The Bubble dissolved into mist the moment Glinda's crystal heel touched the flagstones of her apartment terrace. She stepped inside, the chill air meeting the cold resolution on her face. The ruined champagne gown, heavy with mud and rust, fell to the floor in a sodden, shimmering heap.
She bypassed the pinks. She needed power now, not softness.
She walked to the golden gown—the pale tulle skirt contrasting with the gold and crystal beadwork of the armored bodice. As she stepped into it, two handmaidens silently laced the invisible corset, tighter than usual, until Glinda felt her core solidify. The heavy gold and crystal beadwork wrapped around her, a final, unyielding shell.
She walked to the vanity. Her face, still pale, was covered with a thin layer of sweat and fear. She fixed the makeup with professional speed, burying the terrified girl inside. She picked up a familiar, more regal piece—her bubble crown, an intricate band of silver and crystal—and settled it onto her hair with a comforting weight. It was a symbol of her command.
Just as she was adjusting the crown, a frantic knock sounded at the closet door.
"Your Royal Goodness! Glinda! Are you in there?" It was Pincus.
"Enter," she commanded, her voice betraying none of the internal turmoil.
Pincus burst in, his face pale and agitated. He stopped short, his eyes taking in the glittering gold gown, the fresh composure, and the return of the crown.
"Glinda, thank the stars! What happened? The Governors are tearing the East Wing apart! They are demanding to know if you are a sorceress or an agent of chaos! You must issue a statement immediately!"
Glinda looked past him, her eyes fixed on the lights of the Palace. She thought of the DPW manifest hidden in her ruined gown—the proof of treason.
"Chaos," Glinda agreed, her voice dangerously calm. "We can discuss chaos later."
She retrieved her Star Wand from the desk.
"Where are they?" she asked.
"The East Wing Sitting Room, waiting for a formal summons. They've barricaded themselves in, Your Goodness. They are refusing to leave until you denounce the magic."
"Then let's not keep them waiting."
Glinda walked to the East Wing. She moved with an alarming, silent speed. Her new gown rustled with the sound of dry thunder.
She found Governors Thropp and Kray standing in the center of the plush sitting room, flanked by two anxious clerks. They were red-faced, fueled by indignation and fear.
Glinda stopped in the doorway. She didn't enter the room. She stood beneath the archway, her gold gown shimmering under the chandelier, the perfect image of Royal authority.
"Gentlemen," Glinda said. The usual soprano sweetness was gone, replaced by a cold, resonant tone. "You demanded an audience. You have it."
Governor Kray, fueled by anger, didn't hesitate. "Your Grace—Glinda. Your deliberate use of unauthorized magic has destabilized the entire Gillikin sector! We demand that you step down, or at the very least, launch an immediate independent inquiry into your own actions."
"And until that inquiry is complete," Governor Thropp added, his eyes narrowed, "the Council of the East demands provisional governing autonomy. You cannot continue to rule through acts of unsanctioned sorcery."
Glinda remained motionless, absorbing the attack. They weren't asking for help; they were staging a soft coup.
She raised the Star Wand slowly, pointing the crystal tip not at them, but at the empty space above the fireplace.
"You speak of unauthorized magic," Glinda said. "You speak of a political vacuum. You speak of stability."
Her voice hardened. "I will tell you what stability looks like."
With a sharp snap of her wrist, Glinda struck the air above the mantelpiece.
"Aqua-gelus!"
A sudden, fierce blast of freezing energy shot from her wand. It didn't hit the Governors. It hit the elaborate, century-old crystal chandelier hanging directly above their heads.
The chandelier—massive, heavy, and irreplaceable—froze instantly. Every facet of the crystal turned white, trapped in a lattice of ice.
Glinda held the pose, her wand perfectly steady. The silence in the room was absolute.
"You came to me," Glinda said, her eyes blazing, "because you knew your political posturing was useless against a problem like famine. You came to me because you needed power."
She lowered the wand slightly. The frozen chandelier remained hanging, brittle and lethal, directly above their heads.
"I am not the Queen you wanted," Glinda declared. "I am not the fool who signs your papers. I am the one who wields the magic you fear, and I am the only one who cares whether your people starve or not."
She took a step into the room, her heavy gown gliding over the carpet.
