Dorothy Must Die (12 page)

“Magic,” I said under my breath, without even really meaning to.

“Yup,” he said. “I zapped us up here. I can’t work the same kinds of teleportation spells that Mombi can, so we didn’t go far. The Order’s headquarters is all inside these caves.” He gestured at the cave opening behind us.

I breathed deep, enjoying the first fresh air I’d tasted since I’d been taken to the Emerald Palace who knows how long ago. I felt it buzzing in my lungs and my whole body tingled. It was the same feeling I’d felt back in the caves when I’d touched Nox’s face and closed my eyes.

“I think I feel it,” I said finally. “The magic.”

“You can’t
not
. Not up here,” he said. “This is Mount Gillikin. It’s one of the most magical spots left in all of Oz. Dorothy hasn’t quite gotten to stealing it yet—it’s too much trouble. See those mountains a ways off? They move. Every night, they rebuild themselves; every day they’re different than they were the day before. Can’t build roads through them. Can’t even draw a map. You never know what you’re going to get. Some days they might be covered in snow, other days they could be so hot you’ll get sunstroke. Or anything in between. People go up those mountains and they never come back. Sure, you can get past them—you can fly, or teleport, or whatever—but it’s not easy. They’re part of what keeps Gillikin Country more protected than the rest of Oz. Still, it’s only a matter of time.”

“It’s incredible.”

“All of Oz used to be like this. There was so much magic floating around that you almost couldn’t help picking it up here and there. Now most of it’s just in a few scattered spots like this, places Dorothy can’t be bothered with.”

“Maybe she’ll never bother,” I said. “Why does she need more than she already has?”

Nox snorted. “You don’t know Dorothy. The more she gets, the more she wants. That’s the way it is with you people,” he said.

“
You
people? What people?”

“People from your world. Like Dorothy. The Wizard. Like you, probably. Magic’s dangerous for outlanders. You’re not built for it.”

“But you’re going to teach me anyway. That’s what Mombi said.”

“They think the risk is worth it,” Nox said. “Not everyone agrees.”

“You don’t think I can handle it. “

“Maybe you can and maybe you can’t. I don’t really know you. What I think doesn’t matter. The question is what
you
think.” He shrugged.

I shook my head. I needed more.

“It’s your choice,” he said. “It’s not magic that makes you who you are. It’s the choices that you make. Look at Dorothy.”

“What about Dorothy?”

“That’s exactly what makes Dorothy evil.”

After my training session with Nox, it was a relief to see Gert. I didn’t know what she had in store for me, but I had a feeling it wouldn’t involve having to hit anyone. Despite the whole almost-drowning-me-on-purpose incident and her being up in my brain all the time, she had
not
told the others that I had no intention of killing Dorothy. I was still confused about what it meant to be a witch—a
Wicked
witch, for that matter—but somehow she seemed less
Wicked
than the rest. Maybe it was stupid Stockholm syndrome, that thing people get when they start liking their captors. But I didn’t feel like I was a captive when I was with Gert.

Gert’s room was like an old-fashioned apothecary, with a wall of glass jars filled with a million different liquids, big canisters heaping with I don’t know what, and plants and herbs I didn’t recognize. The light was dim, but warm and cozy, too. I couldn’t figure out where it was coming from—although there were candles crowding almost every surface, none of them were lit. Her walls were covered with some kind of white gold, which further intensified the glow.

In the corner leaned a broom made out of wood so dark it was almost black, with long, thorny bristles. I reached out to touch it but drew my hand back when Gert spoke sharply.

“You’re not ready for that yet, dear,” she warned. I looked at her, but she smiled like it was no big deal and began to bustle around the cave.

“Amy,” Gert said. “I know this is all new. I know you’re scared.” She walked over to a shelf and absentmindedly plucked a jar down before glancing at it, shaking her head to herself, and placing it back in its spot. “But we need you,” she said. “And I have faith in you. And now, for our first lesson. I like to think of this project as my little
Get Witch Quick
scheme.” She giggled at her own joke.

She sat back down on a stool on one side of a big wooden table in the middle of the room and indicated that I should follow suit. Every inch of its surface was covered with candles, and as she looked down at them, they began to light, one by one.

Gert’s face glowed in the light that she’d made. She smiled, a secret, satisfied little smile, and then clapped her hands and they all went out. “Your turn now,” she said.

“How?” I asked. I was confused. She hadn’t taught me anything yet. Wasn’t I supposed to say a spell or wave a wand or brew up something with eye of newt? From what Nox said and from what I’d seen so far, magic only
looked
easy. It took concentration and practice and time.

