The bolt of the study door slid home with a heavy, final thud.
Glinda didn't move away immediately. She pressed her forehead against the dark wood, listening. She waited for footsteps. She waited for Pincus. She waited for the reality of the palace to try and claw its way back in.
But there was only silence. A silence so deep it rang in her ears.
She turned around.
The West Wing Study was a tomb. The velvet drapes were drawn tight, choking out the sun. The air was cold, stagnant, and smelled faintly of sulfur—a scent that never seemed to fade, no matter how many lilies she brought in.
Glinda walked to the mahogany desk, her heavy pink satin skirt sweeping the dust from the floor. She set the Grimmerie down. It didn't just land; it settled, heavy and expectant, like a predator coiling to strike.
She began to peel off her gloves.
The white satin stuck to her skin. She winced as she dragged the fabric over her knuckles, revealing the raw, angry red flesh underneath from where she had scrubbed them earlier. Her hands were trembling so badly she could barely flex her fingers.
"The silos," she whispered to the empty room, her voice shaking. "I promised them the silos."
She needed rain. She needed a miracle. And she needed it now.
She reached out and unclasped the iron lock. Snick.
The cover sprang open. The green light spilled out, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air, turning them into swirling galaxies of emerald stars. It cast eerie shadows against the structured bodice of her gown.
Glinda flipped through the pages, her breath coming in shallow gasps.
Levitation... Transmutation... Binding of Wind...
She found it. Page 412. Hydro-Manipulation: The Summoning of Deep Waters.
The diagram was complex—a jagged geometric map of the tectonic plates beneath the Vinkus. The chant was long and guttural.
Glinda placed her palms flat on the desk, bracing herself. She knew what was coming. The migraine. The crushing weight on her chest. The exhaustion that would leave her unable to stand for an hour.
She leaned in close to the page, narrowing her eyes to read the fine print in the dim light.
And then, her heart stopped.
In the right-hand margin, squeezed between a diagram of a water table and a warning about mudslides, there was a note.
The Grimmerie was covered in notes. Elphaba had used this book as a diary, a sketchbook, and a place to vent. Glinda had memorized every snarky comment, every correction, every doodle.
But she didn't remember this note.
It was written in the same jagged, rushing script as the others. But the color was wrong. The old notes were faded, brown with age and oxidation.
This ink was black. Jet black. And it glistened.
Glinda frowned. The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
She leaned closer.
The note read: Stop forcing the current, Galinda. You'll burst a vessel. Guide it, don't push it.
Glinda couldn't breathe. The room spun.
Galinda.
No one called her that anymore. Only the dead called her that.
She reached out with a trembling finger. She hovered over the page. Her mind was screaming at her to stop. It's a trick. It's the stress. You're cracking up, Glinda. You're seeing things.
She touched the ink.
It was cold. And it was wet.
Glinda gasped, jerking her hand back. She looked at her fingertip.
A smear of black ink stained her skin. It was slick. It pooled in her fingerprint like oil.
She looked back at the page. The word push was smeared where she had touched it, dragging across the parchment in a messy streak.
"No," she wheezed, backing away.
She hit the bookshelf behind her, books tumbling down around her shoulders, but she didn't look away from the desk.
"Who's there?" she screamed, her voice shrill and terrified. "Show yourself!"
She spun around, searching the shadows. Was someone in the room? Was the ghost from the mirror real?
"Pincus?" she yelled. "Sola?"
Silence. The curtains hung motionless. The dust motes drifted undisturbed.
She looked back at the book. The wet ink glistened in the emerald light, mocking her.
You'll burst a vessel.
It wasn't a memory. It was a warning. A specific warning about the spell she was about to cast.
Glinda stumbled back to the desk. She gripped the edge until the wood splintered under her nails.
"Is that... is that you?" she whispered to the leather cover.
She grabbed a quill from the inkwell. Her hand shook so violently she sprayed droplets of ink across the desk. She didn't dip it. She held the dry nib over the blank space beneath the note.
"Who are you?" she asked the air.
She didn't write it. She projected it. She pushed the thought out of her mind and into the leather binding, pouring all her fear and desperation into the question.
Who are you?
For a long, agonizing minute, nothing happened. The book just sat there. The ink remained static.
Glinda let out a sob. "I'm losing my mind," she wept. "I'm finally losing it."
And then, the paper rippled.
It looked like invisible water hitting the page. The parchment darkened. And then, from the very fibers of the paper, ink began to bleed upward.
It didn't appear instantly. It scrawled. It moved across the page as if an invisible hand were writing in real-time.
I am the one holding the pen, Galinda.
Glinda recoiled, clutching her chest. The handwriting was unmistakable. Sharp. Angular.
Focus on the water, the ink continued to bleed. The rock is too thick. Go around it.
Glinda stared at the words.
"Tell me who you are!" she demanded, slamming her hand on the desk. "Are you the book? Are you a ghost? Tell me!"
The ink bled again, faster this time, sharp and impatient.
We don't have time for this. The spell. Cast the spell.
Glinda froze. The voice in the ink... it sounded so pragmatic. So dismissive of her emotions. It sounded like her.
