, taking in the scene.
It was a Crane.
She stood nearly as tall as a man, her movements jerky but graceful. She wore the newly instituted uniform for Animal staff—a simple tunic of rose-gold linen tied with a sash, designed to accommodate her massive wings, which were folded neatly against her back.
Glinda froze. She knew the protocol. She had written it herself. Animals are citizens. Animals are to be treated with dignity. But in the last two years, most Animals in the palace kept their heads down. They were still afraid. They rarely spoke unless spoken to.
The Crane stepped fully into the room. Her talons clicked softly against the polished marble—tick, tick, tick—a sound distinct from the heavy boots of the guards or the leather soles of the advisors.
She looked at the shattered glass. She looked at the puddle of expensive perfume.
Then, she looked at Glinda.
Glinda pulled her knees to her chest, hiding her face behind her gloved hands. "Get out," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Please. Just go."
The Crane didn't leave.
Instead, she moved closer. She opened her beak, and a voice came out—not a squawk, but a clear, articulate, and beautifully modulated contralto.
"You are bleeding, Your Goodness."
Glinda peeked through her fingers, startled. The Animal spoke with the diction of a professor. It hit Glinda with a sudden, sharp memory of Dr. Dillamond.
"I..." Glinda stammered, shaking her head. "No. No, I'm... I'm fine. I just... I tripped."
"It is a lot of glass," the Crane observed calmly. Her Common tongue was flawless. "And the scent is very aggressive. It hides the smell of the rain."
She stepped over a shard of crystal that had once been a bottle of 'Shiz Lilac.' She didn't bow. She didn't grovel. She simply knelt, folding her long legs beneath her with an awkward grace, lowering herself to the floor so she wasn't towering over the woman in the pink dress.
"My name is Sola," the Crane said. "I manage the linens in the West Wing. I heard the crash."
Glinda lowered her hands slowly. Sola's eyes were kind. They weren't judging the smudged mascara or the red, blotchy skin. They were just... present.
"I broke them," Glinda confessed, her voice small. "I broke everything."
"Glass breaks," Sola said simply. "It is the nature of glass. It is made to look strong, but it is waiting to shatter."
She reached into the pocket of her tunic with her wing-tip—dexterous and careful—and pulled out a clean, folded handkerchief. She held it out.
Glinda looked at the cloth. Then she looked at the bird.
For two years, Glinda had fought for the Animals in the Council room. She had argued, threatened, and signed decrees to give them their voices back. But sitting here, hearing Sola speak so freely, so humanly... it felt like the first real victory she had achieved all day.
She reached out with a trembling, gloved hand and took the cloth.
"Thank you, Sola," she whispered.
She wiped her eyes, smearing the black makeup onto the white cloth. She took a deep, shuddering breath. "I thought I saw a spider," she lied weakly. "A very large one."
Sola tilted her head. A small, dry noise came from her throat—a laugh.
"A spider does not make the Good Witch of the North tremble," Sola said gently. "But memories do."
Glinda looked up sharply. Sola wasn't looking at her; she was looking at the empty space in the room where the hallucination had been.
"Memories have sharp teeth," Sola continued softly. "We Birds remember everything. The migration paths. The storms. The hunters. Sometimes, when the wind blows a certain way, I still feel the cage around me."
Glinda felt a lump form in her throat. "Does it ever go away?"
"No," Sola said. "But the cage is open now. You opened it."
"I'm a fraud," Glinda blurted out. The words tumbled out before she could stop them. "I'm not strong. I'm just... I'm just wearing a dress. I'm just pretending."
Sola shifted, her feathers rustling like silk. She looked at Glinda with piercing black eyes.
"I was in the laundry room this morning," Sola said conversationally. "I heard the announcement. The grain silos are opening. The Schools are opening."
"That was just a speech," Glinda whispered. "Just words."
"My sister lives in the Nesthard district," Sola said. "Her chicks have not eaten a full meal in three weeks. Tonight, they will eat muffins. That is not a speech, Glinda. That is bread."
Glinda stared at her. "I... I didn't know."
"You did not know her name," Sola corrected. "But you knew she was hungry. And you fed her."
Sola leaned forward slightly. "We preen our feathers, Your Goodness. We oil them to make them shine, to keep the water out. It is hard work to look perfect. But the feathers are not the bird. The bird is the thing that flies against the wind."
She reached out—a slow, telegraphed movement—and lightly touched Glinda's gloved hand with the tip of her wing. The feathers were soft and warm.
"You are flying against a very strong wind," Sola whispered. "It is okay to rest your wings."
Glinda looked at the wing touching her hand. For two years, she had felt nothing but cold jewels and political handshakes. This warmth... it felt real.
A sob broke free from Glinda's chest, but it wasn't a sound of despair. It was relief.
"I'm so tired, Sola," Glinda wept. "I'm so incredibly tired."
"Then sit," Sola said firmly. "I will fetch a broom. Pincus would call a committee to discuss the budget for a dustpan, but I will just sweep it up."
Glinda let out a wet, breathless laugh. "He would. He would draft a petition about the bristles."
Sola stood up, her talons clicking. "Rest, Your Goodness. The world will still be there when you wake up."
Glinda looked at the soft beige cushion of the sofa. It looked inviting. It looked safe.
But if she closed her eyes now, she knew what would happen. The silence would return. The mud would return. The melting hand would reach out from the dark.
"I can't," Glinda whispered.
She pushed herself off the floor, her heavy satin dress rustling loudly. Her legs were shaky, but she forced them to hold her weight.
"The silos," Glinda said, her voice strengthening. "I promised them the silos would open tonight. But if the harvest doesn't come in next month, the silos will be empty again. I have to... I have to ensure the harvest."
Sola stopped. She looked up, her black bead-like eyes assessing the woman standing before her.
"You have done enough for one morning," the Crane said.
"No," Glinda shook her head. "I haven't done anything yet. I just made a speech."
She turned toward the central salon. Toward the wreckage. Toward the mirror.
She had to get the book.
Glinda walked across the marble floor. She approached the art deco console table where the perfume bottles had shattered. The air was still thick with the cloying scent of roses, stinging her nose.
She kept her eyes strictly on her feet.
She could feel the massive circular mirror looming above her. She could feel the glass waiting to catch her reflection, waiting to show her the green face standing over her shoulder again.
Don't look up, she told herself fiercely. Do not look at the glass.
She reached out blindly, her gloved hand groping for the leather cover.
Her fingers brushed the cold, wet surface of the console table—spilled perfume—before finding the warm, dry texture of the book.
The Grimmerie.
She grabbed it. She pulled it close to her chest, hugging it like a shield. The warmth of the book seeped through the pink satin bodice, grounding her.
She turned on her heel, spinning away from the mirror without ever catching a glimpse of herself.
"Your Goodness?" Sola asked, watching her clutch the dark, ominous book against her bright dress.
"I'll be in my study, Sola," Glinda said. Her voice was steady now. "Please... finish the floor. And take a bottle of the 'Jasmine Mist' for yourself. If there are any left."
"And if Pincus comes?"
"Tell him I am meditating," Glinda said, walking toward the heavy oak door. "Tell him I am praying for rain."
She didn't look back. She stepped out of the pink sanctuary and into the hallway, the heavy book pressing against her ribs, ready to do the work that no one else could do.