Gert waved her hand in the air, and as she did, sparks trailed behind it, like tiny, crackling fireflies. “Think of magic like electricity in your world,” she said. “In Oz, it’s all around you. It flows through the ground and the sky and the water. It keeps Oz alive. In most places, there’s not nearly as much as there used to be, but it’s still there.”

“Okay . . . ,” I said. It sort of made sense, but not really.

“To use it,” she went on, “you just need to know how to find it. You need to gather it up and tell it what to do. It’s just unstable energy. Magic always wants to be something different from what it already is. It wants to change. That’s what makes it magic. And that’s what makes lighting a candle the simplest bit of magic you can do. You just take the energy, and you tell it what to be. In this case: heat.”

It always wants to be something different from what it already is.
Now
that
made sense to me. It reminded me of myself.

I frowned at the candles. I stretched out my fingers and moved them through the still, slightly damp air around me, trying to get back to that place Nox had taken me to—that tingly, warm feeling.

Nothing.

“You have to want it,” Gert said. “Do you want it?”

“Of course I want it,” I said. I did, didn’t I? I passed my stiff palm over the candles.

Again, nothing happened. The wicks remained completely flame free.

“Do you really, child?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Forget about what you are supposed to do. Just do what comes naturally to you.”

I slumped over. “I hate to break it to you,” I said, “but
none
of this comes naturally to me.”

“Amy,” she said. “It will. Soon. What you did in that cell with Mombi, part of that was the knife, yes. But an even bigger part of it was coming from
you
. You have the talent. Once you learn how to harness it properly, you’ll be unstoppable.”

I couldn’t help but remember the fact that I had hurt someone, or something. He deserved it, but still. It felt so easy in the moment. Maybe too easy. I remembered what Nox had told me, about how dangerous magic was, about how it corrupted people from my world. How they wanted more and more. It was magic that had made Dorothy who she was now. What would it do to me? What if, in training to fight Dorothy, I became just like her?

“You’re not Dorothy, dear,” Gert said. I felt myself shiver involuntarily. She must have overheard my thoughts. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you never become her.” I wondered if Gert was making this promise just to stop me from worrying, or if it was a promise she could keep. “Which leads us to a very important question.” She paused, and looked me up and down appraisingly. “Who are you?” she finally asked.

I pulled back, surprised at the question. “What?”

“If you’re not Dorothy, then who are you?”

I didn’t know how to respond. “Um,” I said. “I’m Amy?”

“I bet there are a million Amys where you are from, dear. Amy is what you are
called
.” Gert laughed liltingly. “One thing you have to understand,” she said, “is that all magic users have our own specialties. We each have our own affinities for certain kinds of magic. It has to do with your personality. Once you understand what kinds of magic you’re best suited for, it will be easier. But before you can do that, you need to know who you are. The essence of what makes you
you.
So. Who are you?”

I thought about it. Before I’d gotten to Oz, I would have been able to answer the question more easily, I think. But I also think I might have answered it wrong. Now, I didn’t know where to begin.

Was I the Amy Gumm I’d always been, who took care of my mother even though I sometimes hated every vomit-y, thankless moment of it, who got by in school not even breaching the surface of all that potential that Dr. Strachan said I had? Was I Salvation Amy, the girl who always took the bait when Madison Pendleton pushed me too far? The girl who couldn’t keep her mouth shut literally when her life depended on it? The girl whose future looked as bleak as the Kansas sky she stared at every night through her tiny circular trailer window?

Or was I someone more extreme, someone I never imagined—a killer. A warrior. A girl who could stab someone in the face and know that she was doing the right thing? A girl who had strength she never even knew about?

“Who am I supposed to be?” I asked.

“It’s not a matter of who you’re supposed to be. The truth is, I already know exactly who you are. But my telling you—that won’t do you any good at all. You have to be the one to figure it out. Here, try again. Light the candles.”

I focused in on myself. I imagined the candles flickering and then lighting up.

But still, nothing happened.

Gert’s face didn’t betray any expression. I searched it for disappointment, but I couldn’t find any at all. She just clapped her hands together and smiled. “I think that’s enough for today,” she said. “You’ll meet with Glamora next. Now
that
should be interesting.”

I shrugged and stood up. As I got to the doorway, though, I turned back around to face Gert one more time.

“What about you?” The question that had been bouncing around in my mind came tumbling out just like that. “Are you really a Wicked witch?” I asked. “You said you were, but . . . you don’t seem Wicked to me.”

Gert’s smile faded. “That’s a complicated question,” she replied shortly, averting her eyes.

