Chapter Text
One moment people had been crowded around the stage, built only a few days prior and strung with roughly cut bunting made by the local children, reserved cheers and polite applause echoing in the late spring air. The sense of community pulled all together, brightened the already brilliant day into one that would surely remain clear in the minds of all for some time to come. The smiling faces of young and old, all brought together for the greater good; to help those less fortunate than they, to honour those lost, to bask in His glory.
The beaming expressions of the orphans whose parents had been lost in, and to, the mines in the north, were a joy to see. Finally gifted a spark of hope in their otherwise dismal short lives. Other children dressed in their best, lined up obediently and standing proud, attendees of the local school awarded prizes for their devotion. Others there too, those still struggling and many still healing, the few survivors of the Massacre brought there to recover. A ceremony included to bless the souls passed on and to pray for those remaining, a familiar and frequent occurrence ever since that tragic day.
The breeze stirred, sweet and floral, a gentle caress over the colourful tulips planted with care along the curling path towards the chapel.
Yes, it was sure to be a day long remembered. Though perhaps not for the reasons they all once believed. For that moment, like so many, was to be short-lived.
The sudden great sweeping of the wind, bruising and cutting in its strength. The bunting torn loose at one end, whipping through the air, the alms basket slipped from someone’s grasp, the contents scattering.
The sun blinked out.
A great roar. A fierce rumbling as if the ground itself was cracking open – the Time Dragon at last waking from its slumber to reduce the world to ashes.
Screaming, shouting, the stampeding of footsteps on cobblestone and flattened grass as the congregation broke, running in all directions. The great storm stealing the footing of the smallest and frailest, sending them sprawling, the ground littered with their bodies. Some helped; dragged them along or slung them over shoulders. Most did not spare a glance back. They threw themselves into houses and beneath any solid structure they could find. Prayed for salvation. The wailing of children and adults alike filling the air until it became stiflingly, claustrophobic. A clamour that could not be answered. Drowned out by the tearing and ripping of their world. An almighty crashing that barely reached their deafened ears.
Rubble and debris rained down uncaring of where it fell and what it hit, painting the sun-baked ground with greys and browns and whites.
Chaos.
Amongst it all, the sound of a confused, young voice called for help, lost beneath the weight of everything else.
The immediate stillness that followed was suffocating.
In whole, the death of the Eminence had been sudden. It was something Glinda still had yet to fully comprehend even as she stood there alone amongst the roses. Worse still on her arrival, greeted by black cloth hanging from the windows and the single balcony of Colwen Grounds, the fabric shifting limply in a feeble breeze.
The news had reached them with the same abruptness as a Munchkinland rainstorm. The rushed journey there a blurred memory. The public procession, which surely some would accuse of being an unnecessary expense, much the same.
The actual interment was a rather private affair, with only those in positions of true importance and those closest to Nessa attending – which were expectantly few. Glinda recognised some of those there in passing, a number standing in pairs or so, even as such, she remained on her own for the most part, as was typical of such sombre Unionist affairs. As was the social norm. The drone of the minster’s voice merging with the rustle of someone shuffling their feet, a cough, the ever-present birdsong a sign of the world ever living. Ever moving.
She bowed her head, repeated the prayers that meant little to her with all the care she had. Trying to put all her feeling into something that felt empty. Offering what she wanted desperately to in the only way, and in the only words, available to her. Her ever-heavy heart only sinking deeper. A life so tragically cut short... how could one truly celebrate that? Not that dear Nessie would appreciate Lurlinist sentiment. Not that it was safe to.
The reception that followed would be where the rest of the dignitaries and the like would pay their respects, and unlike distant memories, she was doubtful she would navigate it with all of the skill expected of her.
With careful dabs of the handkerchief pinched between her fingers to her eyes, and one last look to the upturned earth, the scent of it uncharacteristically harsh in her noses, she slipped away leaving only the minister and the gravedigger remaining. Her heart caught in its ever-tightening vice.
She made her way through the rows of roses, untouched by the fierce storm that took place only a short distance away. The bushes vibrant and precisely pruned, treated well so far by the weather that year, the pops of red present in a great multitude. The bees buzzed around happily, oblivious in their work. She paused for a moment, as if to take in their familiar delicate aroma. Her brow crinkled and, with only slight hesitation, she brushed a finger across a satiny petal, flinched back at a spark like the stab of a thorn.
Fingers frozen, a breath away, she swallowed and stared. She touched it again, surer, as if rubbing thumb and finger against a delicate fabric. Waited. Stilled. Reached out with her deeper senses.
Nothing.
Imagination made overactive and thoughts warped by rumours and murmurs she knew better than to believe in.
The petal fell gently from her fingertips.
She pressed on, in search of a familiar greying figure.
She did not fully understand the pull she felt, an innate desire to seek one with which she was now shouldering pain. She was not arrogant enough to believe that their sorrow was matched in its intensity. She knew this, and she knew loss.
Guilt, too. For her grief now, for dear Nessa, was not as great as the grief she had felt all those years ago. She cared for Nessie, deeply so. They had become like sisters in their mutual abandonment, though she feared they had drifted apart more than she realised in recent years. A fault, in part, of the distance and difficulty of travel to and within the Free State, becoming only more of a challenge with time.
Her connection with her Ama, on the other hand, had only strengthened during their time apart. A connection that would never have broken and only grew stronger with age. No matter the depth of connection, or the reality of it, losing a family member struck hard. To lose a child, she could not imagine.
It was funny, in that queer inexplicable way, that it was only once parted in this life that you fully realise your regrets. Consider what you have missed. Mourned that lost time you have never before been aware of. And now there was no turning back the clock to right it. What was gone, was gone. The chance in this life over. Only heartache and anguish remaining for what may have once been.
In a secluded corner, in the cool shadow of the manor, she found him alone and still. In the distance, guests filtered into the rose garden, the sound of voices steadily rising, interspersed with the calls of the birds.
To see him like this took her back to those difficult days, shortly after they had begun. It had been late at night, she once again found sleep a distance possibility, one she would never easily grasp. It was impossible to stay in her room, so she wandered the halls, found herself drifting towards the study with a churning heart.