"You will return to your respective districts. You will inform your Councils that the subject of Monarchy is closed. And you will wait for my commands."
She paused, letting the power of the moment settle.
"If I hear one whisper of unrest, if I hear one word about the 'Sons of the Wizard' touching an Animal or disrupting the grain shipments—I will personally ensure that chandelier falls. Do you understand me, Governors?"
Throttle and Kray stared up at the frozen weight hanging above them. They didn't nod. They didn't speak. They looked like terrified children.
"Good," Glinda said, her voice now coolly dismissive. "Now get out of my palace."
Glinda didn't wait for them to move. She spun around, her golden skirt rustling, and walked back down the hallway, leaving the Governors stunned and silenced by the terrifying frozen centerpiece.
Her hands were shaking inside the gloves, but the immediate crisis was over. The adrenaline was draining, replaced by an overwhelming, sudden wave of exhaustion. The high collar of her gold gown felt like a vise.
"Glinda," Pincus whispered, rushing to her side. "That was... unprecedented."
Glinda didn't answer. She felt like she might collapse.
A tall, grey-furred Monkey, dressed impeccably in a palace waistcoat, detached himself from the background. This was Finn, her personal, trusted attendant since the repeal of the Wizard's laws.
"Pincus, silence," Finn said calmly, placing a gentle hand on Glinda's elbow. "Your Royal Goodness, the East Wing is too loud. You are overdue for the Quiet Hour."
Glinda looked at the Monkey. She had forgotten her routine. She had forgotten the quiet hour she had established precisely for days like this.
"The study," Glinda croaked, automatically. "I need the Grimmerie."
"No, Glinda," Finn said softly, guiding her away from the West Wing and the chaos. "The garden. You need tea. The book will wait."
Glinda didn't resist. She was too tired. The sheer force of will that had kept her standing in the face of Morrible and the Governors suddenly evaporated.
Finn led her down to the lowest level of the palace, where the grand Conservatory was housed.
The contrast was shocking. The political halls were gold and glass and cold. The Conservatory was an explosion of living green, warm and humid, smelling of rich earth, damp moss, and night-blooming jasmine. It was an ecosystem built entirely to forget Oz was outside.
Finn removed her tiara and her gloves, placing them on a stone ledge. The relief of freeing her raw, red hands was immediate.
"The camomile, Your Goodness," Finn murmured, leading her to a small, secluded table nestled beneath a canopy of tropical vines.
Glinda walked past hanging ferns and pools of calm, reflecting water. She finally let her shoulders drop.
She reached the table, which was set for tea—a delicate ceramic service, a small plate of shortbread, and two mismatched wicker chairs. She sighed, anticipation easing the tension in her chest. Solitude. Silence.
She walked around the table to sit down.
But the chair was already occupied.
A woman was sitting in the wicker chair, her back to Glinda, her blonde hair arranged in an elaborate, regal coil. She was wearing a perfectly tailored, high-collared gown of deep burgundy velvet, the soft fabric flowing gracefully into a simple, elegant train. It was serious, comfortable, and yet utterly majestic.
The woman turned her head slowly.
Glinda's breath hitched in her throat. The world seemed to stop spinning.
She knew those eyes. Wide, warm, and blue, framed by wrinkles that spoke of immense, lived-in wisdom.
"Hello, dear," Glinda's mother said softly, offering a faint, melancholic smile. "You look exhausted."
Glinda remained frozen, staring at the woman in the burgundy velvet gown. Her gold dress felt like lead. Her mind, usually so sharp, found only one question.
"Mother?" Glinda whispered, the cold tone she had used on the Governors shattering entirely. "I haven't seen you... in seven years."
Her mother simply raised a perfectly manicured hand. "A mother worries when she reads about storms and scandals, Galinda. Sit down. You look like you're about to float away from strain."
Finn, the attendant, retreated discreetly, leaving them in the humid solitude of the jasmine and fern canopy.
Glinda rushed around the table. The shock gave way to the full, devastating force of her loneliness. She fell into her mother's arms, the contact an immediate, desperate release of seven years of built-up tension. She buried her face in her mother's shoulder.
"Oh, Mother," Glinda breathed against the burgundy velvet collar. "I am so tired. I didn't know you were coming."
"I know, my love," her mother murmured, stroking Galinda's hair. "I know."
