The stairs of the highest tower in the Palace seemed to go on forever.
Glinda climbed them slowly. Her breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, restricted by the corsetry of the massive gown she wore. The Bubble Dress—layers upon layers of pink petals, silver sequins, and iridescent tulle—swished heavily against the cold stone steps. It was a dress designed for floating, not climbing.
In her right hand, she clutched the Grimmerie.
She held it so tightly her fingers were numb. The leather cover was warm, unnervingly so, against her cold palm. It was the only thing she had taken before the guards had sealed the room. The Wizard was gone, fled in his balloon. Morrible was in chains. Elphaba was...
Glinda squeezed her eyes shut for a step, forcing the image of the melting hat out of her mind.
She reached the top of the tower—a small, open-air observation deck that overlooked the entirety of the Emerald City. The wind whipped at her hair, tearing a few golden curls loose from her perfect coiffure.
She walked to the center of the room and placed the Grimmerie down on a rough, stone table. It sat there, dark and silent, a jagged scar against the pale stone.
Glinda turned her back on it. She walked to the stone railing and looked out.
Below her, the city was alive. From this height, the citizens looked like ants, but she could hear them. The cheering. The singing. The chanting.
"Good news! She's dead! The Witch is dead!"
They were celebrating. She had just told them that everything was fine. She had smiled, and waved, and promised them a return to peace. She had played her part.
But up here, the air was thin and cold.
Glinda leaned her forehead against the freezing stone of the railing. Her mind drifted back—not to the chaos of today, but to before.
To Shiz University.
She remembered the sunlight filtering through the dorm room window. She remembered the smell of old books and fresh grass. She remembered being young, and vain, and thinking that "Goodness" was just about being popular and following the rules. She remembered a green girl with fierce eyes who had looked at her with such disdain, and then, eventually, with such love.
We were going to change the world, Glinda thought, a tear tracking hot through the powder on her cheek. I wanted to be Good. She wanted to be Wicked. And look where it got us.
She was the Ruler of Oz now. And she had never felt more like a fraud.
Crrreeeak.
The sound was soft, like dry leaves skittering over pavement.
Glinda froze. She lifted her head from the railing. The wind had died down. The air suddenly smelled sharp—like a thunderstorm about to break.
Snap. Rustle.
She turned around slowly, the massive pink dress swirling around her ankles.
The stone table was bathed in a soft, emerald light.
The Grimmerie, which had been clamped shut with iron clasps for as long as she had known it, was moving. The heavy cover lifted as if an invisible hand were guiding it. The pages began to turn, flipping rapidly, blurring into a fan of yellowed parchment.
Glinda stared, her breath caught in her throat. Madame Morrible had said this book was stubborn. That it refused to open for anyone but the truly gifted. That it was dangerous.
The pages slowed. They settled open near the middle of the book.
The green light pulsed brighter, illuminating the dark stone walls of the tower.
Glinda took a step toward it, drawn in like a moth to a flame. The geometric symbols on the page, once sharp and unintelligible, seemed to shimmer and untwist, waiting for her to read them.
Elphaba was gone. The Wizard was gone.
But the book was open.
Glinda took a step toward it, the massive skirt of her bubble dress crushing against the stone legs of the table.
She didn't breathe. She didn't blink. She was afraid that if she moved too suddenly, the book would realize its mistake and slam shut, locking her out forever.
"You're mocking me," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Even now, you're mocking me."
But the pages didn't snap at her fingers. They lay flat, heavy and compliant, bathed in that eerie, pulsating emerald glow.
Glinda reached out. Her hand—usually so steady when holding a wand or waving to a crowd—shook violently. She pressed her fingertips against the yellowed parchment.
A shock, cold and sharp as winter air, shot up her arm. It wasn't painful, but it made her gasp. It felt like... like waking up.
She looked down at the text.
The last time she had seen this book, in the Wizard's chambers, the words had looked like angry, shifting insects. They had been jagged, violent scribbles that made her eyes water.
Now?
Now, the ink seemed to flow like water. The sharp angles softened into loops. The incomprehensible geometric shapes unspooled into clear, elegant sentences.
...spell for the binding of winds......incantation to reveal the hidden heart......curse to turn stone to water...
"I can read it," she breathed, the realization hitting her harder than the grief. "Elphie, I can read it."
She traced the margin of the page. In the corner, scribbled in a hurried, messy hand, was a small note in common ink. Don't forget the pronunciation on the third syllable, or you'll summon a goat instead of a storm.
A sob tore out of Glinda's throat, ragged and ugly.
It was Elphaba's handwriting. It wasn't just a book of monsters and mayhem. It was a textbook. It was a diary. It was the legacy of the most brilliant student Shiz University had ever seen, left open for the girl who had barely passed History of Magic.
Glinda looked up from the page, staring out into the dark night sky over Oz.
The chanting below had changed. It was rhythmic now, a steady, pounding heartbeat of a city demanding a leader.
"Glinda... Glinda... Glinda..."
They wanted a Queen. They wanted a symbol. They wanted someone to tell them that the bad times were over and that the Good times were here to stay.
Glinda looked back at the book.
The Wizard was a fraud who used machines to fake his power. Elphaba was a martyr who used magic to fight a war she couldn't win.
Glinda was neither.
She was just a girl in a pink dress who knew how to smile until her face hurt.
But now, she had the book.
"I can't bring you back," Glinda whispered to the empty air, her voice hardening, losing the tremble. "And I can't be you. I can't be the rebel."
She reached out and grabbed the heavy iron cover of the Grimmerie.
"But I can finish what you started."
Thud.
She slammed the book shut. The green light vanished, extinguished instantly, leaving her in the cold moonlight.
She picked up the heavy tome, clutching it against her chest so tightly the sharp metal clasp dug into her skin. It hurt. The pain was grounding.
She turned away from the balcony, away from the view of the city she now owned. She walked back toward the dark stairs of the tower, her chin held high, the pink sequins of her dress flashing like armor in the shadows.
She would give them their bubbles. She would give them their smiles. She would give them their Good Witch.
But in the dark, she would be something else entirely.