She had opened the door, startled to find him sat there at the desk in the glow of the lamp. His head had been bowed, hands cupping some poor wooden bird that appeared to have been chewed by some young wild animal.
A pose he was now replicating in the present, as if the memory had manifested itself before her.
On his return, that sense of distain – towards not her personally, but her people – had still appeared in his words, completely unintentionally, she knew. An innate bias, but not to the same extent as others, something she herself was acutely aware of. Unlike later, when her study of sorcery became known.
That had driven a wedge between the few she had left there. Though surprisingly, Nessa had come around first, with Frex soon to follow. Nessa had even encouraged her, later, when she told her of her returned efforts in confidence. For that initial reaction, hurt though she was, she could hold no ill-will against them. They had their views, narrow-minded though they were. She could not bear to have lost that connection.
Grief, too, coloured much.
That bigotry faded away until they had a mutual respect between them – then a pleasant familiarity of sorts. Like… well, like true family in a way.
Glinda took in his wavering form, his figure hunched far beyond its years, his weight resting on a sturdy cane. No one thought to offer him a chair? Surely if not for his relation, than his vocation would afford at least that much. She cast her eye around, but there were no servants nearby, and no chairs present in the garden. She thought to fetch someone, but the thought of leaving him here like this, if only for a moment, kept her there.
Glinda’s steps grew cautious, though she made sure Frex knew of her approach by daintily clearing her throat, yet with some volume behind it. His hearing was failing quite rapidly nowadays.
Once by his side, she waited but a moment before she rested a gentle hand on his shoulder, a comforting gesture she hoped. “Frex?”
He did not respond at first, too absorbed in his own thoughts and sorrow that Glinda wondered if he was even aware of her presence at all. The pitiful reminder only adding to everything that encumbered her so.
She almost jumped when he finally spoke, barely heard despite their closeness, words almost lost beneath the growing chatter nearby and the weak flapping of the banners at their back.
“First Turtle Heart…” his muted voice cracked, his words weighed down as much as his frame now was. Pressed down by all those he had lost. Glinda ensured that her hold and posture remained strong, as if the stability she forced upon herself could be shared, could strengthen and support him also. As if her compassion, too, could pass from her to him with the touch in order to soothe his pain. “My dear Melena, my oldest child…” He sighed heavily, his misty eyes downcast. “And now sweet Nessa, my precious pet. It seems I am fated to be alone, to carry the ever-increasing burden of loss.”
“I understand.” For now she did. Like a shackled weight, a constant reminder bound to you, threatening to pull you down beneath the waves.
“They say such awful things.” Hurt, disgust, heavy in his words. Her jaw tightened. At least here, alone, they were free from hearing such things. He turned his head to her, lifting it slightly as he smiled weakly at her. “At least I still have you and my son.”
And his faith. Never wavering despite it all. But now was neither the time nor the place for her to consider such a puzzling thing.
She returned his smile, though hers was far firmer, practice made perfect. He looked once more to the rose garden, filled with people she was not certain he truly saw. “Surely you mean your son and his wife?”
“Do not belittle yourself so.” He turned his glassy eyes to her again; even now his face bore none of the familiar signs of Nessa, nor –
It was something she was, in that moment, greatly thankful for. Selfish of her perhaps, but it made things easier to cope with. To push aside. To stop the weight from pulling her down.
He lifted a hand to rest against her own, skin rough against hers, and gave a weak squeeze.
“You have grown." He paused, his throat moving with a difficult swallow. His eyes red, his chin quivering. "More than I imagined possible.”
The words could easily be interpreted as a veiled insult if she was within that mind-set, but she had clarity and knew it not to be meant that way. Not with Frex. Not now.
“I would like some time alone.” He shifted his weight, taking an unsteady step forward, moving from under her hand as he did. She clasped her hands together to keep them still. “Will you escort me to the Sunroom?”
“Of course.” As she moved forward, he stuck the elbow of his free arm out, an offer she politely accepted. Ever the gentleman was Frexspar, even as his hair grew ever whiter, his back more bent, the shaking of his hands ever more prominent. She slid her arm through his and they began their slow and careful walk away from the rose garden in a comforting silence.
Frex’s wish for time alone was not as certain at first. They had stayed together for a little while, simply existing in one another’s presence and sharing in a wordless understanding, before she at last took her leave. She, too, would much rather have been left alone for the rest of the day, to try to come to terms with the loss, to accept the reality that was before her and yet still seemed so distant.
However, as she looked out on the garden before she left him, in that so familiar memory filled room, she recalled all that lay before her. She had duties. Time for reflection, for private grieving, had to come later. She could not hide away in her room and ignore her responsibilities.
She caught one of her favourite maids as she left – Gertie (oh what a sight she must have made so long ago when that once lone maid stood before her in duplicate. Twins. All that time) – who was ensuring a flower arrangement in a nearby corridor was still as expected, Glinda requested that she bring tea to Frex. The always prim and unflappable maid was swift to act upon her instruction, after offering her condolences once more, though in her eyes rather than voice this time.
Alone, in a corridor for just a moment, Glinda smoothed her hands over her skirts, granting herself just a moment to gather herself. To try to relax the tightness in her facial muscles, to pay no mind to the scratchiness in her eyes. When she forced herself to move, her steps were accompanied by a rhythmic click. She paused from her path only briefly to duck into a side room she knew housed an oval mirror, to check she was still impeccably presented. Makeup neither running nor smudged; dress tasteful, exquisite and modest. Satisfied and composed, if only in that, she left.
The uncertainty concerning the succession had been palpable from the beginning. It was best for her to behave in a balanced manner, clear she would take the reins if necessary, but not enough to appear arrogant in assumption. Even so, it seemed that between herself and Shell, the general consensus was quite clear. Though that did not rule out that people were simply ensuring that all potential possibilities were covered.
The sun warmed her skin as she exited the mansion, the scent of the roses stronger than before, but the voices stronger still.
She glanced around subtly, but had yet to see Nanny. Her absence at the interment, she could understand in a way, never one to be shy of her opinion on Unionism. Even so, she had expected her to be there. She had aided Nessie in her studies despite her great displeasure towards it. Attended service with her, something in which Glinda felt compelled to follow despite her own feelings on the matter. Grief, perhaps, too great for Nanny to bear. Though, with her Lurlinist beliefs, surely she understood. Though Glinda knew that did little to lessen the pain.
