The sun was barely a bruise on the eastern horizon, a smudge of indigo and charcoal against the fading night, when Glinda opened her eyes.
For the last seven hundred and thirty days, waking up had been a violent affair. It was usually a gasp of panic, a heart hammering against ribs before her eyes even focused, a blind reach for a clipboard to see what disaster had occurred while she slept. It was a daily resurrection into a life that felt like a drowning.
Today, however, she woke up slowly.
The air in the room was still, thick with the lingering, waxen scent of extinguishing beeswax candles and the heavy, sweet perfume of crushed lavender. The silence wasn't the menacing quiet of an empty palace; it was a warm, living silence.
Beside her, breathing in a deep, rhythmic slumber, was her mother.
Glinda lay there for a long time, afraid to move, afraid that the rustle of the silk sheets might shatter the tableau. She watched the grey morning light filter through the heavy drapes, catching the dust motes dancing in the air. She looked at her mother's face—relaxed, free of the worry lines that had etched themselves there yesterday in the Conservatory. Her mother's arm was draped over the quilt, her hand resting near Glinda's shoulder, a protective anchor even in sleep.
Your true power is in your rest.
The words echoed in Glinda's mind. She felt... steady. The hollowed-out feeling in her chest, that sensation of being a wind-chime rattling in a storm, was gone. It had been filled by the memory of the frog song and the simple biological reality of being held.
But as the light grew stronger, turning from grey to a pale, unforgiving white, the reality of the day began to bleed back in.
The silos. The bomb. The red stamp on the manifest. The name glowing in the air of her study.
Minister Borris.
Glinda looked at her mother one last time. This peace was a loan, not a gift. And the interest was due.
She carefully slid out from under the covers, moving with the silence of a cat. The floorboards were cold beneath her bare feet, a sharp reminder that she was leaving the sanctuary. She stood by the bed, looking down at the sleeping figure in the burgundy velvet robe.
"Thank you," she whispered to the darkness. "I'll be back before you know I'm gone."
She moved into the dressing room, closing the door softly behind her. She didn't ring for Mistress Malla. She didn't ring for the handmaidens. She couldn't bear the thought of chatter, of powder puffs, of the performative ritual of becoming "Glinda the Good."
She needed to be something else today.
She walked into the vast closet, ignoring the racks of tulle and sequins that looked like colorful confectionery. She went to the back, to the section of her wardrobe that Pincus rarely let her wear because it was "too severe" for the public.
She chose her own armor.
She selected a suit of pale, icy pink wool. It was a masterwork of tailoring—sharp, structured shoulders that gave her a silhouette of intimidation, a high, stiff collar that framed her face like a blade, and a skirt cut for walking, not floating. There were no ruffles. There were no sparkles. It was a uniform.
She sat at her vanity and pulled her hair back. She brushed the golden curls ruthlessly, smoothing them until they lay flat against her skull, twisting them into a severe, tight chignon at the base of her neck. She secured it with silver pins that looked dangerously like needles.
She looked at her reflection. The soft, vulnerable girl from the bathtub was gone. In her place was a woman who looked like she could cut glass with her jawline.
She didn't put on the heavy bubble crown. It was too theatrical. Instead, she reached for the small, razor-sharp silver tiara she had worn to the silos the night before. She settled it onto her head. It felt cold. It felt right.
She walked to the desk where she had left the Grimmerie wrapped in the crumpled DPW manifest.
She picked up the heavy book. It hummed against her hip, a dark, electric purr that vibrated through the wool of her suit. It knew. The book knew they were going hunting.
Glinda paused. She pulled a piece of her personal stationery—thick, cream-colored cardstock with a gold 'G' embossed at the top—and a fountain pen.
She wrote quickly, her handwriting lacking its usual flourishes:
Gone to handle the plumbing. Order the pancakes with the lemon zest, they are your favorite. I will be back for lunch.
She hesitated over the signature. Glinda felt like a lie. The Good Witch felt like a title.
She signed it with a firm hand:
— Galinda
She returned to the bedroom, placing the note gently on the pillow next to her mother's head. Then, she unlocked the bedroom door and stepped out into the cold, echoing hallway of the Palace.
Minister Borris, Head of the Palace Treasury, believed in the sanctity of a good breakfast. It was, he often told his underlings, the foundation of a sound fiscal policy.
His private quarters in the East Wing were a testament to his survival instincts. While the rest of the palace had been refurbished in Glinda's airy creams and golds, Borris had kept his rooms in the heavy, oppressive greens and dark oaks of the Wizard's era. He liked the weight of it. He liked the smell of old money and cigars.