Glinda pulled back, her composure broken. She sank into the wicker chair, unable to look away from her mother.
"Tell me everything," her mother prompted, pouring the camomile tea with practiced calm. She didn't touch her own cup. She just watched Glinda. "Forget the Palace. Forget the Governors. I didn't travel seven years just to ask about your wardrobe budget, Galinda. What is truly wrong?"
The directness, the simple, maternal command for honesty, was the final trigger.
Glinda picked up her teacup, but her hand shook too badly to lift it. She set it down with a clatter.
"It never stops," Glinda whispered, the pain making her voice raw. "The noise. The questions. They want me to be a queen, but I don't know how. I don't know the laws. I don't know the answers. And I'm afraid to ask, because if they know I don't know—" She broke off, pressing her trembling hands to her temples.
"I've been pretending for so long, Mother. Since Shiz. I learned how to smile, and they gave me the world. And now I'm standing here, doing things that are terrible and dangerous, and all I can think is that I am not equipped for this. I'm not strong enough."
She looked at her raw, exposed hands where she had scrubbed herself earlier, a visual testament to her internal panic.
"I feel like a fraud every time I have to put on the crown," Glinda confessed. "I feel like I'm running on borrowed time, and I am waiting for the moment they find out I am just a scared girl. And if they do—if they find out the truth about how fragile this place is—"
Her mother reached across the table, gently taking Glinda's trembling hands. She didn't flinch at the raw, red skin.
"Look at me, Galinda," her mother insisted. "Listen to me. The world gave you a role, and you took it because you have the greatest heart of anyone I know. That exhaustion you feel? It is not weakness. It is the price of keeping the world spinning when everyone else has run away."
She held Glinda's hands firmly. "You are not a fraud. A fraud is someone who gives nothing. You have given seven years of your life, seven years of smiles, seven years of sleepless nights to keep a light on in a dark place."
"But the weight—"
"You need to put it down," her mother interrupted, her voice gentle but insistent. "You are running on fumes. You cannot fight a war against treason and fear if you don't have the strength to stand up. Your true power, Galinda, isn't in that book or that tiara. It is in your rest. You need to remember that you are my daughter, and you are loved unconditionally."
Glinda stared at her mother, the simple, undeniable truth of those words hitting her with the force of a physical blow. She opened her mouth to argue, to cite a protocol, but the words died in her throat.
"I... I don't know how," Glinda whispered, the confession raw and exposed. She pulled her hands back slowly, rubbing the raw skin of her wrists. "I don't remember how to put it down, Mother. I've been holding the weight for so long, I don't know who I am without it."
She looked around the quiet, humid Conservatory, the heavy gold gown suddenly feeling less like armor and more like a cage.
"I tried to be powerful, Mother. Like Elphaba. But I'm just... sparkly."
Her mother smiled, a warm, knowing expression. "Do you remember your seventh birthday?"
Glinda frowned slightly, wiping a stray tear. "The one where I got my first wand."
Her mother chuckled softly. "You were so desperate for real magic. You kept that flimsy, bubble-orb wand that looked so real, and you ran outside in the courtyard and pointed it at the sky, demanding fire and lightning. And nothing happened, of course. You were so utterly devastated."
Glinda looked down at her hands, remembering the acute, childhood shame of failure.
"But then," her mother continued, her voice swelling with pride, "the most extraordinary rainbow burst through the clouds. It spanned the entire courtyard. And all the other children—they all screamed. They said, 'Galinda is amazing! Look at the colors! She's the best witch ever!' And you came inside, crying because you hadn't conjured a single thing. You were so mad."
Her mother reached across the table, her eyes shining. "You were sad because you couldn't control the elements, Galinda. But you created something so much better: joy."
She squeezed Glinda's hand gently. "The technicalities of magic are for dusty books and selfish people. The adoration you inspire, the connection you build—that is your true gift. As long as people love you, Galinda, and believe in the best of you, that is all that counts."
Glinda's smile wavered. She saw the heavy, dark Grimmerie in her mind. She saw the freezing lightning in the North. She knew the truth now: she was doing the "real" magic, and it was draining her soul. Yet her mother's faith, born of a childhood rainbow, was unshakable.
"Yes, Mother," Glinda whispered, the weakness of her true exhaustion finally overwhelming the facade. "I achieved it."