She thought, for a moment as she passed a huddled group, she caught whispers. Hushed mentions of wickedness and witch. Foolishness. All of it. A twisted name given to Nessa by tabloids and used in satirical drawings in the City, all due to her strive for independence. Senseless, the lot of it, Nessa had no talent for sorcery, it went against what she believed in, neither did – none of the family did. Glinda, of all people, should know.
“– the sky turned green, so they say.”
“A sign if there ever was one. Great balls of ice fell –”
The Wizard had sent a representative, drabbed in green and gold and dark blue, the poor beleaguered man had paid his respects – and to her, also, a wish of best fortune and a promise to continue their working relationship – and then he had taken his leave as swiftly as was considered polite. Not a moment passed where he was free from the piercing gazes and purposefully pointed looks of others.
“Glinda, dear!” A voice called, Dame Margolotte of Wend Fallows lifted a hand, catching her attention a short distance away. She turned to say something to the women with her, a smile on her face. Glinda slipped past two deeply conversing men, unnoticed.
“– left as quick as she appeared.”
“Running away, I would say.”
Margo held out her hands, taking Glinda’s in greeting. An action that had once been so odd, came so naturally now. “How lovely to see you again, such a shame it could not be in more pleasant circumstances.”
“Truly,” she replied with a sad turn to her smile, their hands parting, “I do so look forward to your letters.”
After their first meeting at the funeral reception that followed Peerless Thropp’s passing, she had been quite surprised to receive a letter sometime later. And though it had taken her a great while to respond, the delay had affected nothing. Sporadic, their contact, but present ever since.
Margo grew sombre. “We offer our most sincere condolences.” She pressed a hand to the back of the woman next to her – the girl, Glinda realised when their eyes met. “My daughter, soon to be of age, and ready to take over from her father.” Margo laughed, as if in relief, brushing a hand over her daughter’s carefully styled hair, mindful of dislodging or pricking herself upon pins. “Finally listened to sense to go back to the proper tradition.”
“I’m happy for you.” She was, knowing how arduously Margo fought for the change. Glinda turned to Margo’s daughter, inclining her head in greeting and offering both hands even though this was the first that they had met. “A pleasure to meet you at last, Sallie.”
The girl’s eyes widened, but she covered her surprise quickly and accepted the greeting. “Your Eminence, I am sorry for your loss.”
“As are we all, I should hope,” the other woman present said, taking the opportunity as soon as a hint towards silence rose. She was a stocky woman with a natural displeasure to her expression. “Isomere Seban.”
“Ah,” Glinda said without a moment’s thought or a sign of her distraction at a title so easily given to her – at the assumption, “Eminent Seban, a pleasure to meet you.”
“And I, you.” Isomere did not move to offer nor accept a hand, her right swirling a glass of deep red wine. Glinda let the slight lift of hers fall. “Thank you all for your condolences.”
It seemed that her presence had been noticed, or pointed out, others appearing to offer words of acknowledgment, sympathy, and well wishes. A few hardly discreet attempts to turn the light conversation to political matters were deflected easily enough, as were those attempting to ingratiate themselves. Now was not the moment for that, nor they the people. But it was expected, unfortunately.
The four of them alone again, a glass of wine of her own now in hand, Isomere enquired after Margo’s husband – a not so subtle attempt to see his feelings on the matter of handing his title down, or so it would seem if her voice carried any intonation and her eyes any interest. It was her way, Glinda concluded quickly, easily misinterpreted if one did not pay attention or chose intentionally to not do so.
“Oh, you know how husbands are.” Margo chuckled, waving her fingers in an exaggerated flippant gesture.
It was easy enough to laugh along with her, Glinda casting an apathetic eye to a group of men opposite. “They have only two faults; everything they say, and everything they do.”
They laughed good-naturedly, and Glinda tried to take some lift from it.
Glinda took a sip of her wine, even more acrid than it once was after the easier access to quality wines in the City. Yet, it brought with it a peculiar sense of comforting familiarity, one that raised a slight tilt to her lips she could not quite understand.
“It is a shame the Lady Locasta could not attend,” Margo said with a trepidation that caught Glinda’s attention just as much as the name. And it truly was a pity, her desire to have an opportunity to share some words with the Gillikinese Sorceress never quite satiated. More so now, with so many questions. It was wise, to make leave, and not just for the obvious. Absence would help extinguish the rumours and lay the gossip to rest far more swiftly. At least that was the hope. Though experience did not bode well.
“Rather occupied,” Isomere replied. A distant, but careful, eye was cast about before she continued, “Not as those fools claim, of course.” She looked to Glinda then, as if to reassure her though her expression remained unchanged. “We should not forget all she has done for us due to… this. True kindness is hard to come by.”
“Father says she travelled to Rush Margins only recently. To donate a large amount towards the construction of a number of almshouses in the area.”
At first, it had been both a perplexing, but pleasant, surprise to hear the Good Wi – The Adept of the North – of Gillikin – spoken of so fondly. Almost beloved in Munchkinland. Their natural distrust of the Gillikinese seemingly disappearing in her presence and at the sound of her name. Until recently, and in certain circles, at least.
A popular figure throughout Oz, someone she idealised herself, as did most Gillikinese girls in their youth. But it was a popularity she never expected to extend into Munchkinland.
“She would hate to be called that – Lady, that is. She prefers a more personal connection.” She had encountered many people who acted, or claimed, that they were kind and caring. A meeting, extremely brief and long ago though it was, confirmed to her the genuineness of Locasta.
“So humble too.” Isomere turned her eyes to no one in particular, a curl to her lips. “They should be ashamed.”
What followed were a few long moments of silent agreement, before they returned to the idle chatter of before. Glinda let the flow of it distract her.
But it was not to last too long.
“Your Eminence?”
The eyes of the others fell to her.
“Yes?” She answered as she turned, not to find another dabbed in black, but a woman in an unfamiliar uniform. She sat in an awkward way point between Munchkin and Munchkinlander, neither short nor tall enough to fit comfortably into either category.