He sat at a heavy mahogany table set for one, tucking a crisp linen napkin into his starched collar.
Before him sat a plate that was a direct insult to the famine threatening the North. Thick cuts of imported bacon, poached eggs with yolks the color of marigolds, and a bowl of hothouse strawberries—a luxury item that currently cost more than a Munchkin family earned in three months.
Borris sliced into an egg, watching the yolk run rich and yellow over the bacon. He smiled, a greasy, satisfied expression.
The storm last night had been frightening, yes. The lightning had been too close. But the encrypted telegram he had received at dawn from his contacts in the North was reassuring. The silos were intact, yes, but the panic had set in. The threat of the explosion had been enough to mobilize the Sons of the Wizard. The distraction was working. The populace was terrified of Glinda's magic, just as planned.
He popped a strawberry into his mouth, savoring the sweetness. Let Glinda wave her wand and play the savior. She was bleeding political capital with every miracle she performed. Soon, the Council would have no choice but to demand a return to "traditional" governance.
And Borris would be there to sign the checks.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
It was a polite, rhythmic rap on his heavy oak door. Not the frantic pounding of a messenger, but the steady, confident knock of someone who expected entry.
Borris frowned, chewing the strawberry. "Enter," he called out, his mouth full. "Leave the tray on the sidebar. And if the coffee is cold again, I will dock your wages."
The door handle turned. The heavy door swung open.
"I didn't bring a tray, Minister," a cool, clear voice cut through the room. "I brought the bill."
Borris choked.
The strawberry lodged in his throat. He coughed violently, scrambling to stand up, his thighs bumping the table and knocking over his coffee cup. The dark, hot liquid spread across the pristine white tablecloth like an expanding oil slick.
He wheezed, wiping his mouth with the napkin, his eyes watering.
Standing in his doorway was not a servant.
"Your... Your Royal Goodness!" Borris stammered, bits of red fruit staining his lip. "I... this is an unexpected honor! I wasn't told... I haven't even shaved!"
Glinda stepped into the room. She reached behind her and closed the door.
Click.
The sound of the latch engaging was final.
She didn't smile. She didn't do the little finger-wave she usually offered the staff. She walked toward the table, the heels of her sensible shoes striking the floor with a slow, military cadence. Clack. Clack. Clack.
She stopped at the edge of the table. She looked at the congealing bacon. She looked at the hothouse strawberries.
"The Northern District is eating boiled grass soup this morning," Glinda said. Her voice was conversational, light even, but underneath it was a frequency that made Borris's teeth ache. "I saw a child yesterday chewing on a leather strap because there was no flour. And you... you are eating strawberries."
Borris sweated. He tried to pull his dressing gown tighter around his paunch. "I... well, supply chains are difficult, Your Goodness. Allocation is a complex science. But I assure you, the Treasury is doing everything to—"
"Sit down, Borris."
It wasn't a request. It was a command laced with a subtle Gravitas charm. The air pressure in the room dropped. Borris felt an invisible hand push against his chest, slamming him back into his chair with enough force to rattle his teeth.
"G-Glinda?" he squeaked.
"Don't call me Glinda," she said softly.
She lifted the heavy black book from under her arm. She placed the Grimmerie on the table, right on top of his breakfast plate. The ancient leather cover landed with a heavy thud, squashing the eggs and absorbing the grease.
Borris stared at the book. He recognized it. Everyone in the Palace whispered about the book. The Wizard had been terrified of it.
Glinda reached into the bodice of her wool suit and pulled out the crumpled, damp sheet of paper. The DPW Manifest.
She smoothed it out on top of the Grimmerie, pressing it flat with her gloved hand.
"Explain this," she said.
Borris looked down. He saw the red stamp. He saw the authorization number. He saw the list of "Emergency Engineering Supplies"—fuse wire, timers, combustible aether.
And he saw his own handwriting in the margins. Approved. Expedite.
His face went the color of old porridge. The blood drained from his lips.
"I... I sign thousands of documents a day, Your Goodness," Borris tried, his voice shaking. "I can't possibly remember every requisition form. It's likely a forgery! Or a clerical error! The Public Works department is notoriously sloppy—"
"I cast a spell last night, Borris," Glinda interrupted. She didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to. "A spell of Intent. I didn't ask the magic for a signature. Signatures can be forged."