"And you have done enough for today," her mother said firmly.
She stood up, moving around the small wicker table. She knelt on the stone floor beside Glinda's chair, heedless of her own velvet gown. She took Glinda's face in both hands.
"I didn't come here to see 'Glinda the Good,'" her mother said, her voice thick with emotion. "I don't care about the statues. I came to see my daughter. The girl who used to cry when she scraped her knee. The girl who sang to the flowers in the garden to make them grow faster."
"She's gone," Glinda whispered.
"She is right here," her mother insisted, pressing a hand over Glinda's heart. "I can feel her. She is beating against this ridiculous corset, trying to breathe. And you are going to let her breathe."
Glinda let out a sob—a loud, wrenching sound that she had been suppressing for two years. She slumped forward, burying her face in her mother's neck as her mother wrapped her arms around her, rocking her back and forth like a child.
"I've got you," her mother whispered into her hair. "I've got you. You can let go now. Just be sad. Just be tired. Be Galinda."
They stayed like that for a long time, the rain drumming against the glass roof. When Glinda finally pulled back, her eyes were swollen, but she looked younger than she had in years.
"I'm sorry," Glinda sniffed, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. "I ruined your velvet."
Her mother laughed, a wet, watery laugh. "It dries, darling. Everything dries eventually."
She stood up, pulling Glinda gently from the chair. "Now, I am going to draw you a warm bath. And I am going to put so much lavender oil in it that you'll smell like a garden for a week."
Glinda flinched slightly. The lavender would mask the smell of ozone. The smell of the book.
I can't tell her, Glinda realized, a fresh wave of loneliness washing over her even as her mother held her hand. If her mother knew about the Grimmerie, about the dark spells Glinda was casting to hold the kingdom together, it would break her heart.
"I would like that," Glinda whispered instead.
"Good," her mother said, steering Glinda toward the door. "You are going to soak until your hands stop hurting. You are going to sleep. And when you wake up, I will still be here. I am not going anywhere."
Glinda looked at the warmth in her mother's eyes. Tonight, she would let herself be the daughter.
"Okay," Glinda whispered, her voice small and trembling. "Okay, Mother. Just... please don't leave."
The Royal Bathroom in the East Wing was usually a place of efficient, chilly glamour—marble floors, endless mirrors, and bright, unforgiving lights designed for the flawless application of the public mask.
Tonight, it was a womb of steam and scent.
Glinda's mother had banished the electric lights, lighting dozens of beeswax candles that cast a soft, flickering golden glow against the tiled walls. The air was thick, almost syrupy, with the scent of crushed lavender and warm vanilla—a smell from Glinda's childhood bedroom, transported into the cold heart of the palace.
Glinda stood in the center of the room, still encased in the heavy golden armor of her gown. She felt numb, her body a vibrating wire of exhausted adrenaline.
"Arms up, darling," her mother murmured, stepping behind her.
Her mother's hands were not quick and silent like the palace handmaidens. They were warm, slow, and deliberate. She unlaced the hidden corset with gentle patience, murmuring soft sounds of comfort whenever Glinda winced from stiffness.
As the heavy beaded bodice was peeled away, Glinda felt a physical rush of relief, her lungs finally able to expand fully for the first time in hours. The tulle skirt pooled around her ankles, a discarded golden cloud.
She stepped out of it, shivering not from cold, but from sudden, raw vulnerability.
Her mother wrapped a thick, warmed towel around her shoulders and led her to the massive clawfoot tub. The water was milky white with dissolved salts and floating lavender buds.
"In you go," her mother instructed softly. "Slowly."
Glinda climbed in. The heat was intense, almost shocking. It wrapped around her freezing feet, her aching calves, soaking into the bone-deep weariness of her spine. She sank down until the water lapped at her chin, closing her eyes and letting out a long, shuddering sigh.
She didn't say anything. She couldn't. If she spoke, she feared she would start crying again and never stop.
Her mother didn't ask her to talk immediately. She pulled a low stool to the edge of the tub and sat down, rolling up the velvet sleeves of her gown without a second thought.
"Lean back, Galinda," she said softly.
Glinda obeyed, resting the back of her neck against the cool porcelain rim. Her mother took a silver pitcher, scooped up the warm, scented water, and gently poured it over Glinda's hair. The sound of the water trickling back into the tub was hypnotic.