“If I may have but a moment of your time?” The woman spoke in a strained manner, as if the words did not come naturally to her. An internal struggle to sound a particular way.
She stood as a solider did, her hat tucked in the crook of her elbow, her arm across her middle, the other at her back. A military woman – not something Glinda had ever seen nor knew of as a possibility elsewhere. There was a muted hint of the Gillikinese about her, if only in eye and hair colour and if she were to be generous, but all else spoke of true Munchkinland heritage.
“Of course you may.” She glanced back, but her company had already distanced themselves in the name of privacy.
“Firstly, may I offer my deepest condolences?” Glinda thanked her with a nod and a small smile. The woman straightened more, if it were even possible to do so. “I am General Jinjuria.”
A general? Glinda could not claim to know the intricacies of the military in any country, but she knew enough of titles and ranks.
Glinda spoke quickly with a smooth, polite interruption, “A pleasure to meet you, General.”
General Jinjuria’s eyes lit up a little at such a simple, and surely expected, show of recognition. “If I may speak plainly?”
Glinda barely had time to indicate permission before the woman pushed on, clearly having held onto her words for some time and eager to finally voice them.
“We wish to serve our country as any man can, as we once did and do again thanks to the late Eminence. I don’t expect a lady of your station to understand – to mean no offense, but those of a delicate nature I mean. You must understand,” she stumbled in her repetition, her brow lowering and a tightening of her jaw spoke of both frustration and embarrassment. She stood firm, still, continuing a moment later. “That is to say, we wish to still have that same right. We are just as capable, if not more so.”
“If you fear that restrictions will be reimposed, I have no intention of it.” In fact, she knew nothing of it, but she saw no reason why a woman could not serve her country, just as she had seen – and still saw – no reason for the ban on women attending the better colleges. To become academics and experts. To pursue whatever they wished to as any man was free to do so.
“Thank you for your understanding,” General Jinjuria’s voice had a breathless quality of relief about it. She did not slouch, but straightened suddenly as if she had, her chin tilted up. “I held – still hold – faith in you, I am most pleased to know that I was not misguided to do so.”
To believe in someone as such when you have never met them seemed a rather foolish thing to do, but Glinda was not about to voice such a thought.
“Of course, the title change is not official as of yet, but I can assure you if that is the decision –”
“If?” General Jinjuria interrupted sharply, clearly unaware that she had. “There is no if, that title is yours by right of inheritance.”
“By right it could also pass to my husband.” The debate was a weary one, with arguments from all sides.
“No,” the displeasure was clear in General Jinjuria’s voice and the hard sheen to her eye, “the title should pass to the next female in line, to you and then your daughter. The Eminent Peerless Thropp held that title for far too long, his refusal to relinquish it –”
General Jinjuria cut herself off, chest rising as she took in a deep breath.
“I apologise.” Another breath. “It is something I feel strongly about.”
“There is little wrong with having passion.” It is only when it drives you too forward, propels you onwards by desperation, that it becomes a problem. A familiar ache made its presence in her chest known. “It speaks of your dedication and your conviction.”
“Thank you,” General Jinjuria said once more. “For that. And for your time. Know that you have the support of many, though it may not always be clear. I hope the way forward will be.”
“If ever I can be of help...”
Hat in place, General Jinjuria nodded, expression wiped to that of a stern and professional solider. With sharp, sudden motion, she thumped her closed fist to her chest, twisted her wrist and slapped the space above her heart with an open palm. A salute Glinda realised. Turning on her heel, the General departed through the throng of people who spared her nary a glance.
She barely had a moment to consider contemplating their exchange, or the hushed words others believed private, when another voice called.
“Lady Glinda?”
The address was nothing but a courtesy; no title had been granted to either her or Shell – nor any for the current and previous generations. The last to hold one, Nessa’s late grandmother. And, yet, despite all of that the name had stuck amongst the people there. She no longer recalled who had first spoken it, and was not of the mind now to ruminate upon it further.
Her expression had grown stiff, the aggravation that had slowly been creeping up on her at last making itself known. She turned at the voice, reflexively covering up her slip, the masking taking far less effort when her eyes landed first upon Genfee’s familiar shining head, then down to his affable smile. To think, he had been the Estate Steward the entire time. In her immaturity she had been too quick to dismiss him, the edge of guilt still stirred in the pit of her stomach with the memory.
“Yes?” The exasperation she hid not conjured up by him, but by what she sensed was forthcoming. Surely the other business she was now likely responsible for could wait, if only for a day. For this day.
Though she knew that was not wise. The wheels were forever turning, people forever jockeying for position, vying for ascendancy, making their moves even on a day of mourning. She was not afforded the time, not when there were duties that, with each moment, were falling into her hands.
When a leader is lost so too become the people.
They needed a leader, and she was prepared to become that leader. It seemed a decision had been made, not just by the public, but by the ministers themselves. As such, she was unsurprised when Genfee informed her that the Council of The Free State of Munchkinland were awaiting her presence in the main study of Colwen Grounds.
How presumptuous.
She followed him, pushing down her offence at the arrogance the Council had already displayed with only a few simple actions. Even the normally mild mannered Genfee seemed irritated, his typically composed demeanour when carrying out such duties broken by the tugging of his beard. Fidgeting with whatever was to hand like an adolescent unsure of what to do or someone well out of their element.
Genfee led her to a door on the ground floor, not too far from the entrance hall. He entered before her to announce her arrival, and she considered for a moment asking him to stay.
She decided not to.
He hurried back out of the room, leaving Glinda alone with the occupants.
The main study was a grander room than the familiar one that carried too many memories. More sterile, more open, books precisely placed to appeal most to the eye. It lacked the authenticity of the other.
The men, all Munchkins save one, sat at haphazardly pushed together tables. Looking for all the world as if they were waiting on her, like she was a tardy student and they the teachers. She recognised some of them from when she still resided at Colwen Grounds, towards the end of her time there, and others from her visits.
It seemed that they were rather particular about whom was present.