She leaned forward, placing her hands on the table, looming over him. Her icy pink suit looked like a blade against the dark wood of the room.
"I asked the magic to show me the hatred," she whispered. "I asked it to show me who signed the death warrant for the North. Who paid the Unionists to plant a bomb in the grain reserve."
Borris trembled. "Magic? But... surely that isn't admissible evidence. Magic is notoriously unstable! It's subjective! You can't accuse a Minister of the Crown based on a—a feeling!"
"I saw you," Glinda said.
The silence that followed was deafening.
"I saw through your eyes," she continued, her hazel eyes boring into his. "I saw you standing in the basement of this palace two years ago. I saw you holding something small and black and wet. I heard you laugh."
Borris stopped breathing. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.
"You threw her hat into the furnace," Glinda whispered, the grief and the rage vibrating in every syllable. "You helped him hide her death. You helped him erase her. And now you are helping someone else starve my people."
"It wasn't me!" Borris squealed, his composure shattering like cheap glass. He tried to stand, but his legs wouldn't work. "I didn't want to! I just manage the accounts! I just sign the checks! I'm a money man, Glinda, not a soldier!"
"Who tells you what to sign?"
"I can't!" Borris wept, clutching his napkin like a lifeline. "They'll kill me! You don't understand, they are everywhere! The Unionists, the Sons... it's a machine! It's bigger than the Treasury!"
"And I am the wrench," Glinda said.
She reached for the Grimmerie.
She flipped the cover open.
The smell of ozone exploded into the breakfast room, sharp and metallic, overpowering the smell of bacon and coffee. The pages flipped rapidly, driven by an unseen wind, the sound like the beating of leathery wings.
They landed on a page Glinda had bookmarked earlier. A spell she had hoped never to use.
"Veritas Revelio." The Truth Unbound.
Borris stared at the glowing green geometric script. He scrambled backward, his chair screeching against the floor. "No! No, please! They say the truth spells burn the mind! They say it boils the brain in the skull!"
"Only if you lie," Glinda said calmly. "Guide the current, Borris. Don't push against it."
She reached out and grabbed his wrist. Her grip was iron. Her skin was cool.
"Veritas," she chanted, her voice dropping an octave, resonating with the book.
Green light surged from the page, spiraling up Glinda's arm, traveling across her shoulders, and pouring down into Borris's wrist.
He screamed. It wasn't a scream of pain, but of violation. His eyes rolled back in his head, showing only the whites. The magic forced the air from his lungs, hijacking his vocal cords, shaping the breath into words he didn't want to speak.
"Who gives you the orders?" Glinda asked.
"The... The letters..." Borris gasped, his body arching in the chair.
"What letters?"
"I don't know his name!" Borris shrieked, tears streaming down his face, mixing with the sweat. "I swear! I swear on my life! I never see him! I receive instructions... once a week... via courier..."
"From where?" Glinda tightened her grip. "Where does the courier come from?"
Borris convulsed. The truth was fighting to get out, tearing at his throat.
"The University!" he screamed. "They come from Shiz!"
Glinda froze.
The magic wavered. She released his wrist as if he were burning.
Borris slumped forward onto the table, his face landing in the plate of cold eggs. He sobbed hysterically, broken and terrifyingly open.
Glinda stood up straight, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Shiz University.
Her alma mater. The place of golden arches and green lawns. The place where she met Elphaba. The place where Morrible had reigned. The place that was supposed to be a sanctuary of learning.
It made terrible, sickening sense. Shiz was the intellectual hub of Oz. It was where the engineers were trained. It was where the history books were written. It was where the anti-magic rhetoric was taught as fact.
The conspiracy wasn't just a gang of thugs. It was an institution.
"The courier," Glinda demanded, looking down at the weeping man. "When does he arrive?"
"T-Tuesday," Borris sobbed into the tablecloth. "Tuesday mornings. Ten o'clock."
Glinda looked at the clock on the mantle.
It was 7:45 AM.
She grabbed the Grimmerie. She grabbed the manifest.
"You are going to stay here, Borris," Glinda said, her voice devoid of pity. "You are going to finish your strawberries. And then you are going to wait for the Guards to come and escort you to a cell significantly less comfortable than this one."
She turned to the door.
"If you try to run," she added, glancing back over her shoulder, the silver tiara catching the light like a weapon, "remember that I can find you anywhere in Oz. I don't need a warrant. I have the sky."
She walked out, leaving the door open.
She had still a few hours left to intercept a courier.