But she was dead. She was gone.
This had to be the book itself. The dark magic waking up, toying with her, using her memories against her.
She looked at the wet smear on her finger. Then she looked at the door.
She could leave. She could run out there, be the Good Witch, be safe, be sane.
But if she left, the silos would be empty. And she would be alone.
Glinda walked back to the desk. Her legs felt like water, but she forced them to move. She looked down at the spell.
Go around it, the note said.
Glinda wiped her face with the back of her hand, smearing the black ink across her cheek like war paint. She didn't know what this was. She didn't know if she was being helped or haunted.
But the harvest wouldn't wait for her to figure it out.
"Okay," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Okay. I'm focusing."
She placed her hands on the page, avoiding the fresh writing. She closed her eyes.
She didn't fight the magic this time. She didn't try to conquer the earth with brute force. She reached out with her mind, finding the stubborn rock deep beneath the Vinkus.
"Go around it," she murmured.
She guided the current.
And for the first time in two years, the magic didn't hurt. It flowed. It welcomed her. It felt like someone was holding the other end of the rope, pulling with her.
The green light faded, retreating back into the binding.
Glinda stood over the desk, her chest heaving, waiting for the crash.
She waited for the nosebleed. She waited for the blinding migraine. She waited for the wave of exhaustion that usually left her crawling to the sofa.
But it didn't come.
Instead, she felt... steady. Her hands, resting on the desk, weren't shaking. The raw skin beneath her gloves throbbed, but her blood wasn't boiling.
She looked down at the page.
The black ink note—Guide it, don't push it—was beginning to fade, sinking into the yellowed parchment as if the book were absorbing the secret back into itself.
"Wait," Glinda whispered, reaching for the quill again. "Don't go. Please."
She held the nib over the paper. Are you still there? she projected with her mind. Please.
The page remained still. The ink dried. The magic went dormant.
Glinda let out a frustrated, shaky breath. She slammed the quill down.
She walked to the window and threw back the heavy velvet drapes.
The view from the West Wing looked out toward the Vinkus. Usually, it was a view of brown dust and dying scrubland.
But today, the horizon was bruised purple. Massive, towering cumulonimbus clouds were stacking up against the edge of the sky. As she watched, a jagged fork of lightning tore through the distance, followed seconds later by a low, heavy boom that rattled the glass in the pane.
Rain.
Real, heavy, crop-saving rain.
"I did it," she breathed, fogging the glass. "We did it."
She turned back to the room. She felt a strange buzzing in her fingertips—not pain, but residue.
She quickly shut the Grimmerie. She clasped the iron lock. Snick. She didn't want to look at it anymore. It felt too alive.
She grabbed her white opera gloves from the desk, wincing as she pulled them back over her raw hands. She smoothed her pink satin skirt, ensuring the slit fell correctly. She checked her reflection in the darkened window pane.
She looked perfect. She looked composed. But she didn't look bubbly.
She unlocked the door.
Click.
Pincus was standing right there, his fist raised as if he were about to knock. He jumped back, looking startled by her sudden appearance.
"Your Goodness," he stammered. "We heard a noise. A rumble. And the sky..."
He gestured vaguely toward the window, where the storm was now darkening the entire western horizon.
"It is raining in the Vinkus," Glinda said. Her voice was flat, devoid of the usual high-pitched theater.
Pincus stared at her. He looked at the storm clouds, then back at the woman standing in the doorway. He saw the tension in her jaw, the dark intensity in her eyes that the pink dress couldn't hide.
"You summoned it," Pincus whispered, a note of genuine fear in his voice.
"I asked for it," Glinda corrected sharply. "And it answered."
Pincus swallowed hard. He straightened his jacket, trying to regain his composure. "The Council is already hearing reports. They are calling it a miracle. Glinda... surely now you see. This is the power of a Sovereign. You must accept the Crown. You are the Queen of Oz."
Glinda stared at him. The air in the hallway seemed to thicken.
"Do not call me that," she said. It wasn't a request.
"But Your Majesty—"
"I said no," Glinda cut him off, stepping forward. The Bubble Crown caught the lightning flash from the window, casting a long, jagged shadow. "Queens sit on thrones and sign papers, Pincus. I just broke the earth to feed your people. Do not insult me with a title I do not want."
Pincus took a step back, intimidated by the sheer force radiating from her.
"Then... what are you?" he asked weakly.
Glinda looked at her gloved hands. She could still feel the phantom sensation of the wet ink.
"I am the Good Witch," she said, her voice cold as the rain falling in the west. "And I have work to do. Ensure the grain trucks are ready to move the moment the rain stops. I want the silos full by midnight."
She didn't wait for his response. She brushed past him, her heavy satin train sweeping the floor with a sound like a whisper.
She walked down the Grand Corridor, the sound of Pincus's footsteps fading behind her.
The hallway was lined with mirrors—massive, floor-to-ceiling panes framed in heavy gold leaf, part of her initiative to make the palace feel larger, brighter, and more open. Now, however, they felt like a gauntlet of watching eyes.