One individual, a Munchkin with a shockingly dark toupee and grey eyebrows, was an especially outspoken individual – at least from her recollection. Nessa held a certain displeasure towards him, his attempts to encourage her to abdicate doing little to change that view, but one could not simply dismiss a minster. Though Glinda felt as if Nessa’s thought had turned towards that.
It would not be the first time that someone took an opportunity to sneakily return to a position that was no longer theirs.
The whispers were not as discreet nor as private as people often thought. The title of Eminent Thropp had been tied to that of the Eminence of Munchkinland since its inception. She knew of the faintly murmured suggestions to abolish the Eminence entirely.
Ah. She was fairly certain of just where this conversation was heading.
And with Nessie only a few hours in the ground.
Vultures. The lot of them.
He had failed before, Nessa showing the sometimes endearing, and often frustrating, stubbornness of the Thropps. She had politely refused again and again, month after month, until the Munchkin had finally dropped the matter. Seemingly resigned in his loss or fearful of the repercussions that may well have followed regardless.
Little did he know, she could very well match that stubbornness.
She did not greet them straight away, instead walking to the large desk at the opposite end of the room rather than take the empty seat placed at the front, forcing them to turn in their seats to keep an eye on her. She hesitated for a moment, before deciding not to sit down. Instead, she lifted her head even higher, exaggerating her height advantage and rested her hands on the back of the exquisitely carved chair.
“You wished to speak to me?”
A Munchkin with oversized eyebrows and narrow eyes cleared his throat, standing as he did. “We, err, wished to broach a subject with you,” he began, scratching at his throat with a fat finger when he paused. “With the Eminence dead and the condition of Munchkinland at present, we thought it most important.”
“That I understand.” And Glinda did, Nessa does – did her best, but all realms have problems that will rear their heads no matter what actions a leader takes. Do one action, problems will arise; take the opposite action and different problems appear instead. There was no winning, only a balance of slightly less problematic losses, or those easier to mend. With those events Nessa had spoken of… “But Nessarose passed only recently, was buried barely a few hours prior to this moment. Surely it can wait until at least tomorrow morn.”
Eyebrows, for his part, had the decency to look ashamed. The other men suddenly seemed a little more apprehensive, all aside from the toupee wearing Munchkin and the Munchkinlander.
Toupee rose to his feet and marched straight towards the desk, tilting his head up and squaring his chin as if that would actually make an impression. “There can be no waiting. The time to take action is now.” He punctuated his words with a slam of a palm on the dark wood of the desk separating them, his pale brows drawn low. “Am I incorrect?” He turned to the five individuals behind him, gesturing with his hands. They all nodded their agreement, though Eyebrow’s head moved more hesitantly.
The Munchkinlander, though closer to a Munchkin in height if she were to be unkind, spoke next, his face tightly constricted. “He is right. There can be no more waiting when Munchkinland is in need of a firm guiding hand.” He stood, brushing his hands over his suit jacket. “As Prime Minster –”
“Prime Minster?” Glinda raised her brow, a hint of amusement about her mouth. “Nipp, is it not?” For she recognised the taller man if only in passing. Enough to have a name. “Nessarose had no such thing. The last I was aware, you were simply a concierge here.” A purposeful error on her part, the twitch of his brow most satisfying.
“We were all in agreement,” he insisted, gripping the lapel of his jacket in a too firm hold that pulled at the material.
“We,” she queried, “I do not recall hearing of such a vote.” Her teeth cut at her cheek to steady the rising swell of her anger from seeping into words. Such fickle behaviour, some would call it seditious, compare them to snakes waiting to bare their fangs and strike. Her knuckles flared white for a moment. “That being said, if official, I will of course not refuse to acknowledge such an appointment.”
“I can assure you,” he stressed with a sense of smugness and a tilt up of his bearded chin, “that we all were in joint agreement.”
Glinda lifted a single eyebrow. “You do not believe I am skilled enough to replace Nessarose?”
Toupee shock his head, sending the hair upon his head askew, he opened his mouth, but she cut him off –
“This is about abolishing the title again, is it not? Well, that will not happen.” She had not meant to snap, but after all that had happened in the past weeks could she really be blamed for doing so? She had lost a friend, a confidant, a sister, for Lurlina’s sake!
She took a breath and willed herself to calm. Unfortunately, that did not last long, Nipp instead continuing on in spite of her clear refusal.
“Nessarose did not leave a will; as such she did not state what is to happen when she dies.”
“I know what a will is.” Presenting oneself as frivolous had benefit, but to have it assumed when she had not done so was enough to sharpen her tone. “Something that is not required.”
“I think you will find –”
“Something that is not required,” she stressed the words this time, trying to get it to stick in his thick skull. Had they not reached such a conclusion themselves? Was that not why she was standing here right now? If they were so certain, there would be no need for any of this. It would simply be gone. Speculation and debate amongst others shutdown quickly. But the reality was this was not a decision that could be made amongst the ministers alone, not without repercussion or effect on others. “Not with a tradition of this sort.”
The men in the room seemed to shrink at her words, apparently beginning to see that they would not be able to exert their power over her as they originally thought. All expect the two before her.
Toupee hit the surface of the desk with both hands this time, his lips curled back over his teeth.
Another, his stomach protruding obscenely, gained courage at this, clambering to his feet and waddling forward besides his colleague. “How do we know you’re not in league with that Gillikinese Wit – Adept? How do we know that she was not sent her to dispose of the Eminence? To use that girl as a scapegoat when it did not end up looking like an accident?”
Now they cared for Nessie?
“What happened was a freak accident – a tragedy. There is no evidence to the contrary. It was a storm,” Glinda repeated, having grown long tired of such claims. Ones that had plagued her since her arrival. “One cannot simply summon a storm.”
“Then why did she run away?”
Glinda’s lips pressed into a thin line, her composure failing as her anger grew steadily more apparent; something that was not recognised by Toupee, nor barely herself.
They would not see the wiseness in Locasta’s actions. That her swift decision to leave was less for herself than for the girl who left with her. The one some deemed mystical in one form or another, and from all manner of groups and fractions.
Of course the Council would claim she was running away. Anything to strengthen their own argument, no matter how pathetic it was.
