The tea on the silver cart was still hot.
Glinda closed the double doors of her bedroom, shutting out the hallway, the mirrors, and the shadows.
She walked straight to the cart. She didn't pour the tea into a delicate china cup. She didn't use a saucer. She grabbed a cranberry tart with her gloved hand and ate it in two bites. Then she ate another.
The hunger hit her like a physical blow. The magic she had just performed—bending the tectonic plates, summoning a stormfront—had burned through her reserves like wildfire. Her hands were shaking again, not from fear this time, but from a caloric deficit.
She drank the tea straight from the silver pot, the hot liquid scalding her throat. It felt grounding.
Outside her window, the sky had turned a bruising shade of charcoal. Rain lashed against the glass, heavy and relentless. A "miracle," Pincus had called it.
Glinda wiped a crumb from her lip. It wasn't a miracle. It was a negotiation. And someone else had been at the table.
I am the one holding the pen.
She paced the room, the heavy pink satin of her skirt swishing aggressively.
Who?
It wasn't Elphaba. The handwriting was too sharp, too precise. It wasn't the Wizard. He was a carnival conman with no real magic.
So who was left?
Glinda stopped in front of her vanity mirror. She looked at her reflection—the steel in her eyes, the set of her jaw, the heavy crown she refused to wear but couldn't escape.
There was one person. One person who knew the Grimmerie better than anyone. One person who had groomed Elphaba, used her, and then discarded her like trash when she became inconvenient.
Glinda turned on her heel.
She didn't change out of her gown. She didn't take off the white gloves that hid her burned hands. If she was going down there, she needed to remind Madame Morrible exactly who was wearing the silk and who was wearing the chains.
The Dungeons of the Emerald City were not built for comfort. They were built for silence.
Glinda descended the spiral stone staircase, her heels clicking sharply on the damp steps. Two guards flanked her, their faces hidden behind green visors. They looked nervous. The Good Witch didn't come down here. The Good Witch stayed in the sun.
"Wait here," Glinda commanded when they reached the heavy iron door at the end of the corridor.
"But Your Royal Goodness," the captain protested. "The prisoner is... manipulative. She twists words like knives."
"I am immune to her words," Glinda said coldly. "Open it."
The guard hesitated, then slid the heavy key into the lock. Clank. Grind.
The door swung open with a groan of rusted hinges.
Glinda stepped inside.
The cell was small, lit only by a single bioluminescent globe embedded in the ceiling. It smelled of mildew, rot, and despair.
But Madame Morrible was not despairing.
She was sitting on the narrow stone cot, her back straight, her hands folded in her lap. She wore a ragged blue prison robe, but she wore it like it was ermine. Her white hair was matted, yet she held her chin high.
She didn't look up when Glinda entered. She just smiled—a thin, cruel line.
"I wondered when you would come," Morrible said. Her voice was scratchy, unused, but it dripped with that familiar, condescending poison. "I felt the pressure drop. A bit heavy-handed on the barometric shift, don't you think? You always did lack subtlety, Miss Upland."
"Headmistress," Glinda said, refusing to be baited.
Morrible chuckled, turning her head slowly. Her eyes were sunken, but they glittered with malice.
"It's 'Inmate' now, isn't it? Or perhaps you prefer 'The Scapegoat'?"
"I didn't come here to discuss your sentence," Glinda said, clasping her gloved hands tightly in front of her. "I came to ask you about the book."
Morrible's eyes narrowed. She stood up, shuffling toward the bars. The chains on her ankles rattled, but she moved with the predatory grace of a viper.
"The Grimmerie," Morrible purred. "So, the little bubble-head finally cracked the cover. I assume that's how you managed the rain? Because we both know you couldn't summon a drizzle on your own merit."
Glinda tightened her jaw. "I summoned a storm that saved the Vinkus. I am mastering it."
"You are reading it," Morrible corrected, clutching the iron bars with bony fingers. "Like a child reading a recipe. You have no idea what you are holding. That book requires a Sorcerer, Glinda. Not a social climber."