Glinda kept her gaze forward, her heels striking the marble with a sharp, staccato rhythm. Clack. Clack. Clack.
She passed the largest mirror in the wing, a monstrosity of glass that reflected the entire corridor behind her.
In her peripheral vision, she saw it.
A shadow. Tall. Thin. Angular.
It wasn't her shadow. Her shadow was a billow of pink satin and the spikes of a crystal crown. This shadow was draped in tattered black. It moved just behind her left shoulder, keeping pace.
Glinda gasped and spun around, her dress whipping around her legs.
"Who's there?" she demanded, her voice echoing off the cold walls.
The corridor was empty. The morning sun streamed through the windows, illuminating dust motes and polished stone. There was no black hat. No green skin. Just her own reflection staring back at her, wide-eyed and pale.
"Stop it," she hissed to herself, pressing a gloved hand to her racing heart. "Stop it right now."
She turned back around and forced herself to keep walking. It's the stress, she told herself. It's the magic residue. It's the guilt.
She took five steps.
Then she saw it again.
Ahead of her, near the corner of the West Wing, a shadow stretched across the floor. It was the unmistakable silhouette of a witch, elongated and distorted, waiting for her to turn the bend.
Glinda froze. She held her breath, her hands clenching into fists inside her satin gloves.
The shadow moved.
A figure rounded the corner.
Glinda flinched, stepping back—
It was a Bear.
He was massive, wearing the rose-gold livery of the palace staff, pushing a silver cart laden with fine china and covered platters. The wheels of the cart squeaked softly—squeak, squeak, squeak—a mundane sound that shattered the terror in an instant.
The Bear stopped when he saw her. He bowed low, a clumsy but respectful gesture.
"Good morning, Your Goodness," the Bear rumbled. His name was Barnaby, a gentle giant who had been part of the kitchen staff since the repeal of the Anti-Animal Laws. "I am just bringing the breakfast service. Fresh pastries from the ovens."
Glinda let out a breath that shook her entire frame. She stared at the shadow the cart cast on the floor. It wasn't a witch. It was just a cart.
"Barnaby," she breathed, trying to steady her voice.
"I hope I didn't startle you," Barnaby said, twitching his nose. "The wheels are in need of oil."
Glinda walked up to him, looking past his broad, furry shoulders down the empty hallway he had just come from.
"Barnaby," she asked, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Did you see anyone just now? In the hallway? Someone... dressed in black?"
Barnaby blinked his dark eyes. He looked behind him, then back at Glinda.
"No, Your Goodness," he said gently. "Just us two. It's very quiet this morning."
"Right," Glinda nodded, a tight, jerky motion. "Just us two. Of course."
"Shall I take the tea to the Harmony Chamber?" Barnaby asked, gesturing to the cart. "Or the Solarium?"
"My room," Glinda said quickly, stepping around him. "Leave it in my room, Barnaby. I will be back in a clock tick."
"As you wish, Your Goodness."
Barnaby bowed again and pushed the cart forward. Squeak. Squeak.
Glinda walked faster now. She didn't look in the mirrors.
Her mind was racing, spinning out of control.
Just us two.
But it wasn't just them.
The ink. The wet, black ink in the Grimmerie.
If Elphaba was truly dead—if the melting was real, if the hat was empty—then Elphaba couldn't be writing in the book.
Which meant someone else was.
I am the one holding the pen, the ink had written.
Glinda felt a cold sweat break out beneath her corset.
Someone else had access. Someone else knew the book was active. Someone else was guiding her magic, correcting her spells, watching her from the pages.
Who is it?
If it wasn't Elphaba, it had to be another Sorcerer. But who was left? The Wizard was gone. Morrible was locked in the dungeons.
Was there someone else? A hidden player?
And the most terrifying question of all: Are they a friend? Or are they a foe?
If they helped her with the rain, maybe they were an ally. But if they could control the Grimmerie... they had power that rivaled the Wicked Witch herself.
Glinda stopped in the middle of the empty hall. She looked at her reflection in the glass of a window, backlit by the storm she had just summoned.
If this new presence was an enemy, then the peace she had built was fragile. If this was an enemy, a battle was coming. A real battle. Not a debate with Councilmen, not a PR campaign. Magic against Magic.
But as Glinda stared at herself—at the heavy crown, the armored corset, the determined set of her jaw—she realized something.
She wasn't the same girl who had cried in the poppy fields. She wasn't the girl who had floated above the tragedy in a bubble, afraid to get her hands dirty.
That girl had died on the balcony with Elphaba.
The woman standing here now had just broken the earth. She had commanded the sky. She had bent the forbidden magic of the Grimmerie to her will to save her people.
She carried the guilt, yes. It was a heavy stone in her chest that made it hard to breathe. But guilt wasn't just a weight; it was fuel.
I am not just a girl in a dress, she thought, her eyes narrowing in the glass. I am the Guardian of this realm. I am the only thing standing between Oz and the dark.
She straightened her spine, the satin of her gown rustling like a war banner.
If someone else was out there, she would find them. If they were a friend, she would use them.
And if they were a foe coming to disturb her peace?
Glinda the Good would be ready to finish the war she had started.