“I think I can handle complicated at this point,” I said.

She just sighed. “They used to call me the Good Witch of the North,” she said. “But that was a long time ago.”

“What happened to you?” What makes a Good witch turn Wicked? And if she couldn’t stop herself from Wickedness, how could she stop me from following Dorothy’s path?

“I knew Dorothy when she was young, when she first came here. When all she talked about was home. But I saw something else in her even then—she wasn’t honest with herself about what she wanted. She said she wanted home but she also wanted recognition. She wanted the world to sit up and recognize what she’d done. She couldn’t get that in her world so she came back to ours. But here she was living in the shadow of Ozma. So she neutralized Ozma and took the reins herself. But even that wasn’t enough for her. She wanted more.”

“I want things, too.”

“You want things to be right. There may be a boy you want to kiss, or you may want your mother to get better. But you don’t have what she has—more
wanting
than would fill that Kansas of yours, I’d imagine.”

“What if you’re wrong?” I asked quietly.

“I’m not wrong.” Gert’s voice was firm, unwavering. “Now go. You need to get all the rest you can before meeting with Glamora tomorrow.”

Was Gert
still
Good? I wondered, and if not, why? Her mouth formed a thin firm line that said she would not be answering anything else, at least not today. I found myself turning and leaving the room—and not of my own volition. Gert’s invisible hand gave me a push.

Back in my own quarters, I was more tired than I should have been. Somehow, I was even more exhausted than I’d been after that morning’s training session with Nox. By the time I’d finished wolfing down the bowl of tasteless green gruel that had materialized in my room, I was so exhausted that instead of bothering to take my clothes off, I collapsed into the bed still dressed.

My bed was barely a bed at all—it was just a bunch of pillows and sheets piled into a sunken pit in the middle of my room. But I’d already discovered it was more comfortable than any mattress I’d ever slept on. Sinking into it felt like sinking into a dream.

Despite how tired I was and despite how good it felt to finally get to lie down, I heard Gert’s thoughts echoing in my head as I tried to settle into sleep.
Who are you?
I should have had an answer to that.
Everyone
should have an answer to that. But I didn’t.

My first lesson with Glamora was something completely different.

When I stepped into her room the next morning, she looked up from behind a jewel-encrusted vanity that was unlike anything else in the caves.

Actually, Glamora’s entire quarters were like nothing else in the caves. It was pretty easy to forget we were underground at all.

There were rugs hanging from the walls of the cave in rich purples and reds, and carpeting the floor. Her bed was heaped with white fur, and there was a whole wall covered with mirrored closets so stuffed with dresses that the doors were all standing half open. One just contained jewelry, necklaces and rings and earrings spilling out onto the floor.

She stood from her vanity and moved to a tufted couch with a mirrored table before it. She stared at it and a tea set appeared. She beckoned me to sit.

“What are we doing?”

“We’re having tea.”

As I sat down, a tiered tray of pastries poofed into existence right next to the tea set. The tray was laden with inside-out sandwiches and square doughnuts and little scones with what looked like gold-leaf chips.

My mouth watered. After practically starving in Dorothy’s dungeons the idea of eating something that didn’t taste like sulfur weakened my curiosity. Why not just sit and eat with the crazy purple witch? But was she trying to get to know me? Was this some kind of supernatural test I wasn’t even aware of yet? Would we read the tea leaves when we finished the tea?

I was so hungry that I reached out for a tiny cookie that looked like a little pane of stained glass. Glamora slapped my hand away.

“Wait till the hostess pours before you touch anything,” she ordered. “You’ll need to be careful of even the smallest of gestures when you begin your mission. Everything you do will be watched. You’ll need to get close to Dorothy, and Dorothy is smarter than she looks. Anything could give you away.” She finally gestured for me to eat and I took a bite of one of the gorgeous petits fours. The flavors changed magically in my mouth, from layer cake to chocolate sorbet to some kind of banana pudding.

This all came as news to me. No one had told me the plan yet. “So I’m going to be going, like, undercover or something?” I asked, my mouth still half full of pastry. Glamora looked at me disapprovingly and didn’t answer my question.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full. Now, pour me a cup of tea.”

We spent the next few hours reviewing manners—certainly something I had zero experience with back home. How to walk, how to speak. How to serve. She taught me how to curtsy and even how to
look
at Dorothy.

While the lesson with Gert had been full of conversation, almost like hanging out with a friend, Glamora was all business, barely even pausing on one topic before she’d moved on to the next. By the time it was over, my head was swimming with what felt like useless information.