“Your kind cares nothing for us, your hand will be far too soft,” Toupee snarled, “It is time we controlled our futures, no more interference from others.”
“Is this to do with my heritage?!” The pitch of her voice dropped, the last word hissed rather than spoken. The other occupants of the room visibly shrunk or stepped back this time, even the raging Munchkin before her. “You are trying to find a loophole in a centuries old practice, one this family has maintained and has only been strengthened with time, because I am Gillikinese?!”
“Err –”
“And Nessarose? Why did you want her to abolish the title?” For their reasons – it now apparent they were not the action of one alone even then – had been much the same as the ones they confronted her with now, only when they were brought up with Nessie they had been far weaker, with much less evidence to back them up. Now most of the problems came from the pressure placed upon Munchkinland by Loyal Oz, something that could not be easily controlled or rectified, until now that is. For her thoughts were different. “Because of her association with me? Is that it?”
“This has nothing to do with race.” Thick beads of sweat were forming on the creases of his forehead, beginning to roll down his face sluggishly. “You are simply not a native, you do not understand what Munchkinland needs.”
“That was supposed to convince me that this has nothing to do with race?” The bigoted fool. Her knowledge on Nessa’s parenthood – unconfirmable as it was – was not something she would ever share, but Nessa’s pinkish skin and wider features might have given rise to gossip that Glinda had not heard. If that was true, then maybe race played a part with their attempts to oust Nessie also. Then again, Munchkins were not very good at keeping secrets, nor were they all that subtle, and she herself would never have suspected, if not for… she cast her eyes over the men once more. “Or is it our gender you have issue with?”
Flustered and sweating more profusely, Toupee, pressed a handkerchief to his brow, his cheeks burning bright. “I – that isn’t –”
As he continued spluttering, the others remained silent, their eyes wide and faces pale. Eyebrows edged towards the door with the carefulness of one confronted by an enraged beast.
Perhaps it was wrong of her to twist things, for surely they did have a slight point buried deep beneath their bigotry, but – for reasons she could not discern – she would not let them take what was now rightfully hers. She had been through enough to get this far, lost too much too quickly, only to now lose the only thing left for her to gain. It was in her protection. It was in her care.
She raised her chin, straightened her shoulders to put forth the image of pure power and authority that she needed to get across to these men, her smile most pleasant. “In the future there may be time for discussions of concessions, the possibility for reducing the powers of the Eminence of Munchkinland, maybe to the point of it only being a figurehead.”
Nipp – for the Prime Minster – was more than happy to hide behind Toupee. Leaving him appearing as the group’s unofficial leader. His throat bobbed rapidly as he tried to swallow his words, tried to grab them from the space between them and stuff them back inside; to force them down and pray they had never been released into the air.
“Until then, I remain. The Free State of Munchkinland needs to know that they have someone in charge. Someone they can voice any concerns to, someone to look up to in this dark time. Surely even you can understand the benefit? See what is best for our country as a whole?”
The other occupants in the room were still shrouded in silence, the air around them still while the air around her crackled and tingled against her skin – enough so she feared she may have unintentionally used her sorcery skills on the short fellows. Not that she could, she would feel wholly horrified if she had even accidently. Even the thought left a decidedly awful taste in her mouth. Not that sorcery of that sort was easy to do so intentionally; to defend yourself, or injury from a backlash or a failsafe, but to intentionally harm? Impossible. Mind manipulation? Immoral, forbidden, an unteachable rumour.
And there she goes, getting off topic in a way she has not done in a long time.
Glinda’s smile did not so much as twitch, still lovely, still disarming. “I really must ask that we cut this meeting short.” She tilted her chin up, an action of finality and perhaps grief. Leaving no room for argument. “You must understand the day, my temperament, for I have lost one who is like a sister to me.” Some, at least, had enough sense about them to look ashamed. “We shall continue this tomorrow.” Her look was pointed, but polite. “In the Parlour, as is only right for our first official meeting. A far more pleasing environment for such.”
There was a grumble, but no one voiced an argument.
Handkerchief crumpled in his hand, the still red-faced Munchkin bowed his head, his fellows following suit.
“Of course, Your Eminence.”
If it had not been for the weight of sorrow, the stress of the day, she would have mortified by losing control of her temper in such a way. Grief, they could understand that, could they not?
Considering what she had encountered, quite possibly not.
It still licked at her – anger and grief both.
What fools! How could they possibly believe that Nessa’s death had anything to do with the Northern Adept – that term still feeling so new, after witch had been twisted into something dark.
She did not truly know Locasta, had never attended one of her soirées as she had once dreamt of. A few invites had arrived, a token extended to family of someone of importance – or perhaps for her to be viewed as a representative of such – but it had been when she was deeply within herself, so they had remained unanswered.
She had, eventually, had a brief meeting with the Gillikinese Sorceress, and confirmed in those few moments what she had been led to believe of her. It had been at a large celebration in Shiz for the final approval of the extension of the Great Gillikin Railway south. Of course, as they had in her youth, the plans had fallen through at the last moment due to some dispute, or clause, or difficulty that was never made clear. A great loss in her opinion, more so, with the excited murmurings of an extension into Munchkinland that could follow. An advancement that would surely have only benefited everyone. Disappointment, though it was, at least she was able to meet such an influential figure before the plans did fall.
When the locals noticed Locasta’s presence there – in Munchkinland so soon after the death of the Eminence – things were different, celebration entwined equally with its opposite. Untouched, previously, by the inherent dislike of the Gillikinese the Munchkins typically held. It reared its head, mixed with her being part of Loyal Oz, the so called ‘enemy’. The rumours sparking and catching with little effort.
As so did hardened looks directed at Glinda herself. All of it turned in her stomach. Anyone with more than fluff between the ears would realise how ridiculous the claims were, but Munchkins were never particularly smart. And the Council more than proved that.
For her part, she ignored the whispers. Not for the first time, and undoubtedly not for the last.
Ignored rumours would disappear eventually. For all of them, or so she tried to convince herself. But for now, circumstances were different.
