The dream didn't start in the bubble. It started in the silence.
Glinda was standing on the balcony of Kiamo Ko. The air was thick with smoke. Below her, the cornfields of the Vinkus were burning, casting long, twisting shadows against the castle walls.
She was gripping the railing so hard her fingernails cracked. She was waiting. She was waiting for the broomstick to rise out of the smoke. She was waiting for the cackle. She was waiting for the escape.
But nothing rose.
Instead, the doors behind her blew open.
Elphaba stumbled onto the balcony. But she wasn't the powerful Witch. She was small. She was trembling. She was holding her hat in her hands like a begging bowl.
"Help me," Elphaba whispered. Her voice was raw, scraped hollow by screaming. "Glinda, please. They're coming."
Glinda tried to move. She wanted to run to her. She wanted to grab her hand and pull her onto a bubble.
But Glinda's feet were fused to the floor. She looked down. Her pink dress had turned into stone. She was a statue. A beautiful, smiling, marble statue.
"I can't," Glinda said, but her statue mouth didn't move. She could only smile that perfect, frozen smile.
Elphaba looked at her. The betrayal in her eyes was sharper than any spell.
"You promised," Elphaba cried. "You said we couldn't be brought down."
The mob roared from below. A bucket of water arched through the air, moving in slow motion.
Glinda watched it fall. She screamed silently behind her marble lips. Move, Elphie! Move!
The water hit.
It didn't wash Elphaba away. It melted her.
It wasn't a quick death. It was slow. Agonizing. Elphaba's green skin began to run like wet paint. Her bones dissolved. She reached out a melting hand toward Glinda, grasping for salvation.
The slime hit Glinda's statue skirt.
"You watched," the melting pile of green sludge hissed. "You stood there and you watched."
The green sludge began to climb up the statue. It stained the white marble. It seeped into the cracks. It wasn't just slime; it was guilt. It was heavy, black, suffocating guilt.
"It's your fault," the voice gurgled. "You're the one who is Wicked, Glinda. You're the one who lived."
The green reached Glinda's throat. It filled her mouth, choking her on her own silence.
"I'M SORRY!"
Glinda woke up screaming the words she hadn't been able to say two years ago.
She thrashed in the bed, tangling in the silk sheets, flailing as if she were drowning. She fell off the mattress, hitting the floor hard.
She scrambled backward into the corner of the room, curling into a ball, shaking violently. She pressed her hands over her ears, but she could still hear the hiss. You watched. You watched.
"I didn't mean to," she sobbed into her knees, her body convulsing. "I couldn't save you. I couldn't stop them."
The room was silent. The morning light was just beginning to bleed through the curtains. There was no mob. No smoke. No melting witch.
Just a girl in a pink bedroom who had survived.
Glinda gasped for air, wiping her wet face. She felt dirty. She felt covered in it—the memory of that day. The moment she realized she had won the popularity contest but lost her soul.
She pushed herself up, stumbling toward the bathroom. She needed to see. She needed to check.
She slammed into the counter, gripping the cold marble. She stared into the mirror.
She expected to see a monster. She expected to see the guilt written on her face—green stains, black rot, something that showed the ugliness of her cowardice.
But the mirror lied.
The reflection was perfect. Her skin was alabaster white. Her hair was a halo of gold. Her eyes were wide and blue.
She looked like an angel.
Glinda stared at herself, horrifyingly beautiful. This was her punishment. She had to look like "Glinda the Good" every single day, while carrying the weight of what she had done.
"You're a liar," she whispered to her reflection. "You're a fraud."
She grabbed a bar of soap and began to scrub her hands. She scrubbed frantically, trying to wash away the phantom sensation of the melting hand grabbing her dress. She scrubbed until her skin was red and raw.
"I'M SORRY!"
Glinda woke up screaming the words she hadn't been able to say two years ago.
She thrashed in the bed, tangling in the silk sheets, flailing as if she were drowning. She fell off the mattress, hitting the floor hard.
She scrambled backward into the corner of the room, curling into a ball, shaking violently. She pressed her hands over her ears, but she could still hear the hiss. You watched. You watched.
"I didn't mean to," she sobbed into her knees, her body convulsing. "I couldn't save you. I couldn't stop them."
The room was silent. The morning light was just beginning to bleed through the curtains. There was no mob. No smoke. No melting witch.
Just a girl in a pink bedroom who had survived.
Glinda gasped for air, wiping her wet face. She felt dirty. She felt covered in it—the memory of that day. The moment she realized she had won the popularity contest but lost her soul.
She pushed herself up, stumbling toward the bathroom. She needed to see. She needed to check.
She slammed into the counter, gripping the cold marble. She stared into the mirror.
She expected to see a monster. She expected to see the guilt written on her face—green stains, black rot, something that showed the ugliness of her cowardice.
But the mirror lied.
The reflection was perfect. Her skin was alabaster white. Her hair was a halo of gold. Her eyes were wide and hazel.
She looked like an angel.
Glinda stared at herself, horrifyingly beautiful. This was her punishment. She had to look like "Glinda the Good" every single day, while carrying the weight of what she had done.
"You're a liar," she whispered to her reflection. "You're a fraud."
She grabbed a bar of soap and began to scrub her hands. She scrubbed frantically, trying to wash away the phantom sensation of the melting hand grabbing her dress. She scrubbed until her skin was red and raw.
t doesn't wash off, her mind whispered. You can't wash off a betrayal.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound on the bedroom door made her jump.
"Glinda? Your Royal Goodness?"
It was Mistress Malla.
Glinda looked at her hands. They were shaking uncontrollably. Not from cold. From shame.
"One moment!" her voice cracked.
She couldn't face them yet. She couldn't let them touch her. If they touched her, they might feel the rot.
She ran to the cedar chest and pulled out the white opera gloves.
She shoved her hands into them, yanking the stiff satin up her arms. She pulled them tight, hiding the red, raw skin. Hiding the hands that had failed to catch her friend.
"Glinda?"
"Coming," she whispered.
She straightened her spine. She locked her jaw. She put the mask back on.
She would go out there. She would smile. She would rule the kingdom that killed her best friend.
Because it was the only way she could make it up to her.