"It opened for me," Glinda shot back, stepping closer, letting the pink satin pool on the dirty floor. "It never opened for you, did it? That's why you needed Elphaba. You needed a battery."
Morrible's face twisted. The mention of Elphaba seemed to delight her, like a favorite joke.
"I needed a weapon," Morrible spat. "And she was a magnificent one. Until she grew a conscience. Such a waste of talent. Greasy. Temperamental. But powerful."
She looked at Glinda with pure, unadulterated contempt.
"You, on the other hand... you are just the sparkly leftovers. I suppose the book settled for you because there was no one else left."
Glinda felt a flash of rage, hot and sharp. "Someone else is left."
Morrible paused. "What?"
"Someone is writing in the book," Glinda said, her voice dropping. "New ink. Notes. Instructions. They helped me cast the spell today."
For a second, Morrible looked stunned. Her mouth opened slightly. Then, a look of greedy, frantic hunger crossed her face.
"Writing back?" she whispered. "Impossible."
"Who is it?" Glinda demanded. "Did you leave a link? Is it one of your spies? Is it the Wizard?"
Morrible began to laugh. It started as a chuckle and grew into a cackle, bouncing off the damp stone walls.
"You think I have that kind of power?" Morrible wheezed, wiping a tear from her eye. "Oh, you stupid, vain girl. If I could write in that book from this cell, do you think I would be helping you water the corn? I would be boiling your blood in your veins! I would be turning your precious Emerald City into dust!"
She leaned through the bars, her breath smelling of rot.
"If someone is writing back, Glinda, it means you are not special. It means you are being played. Again."
"I am not being played," Glinda said icyly. "I am being helped."
"Helped?" Morrible tilted her head. "By whom? A ghost? Or perhaps you are just going mad. Perhaps the guilt is finally cracking that porcelain shell. Hearing voices, are we? Seeing ink where there is none?"
She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"Tell me, Glinda. When you sleep... do you see her melting? Do you hear her screaming while you stood there and did nothing?"
Glinda flinched. It was a microscopic movement, but Morrible saw it.
"Ah," Morrible sighed, satisfied. "There it is. The rot at the core. You can wear the white gloves to hide your hands, my dear. You can paint the palace pink. But you know the truth."
Morrible reached through the bars, her bony finger pointing at Glinda's heart.
"You killed her just as surely as the water did. You took her life, you took her reputation, and now you are stealing her magic. You are a parasite, Glinda Upland. You are feeding on the corpse of a better woman."
Glinda stared at the old woman. She wanted to scream. She wanted to use the Grimmerie to turn Morrible into ash.
But she didn't.
Instead, Glinda's face went perfectly, terrifyingly blank. The mask slammed back into place.
"You're wrong," Glinda said softly.
"Am I?"
"I didn't steal her magic," Glinda said, her voice steady. "I inherited her burden. Something you would know nothing about."
Glinda turned her back on the cell.
"Rot in the dark, Madame," Glinda called out as she walked away. "It's the only audience you have left."
"He will find you!" Morrible screamed after her, rattling the bars violently. "Whoever is in the book—he will see through you! He will see you for the fraud you are!"
Glinda signaled the guards. CLANG. The heavy iron door slammed shut, cutting off the screams.
Glinda stood in the service corridor, breathing hard. The adrenaline was pumping through her veins now, replacing the hunger.
Morrible didn't know who the writer was. She was certain of that. The old woman's jealousy had been too real.
But Morrible was wrong about the "fraud." Glinda wasn't pretending anymore.
She gathered her skirts and began the climb up the spiral stairs. She needed to get back to the study. She needed to talk to the book again.
But as she neared the top of the stairs, she heard it.
Voices. Many of them. Angry, shouting voices echoing from the main hallway above.
Glinda paused, her hand on the latch of the upper door. The peace she had bought with the rain hadn't lasted an hour.
She straightened her crown. She smoothed her gloves.
"Showtime," she whispered.
She pushed the door open, stepping out of the darkness and straight into the fire.