The girl. Strange, perhaps, how she had appeared mere moments after the storm that tore the area apart and ended Nessa’s life so suddenly. Raising from the ruins of a house unlike any other by all accounts, the rubble cleared away with no hint remaining by the time of Glinda’s own arrival at Colwen Grounds. Some claimed it a sign the girl wore their colours, others that it was not Munchkinland blue alone. Others that the house came down with a mighty impact but remained whole. Stranger still, that no one else had lost their lives in Center Munch.
For a house to fall from the very sky itself, it sounded implausible, impossible. There was no way for her to confirm such a thing. Not even a single board remaining for her to request to view, to see truly how different the building had been.
But a girl she was, and from the sounds of it one so lost and confused there was no doubting her harmlessness. Though the same conclusion had not been drawn by everyone. The name spread like a wildfire across the dry fields of Munchkinland; Dorothy of Canzuss or Kanziz; the spelling inconsistent. A foreign name, and an even more foreign sounding place. From whence she hailed, Glinda did not have the faintest clue, nor did anyone else from their mutterings.
She would be safe, Glinda believed, even with the rumours that trailed her. With Locasta by her side, together they should be unbothered and free of harassment as they crossed the borders back into Loyal Oz. Back into supposed ‘safety’ as others deemed it.
Still… to survive a fall from the sky, in a building or not…
Weary, Glinda debated returning to the garden, but hovering in the entrance hall, she could not bring herself to.
A moment. She needed just a moment.
She made her way up the stairs and to the balcony doors, looked out to where she had sat amongst the dignitaries during the public procession. To the potted shrubs whose intended forms she still could not see. She needed to make sure they were maintained.
She stepped outside, the breeze had picked up slightly, too warm to cool her skin. At least the view of the long tree-lined drive, the fields, and the edge of the hill to her right, made for a fairly pleasant view. Something to ease the stress of the day as her gaze lingered on the hill, memories resurfacing of so many years ago. She pressed a hand to her heart, lowering her chin when she turned.
She had attempted to find Nanny again, had caught a member of staff idling in a less frequented corridor, only to be informed that she was ‘gone’. Sensing her initial reaction, or perhaps simply hearing how the sentence had come across, the hall boy quickly corrected himself. Nanny had left on some journey of her own, searching for something none of them understood. Out of grief, maybe, in the wake of dear Nessie’s sudden passing.
In an attempt to lighten the mood he had dragged down, he made a quick joke about a greatly belated midlife crisis, something Glinda saw no humour in. Warmly, she advised him not to be caught slacking again. Nanny was indeed very old now; perhaps her journey had to do with wanting to do something before she had no time left to do so.
It left a bittersweet feeling in Glinda’s chest.
Another farewell missed.
She had only just lowered herself into a plush armchair facing the open doors when steps approached. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to greet the intruder with a cordial smile and kind word. When she opened them and turned, she was genuinely surprised to see Shell beside her.
Her stiff smile eased even as all that resided behind it remained. She relaxed in her chair, but not overly so. Her dress simply would not allow it.
“Evening, dear.” He smiled blithely, before making his way to the chair at an angle to her own, so they could have a view of the skyline while also keeping one another in their sight. He kept his voice low, lest it drift down into the entrance hall. “How was your meeting with those old fools?”
“You know about that?” She said with no surprise, her words barely a question.
“There is very little that escapes my notice.” He lent an elbow on the arm of the chair, leaning his cheek against his fist. A smirk on his face.
“As I am aware.”
He caught her eye, she turned away. “Besides, your countenance makes it obvious.”
Glinda drew in a breath slowly, her eyes focusing on the sky as the sun drew lower, the clouds floating by carelessly. Hard to believe that such a fierce storm had cut its path nearby, had caused such damage and harm – had taken a life – only a few weeks ago.
“We should perhaps discuss relocating.” It would be far easier to keep her distance from this place, from the memories that the walls held. Their move to the City had been a mutual suggestion struck long ago. Yet, there had been a time where her thoughts had turned, and she had been desperate to return to Gillikin – to little Frottica. To impossibly try to turn back the clock.
Years before, despite their previous discussion, and perhaps with a hint of fear of losing the connections she had and everything else that came with it, she had thought to stay, torn between sweet pain and the agony of loss.
She had not been in the place to make any decisions. Truthfully.
Naturally, she let him believe he had won their ‘disagreement’ of where to reside, despite the truth of it.
“The townhouse – the City, I should say, is far more pleasing,” she continued, “However, to properly govern…”
“Oh, I don’t see us relocating anytime soon,” Shell responded following his words with a chuckle. “The City also has far more going on for it, don’t you think? Far more lively than this backwater hamlet.”
Now while she knew of his dislike for his home; his carefully neutral accent, his mentioning of it as rarely as possible – if ever. She had never realised just how much contempt he held for his home country until that very moment. His tone heavy with loathing. She could not blame him, though her long returned disdain came from a notably different source, one filled with memories and impossibilities. Of course now things were different. After the secession those in Loyal Oz typically seemed to view anyone connected to Munchkinland as lesser, if not outright traitors to Oz. Not that they had not already had very low opinions in Gillikin, she thought feeling the old prickling of shame.
Shell’s brow, which had drawn low with his last sentence, smoothed now as he cocked an eyebrow. “Though, now with your new position, we are free to relocate to the house my dear great-grandfather procured on Lower Mennipin Street. If the City haven’t finally seen through their idle threats.”
“After I have just gotten the townhouse to my liking?” Glinda fluttered a hand to her chest, spoke as if offended with a shake of her head. “The time I spent! And so soon after Nessa’s passing? No, not anytime soon, dear, far too much to do to get that house to my liking, and with so much else to do too, however would I cope?”
Shell shrugged his shoulder, taking her words for how they appeared. “At least there will be little need to worry over my allowance now.”
“That will not be changing, we have an impression to give after all, and the correct impression is worth far more.”
Shell closed his eyes, crossing his arms with a slight chuckle before settling back in a relaxed pose. “Certainly,” he agreed. “I think we can manage things from our home easily enough.”
“We…” Glinda raised an eyebrow of her own as she turned to face him fully. It seemed all she had done since her arrival was to catch and file away information, a useful and beneficial habit long developed, but always exhausting after a while, here more so with the place and so much clamouring. “My, how presumptuous.”