Her mother began to work shampoo into Glinda's hair, her fingers massaging her scalp with firm, rhythmic movements. It was the most intimate, comforting sensation in the world.
"You used to hate getting your hair washed," her mother murmured, her voice low and rhythmic like the water. "You would scream bloody murder if soap got anywhere near your eyes. Do you remember?"
Glinda managed a faint, sleepy smile without opening her eyes. "I remember you used to sing to distract me."
"Did I?" Her mother chuckled softly. "I suppose I did. Something about a frog on a lily pad."
She rinsed the foam away, supporting the weight of Glinda's heavy blonde hair with one hand. "You hold so much tension right here," her mother noted gently, her thumbs pressing into the base of Glinda's skull. "Right where you carry the crown."
"It's heavy, Mother," Glinda whispered, her voice thick with steam and sleep. "Heavier than it looks."
"Then let the water hold it for tonight."
Her mother took a sponge, soaked it in the warm water, and began to wash Glinda's shoulders.
"Do I look different?" Glinda asked suddenly, opening her eyes to look up at the ceiling. "To you? After seven years?"
Her mother paused, the sponge resting on Glinda's collarbone. She looked down at her daughter—at the fine lines of exhaustion around her eyes, the set of her jaw that hadn't been there at eighteen.
"You look..." her mother started, choosing her words with care. "You look like a woman who has seen a storm. When you left, you were a girl who chased butterflies. Now, you look like someone who is protecting the garden."
Glinda swallowed the lump in her throat. "I miss the girl who chased butterflies."
"She isn't gone, Galinda," her mother said firmly, resuming the gentle washing. "She is just resting. You have had to grow up very fast, my love. Too fast. But the kindness? The sparkle in your eyes? That hasn't changed. The world hasn't taken that from you, no matter how hard it has tried."
"I feel like I'm acting," Glinda confessed, turning her head to look at her mother. "Every day. I put on the dress, and I put on the voice, and I say the lines. 'Everything is fine.' 'The Wizard is gone.' 'Be happy.' But sometimes... sometimes I don't know where the act ends and I begin."
Her mother stopped washing. She reached out and brushed a wet strand of hair off Glinda's forehead.
"We all wear masks, darling. Even me. Do you think I don't get tired of being the dignified Matron of the Upper Uplands? Do you think I don't want to sometimes throw a teacup at the wall?"
Glinda let out a small, surprised giggle. "You?"
"Oh, absolutely," her mother smiled conspiratorially. "But we wear the masks to protect the people we love. You wear yours to protect Oz. That isn't fake, Galinda. That is a sacrifice. And it is the most noble thing you can do."
She took Glinda's hand from under the water. It was still red, the skin angry from the scrubbing earlier that day. Her mother didn't comment on the redness directly. She simply took the washcloth and very gently, very slowly, began to stroke Glinda's arm, from elbow to wrist, over and over.
"But you must remember," her mother continued softly, "you don't have to wear the mask for me. When I am here, you can just be Galinda. You can be grumpy. You can be silent. You can be messy."
"I'm afraid I've forgotten how," Glinda whispered.
"Then I will remind you," her mother promised. She lifted Glinda's raw hand and pressed a soft kiss to the palm. "I will stay as long as you need me. I will brush your hair. I will pour your tea. And I will remind you who you were before the world decided you belonged to them."
Glinda felt a tear slide down her cheek, mingling with the bathwater. The metallic tang of fear—the fear of the bomb, the fear of the traitor, the fear of the Grimmerie—was finally being drowned out by the overwhelming, safe scent of home.
She felt herself drifting. The water was warm, the candlelight was soft, and for the first time in two years, she wasn't the guardian of a precarious kingdom. She was just a daughter, floating in the dark, held safe.
"Mother?" Glinda slurred, her eyelids fluttering shut.
"I'm right here, darling."
"Sing the frog song?"
Her mother smiled, a fierce, protective love in her eyes. She began to hum, a low, gentle melody that Glinda hadn't heard in twenty years.
"Down by the water, where the lilies grow..."
Glinda let out a long breath, her body finally going limp in the water. The traitor would be there tomorrow. The politics would be there tomorrow.
But tonight, she was safe.