“I suppose it rather was. Or poorly chosen words.” He tapped his chin with a slim forefinger, twisting his face into mock expression of thoughtfulness.
“I rather prefer to believe the latter.”
“Of course you do.” The expression dropped quickly as his elbow slipped, he pressed his hand on his knee, leaning slightly towards her. “And you did not answer my question?”
Like a cat with a mouse it planned to eat, he would tease and play, stray from it, but never let it truly go. He would get what he wanted in the end, no matter how long it took. No matter how long he spent playing.
“It went as you already know it did.”
“They tried to oust you then.” Out of the corner of her eye she could see Shell nod at the end of his sentence.
“And that was as far as they got.” He looked towards her now, and when she made herself meet his eyes, she saw genuine fascination in them. “They will not be trying to dispose of me anytime soon. My charm, you see,” she said with a flutter of her eyelashes, a tilt of her chin as if bashfully aware of herself, “and I am rather easy on the eye.”
He made an impressed sound in the back of his throat, clearly pleased at that turn of events. No doubt he saw some advantage he could gain for himself, not that she could really condemn him for doing so.
“So Eminent, or Eminence, whichever title you prefer,” he murmured as he let his head drop to rest against the back of his chair, “what do you plan to do now?”
“Oh, you know,” she said vaguely, “I hear all this talk of reconnecting the lands and how beneficial it will be for all, I cannot see why it has not been seriously pursued before.”
“Reunite with Oz?” His head jerked forward, snapping to face her with a concerned crinkle between his brows. “That will cause many to revolt.”
“My,” she mused with a smile and a titter, “it almost sounds as if you are worried that the peasants will rise and dethrone me.”
“You think they won’t? Reuniting with Loyal Oz would be the strongest trigger for one to explode into being.” He shook his head, as if aghast at the gall of her.
It made her smile grow. “And they won’t simply revolt due to a Gillikinese lording over them?”
He shrugged, rolling his shoulders in resignation. “I guess you have me there.”
The warm breeze through the open doors stirred a few loose strands of her hair, she pushed them back. Ensured neatness. She let him linger in his thoughts for a moment more, before settling the matter. “It is merely a suggestion, to get the flow of discussions going with Loyal Oz. What comes from it will not be my decision alone. Just as Nessa sort approval for her decision.”
“Oh.” He chuckled. “I see. Good, for a minute there I thought power had gone to your head. And quite swiftly too.”
“I have ministers for all of that.” She waved her fingers, playing at carelessness still but now distracted from it.
Glinda weighed her next words, wondering whether to voice them aloud or not. In the end she decided she had already said enough about her intentions, veiled though they were, what harm could more possibly do? It would be for the best if he understood that nothing occurring at the present moment could change her opinion on what actions she thought best. He would find out, regardless.
“It is better to be unified, for everyone, I believe. Nothing will change my mind. No arguments you may come up with. Nothing.”
“But that would go against dear Nessarose’s wishes.”
Glinda’s brow drew in, a niggling feeling tugging in her chest. It would be wrong, in a way, one of Nessie’s last and greatest actions was to separate from Oz, and she had done so with such determination. Had, in her odd way, thought it would be best for Munchkinland to do so. She did not know the full reasons, she knew what Nessa had told her, knew what the broadsheets and tabloids countered with. The truth of it, perhaps, in the middle. Or not. It felt lost to Glinda, and truly so, not her playing at obliviousness.
Back then, when Nessa had begun her actions, she had returned to Colwen Grounds immediately. Had been delayed by damage to the road, intentional it turned out. Nessa had, at least, rescinded that order, if only in part due to how it would impede her visits rather than the impact on trade.
Glinda had silently disagreed with Nessa. Then not so silently. Had tried to raise her opinions, too hesitantly, perhaps, fearful of losing her. Nessa was firm in her belief that it was to be beneficial for her people, her outrage so blistering, the fire blazing within her so familiar, that Glinda had been lost before it. Confronted with it, there had been no arguing then. And, now, there would be none at all.
Shell stood, wandering out to the balcony to take in the grounds. Or rather the few people straying from the garden, or seen at just the edge of view.
A death so sudden and unexpected, Nessie had yet to even write out a will or verbalise her wishes. Something the Council had latched on to if their words in the meeting were anything to go by, and surely something they may let slip for now, but which will undoubtedly be brought up again in the near future.
Though, would Nessa have made one even if she had foreseen her rapidly approaching demise? Or would she have trusted things to continue under Glinda’s own hands? That she would understand her wishes? Regardless of a distance that may or may not have formed. Or did Nessa believe that others would know?
It seemed unlike her.
These thoughts continued running around in Glinda’s head, she fought to push them back for the moment but with so much building up within, she failed, and so she responded as she always did when conflicting feelings arose within.
“Do you not have some desperate mourners to offer a shoulder to?” Shell turned to her, amused. Few people there could claim availability, but when did that ever mean much? It would not be a challenge for him to find someone.
“Later, dear.” Shell raised his brow, his eyes dancing, but just as suddenly it disappeared, something catching his eye as he turned his attention back over the balcony railing.
The stiffening of his shoulders captured her attention with the unusualness of it.
She was to her feet before she could think. Her heart beating quickly with pitiful hope, her body aquiver.
Shell lent forward, looking down to have a better view of whatever he had in his sights. It clear whatever – whoever – was moving quickly.
“Well…” he muttered. Glinda hurried forward, almost knocking a topiary over in her haste to stand by his side, she followed his gaze, her own eyebrows jumping up and breath seizing in constricting lungs.
Her lips parted, moved wordlessly for a second. The beat in her chest quicker. Harder. A cry caged within her ribs. Her voice but a crack, “Is that…?”
“It seems the prodigal daughter has returned.”
She could not reply, not even to right his incorrect use of that word. Her own lodged firmly in her throat, and no amount of swallowing or gasping for air would free them to flow up or down. Her clammy palms curled around the top railing, threatening to splinter the wood with the force of her hold. It was all that kept her standing. Kept her rooted. Kept her present.
There was no misidentifying the quickly striding figure even in the nearing night; not the dark, drab dress and, as they passed beneath a flickering oil lantern, the bright emerald skin.