“Well—not all of her,” Jellia said. Her smile had never wavered. “She’ll be fine in no time, and after she recovers enough, the Scarecrow will repair her body. She’ll be better than ever. She’s actually quite pleased. It’s an honor to enter the service of the Tin Soldiers.”
Pleased. Sure. I was burning with anger. Being mauled by a lion and becoming one of the Scarecrow’s gruesome science projects was supposed to be an honor now? As the heat rose in my chest, I felt my invisible knife again, pulsing along with my heartbeat somewhere inside my body. It wanted to come out. It wanted to do some damage. I willed it away.
“Is the Lion still here? In the palace?”
“No,” Jellia replied as we turned a corner and headed up the grand staircase toward Dorothy’s quarters. “Glinda decided it would be best for him to return to the forest for the time being. We don’t want another incident, and he hasn’t been himself since—” Suddenly she stopped herself.
“Since what?” I’d wondered if he’d been affected by what Gert had done to him in the woods but I couldn’t see anything specific the day I saw him in the garden.
She looked away. “Never mind that. Aren’t you excited about your new assignment?”
I was excited, but not for the reasons Jellia thought I should be. I was scared, too. Getting close to Dorothy was part of my mission, but this was all happening so quickly.
I knew from listening to the other girls at mealtime that being one of Dorothy’s ladies-in-waiting was a coveted position, reserved only for the most cheerful and pliable of the servants.
“Why me?” I asked.
“You’ve impressed the princess over the years. And you’ve impressed me.” Jellia lowered her voice and leaned in close. “You work well under pressure, dear. You’ll need that.”
I thought about our encounter with the Tin Woodman in the tight confines of the garden annex. I assumed Jellia had blocked that incident out, stored it down in her special utility closet of denial. Apparently, it made more of an impression than I thought.
“That, and . . .” Jellia glanced over at me, sidelong, “the Wizard also put in a good word for you.”
I stopped in my tracks. “The Wizard?”
“Oh yes. He came to me just last night and told me how pleased he was with your dusting. True, the Wizard is always full of compliments, but not usually when it comes to housekeeping. You must have made quite the impression. I thought it was only fair that you get your chance.”
“I was just doing my job,” I said, still not sure what to make of all this. Was the Wizard trying to help me? Was he working for the Order, helping me make my way into Dorothy’s inner sanctum?
Jellia turned to me and looked me up and down, mistaking my confusion for reluctance. “If you aren’t up for this, Astrid, I’m sure any of the other girls would jump at the chance.”
“No, of course I am. It’s just—poor Hannah.”
“This isn’t the time for mourning. We go on,” she scolded. “We only have one job, and that’s to please Dorothy.”
Yeah, Jellia kinda needed a slap. But all these maids were so brainwashed, I couldn’t fault her for being callous.
We arrived at the door to Dorothy’s private chambers. It was green and heavy and gaudy as hell, carved from solid emerald and etched with an ornate floral pattern, the grooves lined with gold and jewels.
Jellia gave me a last once-over before we entered.
“Here,” she said, digging into the pocket of her apron and pulling out a little gold pot. “We’re not really supposed to use it, but just a little bit won’t hurt.” She unscrewed the lid and held it out to me.
I cautiously dipped my finger inside and came back with a glob of shimmering, greasy stuff that reminded me of lip gloss. Indigo’s face popped into my head and I closed my eyes for a second, remembering what she’d told me about it. I smeared it across my lips, feeling a tingle as the PermaSmile took effect. It wasn’t exactly comfortable—it felt like the corners of my mouth were being held apart by clothespins—but I guessed that was better than accidentally letting Dorothy see me frown.
I returned the canister to Jellia and she took a little for herself, refreshing her smile before placing the goop back in her apron. When her hand came back out, she handed me a silver hairbrush.
“Remember—it’s a thousand strokes. Not a thousand and one and not nine hundred ninety-nine. Don’t lose count. Dorothy will know. She always does—we’ve lost more than one girl that way. If there’s one thing to say about Hannah, it’s that she certainly could count.”
Jellia knocked on the door and, after getting no response, pushed it open. As she entered, she looked over her shoulder and whispered back at me with one more bit of advice. “Whatever you do,” she said, “don’t touch the shoes.”
Dorothy’s room was wall-to-wall pink. Pepto-Bismol pink, cotton-candy pink, sunset pink, and every nauseating shade in between. A canopied bed was encircled with pink silken drapes; the floor was wall-to-wall pink shag carpet; and the ceiling overhead was covered in what looked like pink rhinestones that would probably make you go blind if you stared at them too long.
If Madison Pendleton ever made it to Oz, I thought, she could probably get a job as Dorothy’s personal interior decorator.
In the center of the room, a few feet from the bed, some kind of green powder had been sprinkled onto the carpet in a wide circle. Inside it, a little black terrier was racing around in excitement, chasing his own tail.
I knew exactly who that was. Toto. When he spotted us, he bared his tiny teeth at me and growled.
Jellia stepped carefully around him. I did the same, and as I did, Toto lunged at me but hit an invisible barrier. Undaunted, he got back up on his little feet and tried again. I jumped, despite myself.
“Don’t mind him,” Jellia said, waving her hand. “He’s having another time-out. He’s a sweet little thing, but he sometimes has problems controlling himself.”
It was no surprise that Dorothy’s little dog was as vicious as she was. As for Dorothy herself, though, she was nowhere to be found.
Jellia pulled the fluffy bedspread a hair tighter as she passed by. “Yoo-hoo!” she singsonged. “Your Majesty!”
There was no response.
“She’s probably in her favorite place,” Jellia said, pulling open a door.
Calling it a closet was an understatement. It was as big as one of the caves back in the Order. There were dresses, mini and maxi, corseted and flowy, and ball gowns and short-shorts and skinny pants. The clothes were endless in their variety, but they all had one thing in common: they all bore a familiar, blue-checked print.
When I reached out and ran my fingers against the fabric of a checkered jumpsuit, it dislodged itself from the others and floated out ahead of us as if it were being worn by an invisible model. I touched a hat next, and it joined the dress on its strut down the runway.
Jellia gave me a sharp glance and touched both items, launching them right back to their original spots. I grimaced in silent apology.
We continued through the closet with no Dorothy in sight. Besides Her Royal Awfulness, there was something else that was conspicuously absent amidst the rows and rows of clothes: there wasn’t a single pair of shoes.
We finally found Dorothy in the back, stretched out on a chaise covered in pink paisley swirls. She was wearing a long, silk robe—still in that blue gingham pattern—and the toes of her red heels poked out from underneath it.
Even in her pajamas, she never took them off. Did she sleep in them?
“You’re late,” Dorothy said icily, looking up from a fashion magazine called Her Majesty. Her own face PermaSmiled at me from the cover.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Jellia said, casting her eyes to the floor. “There was a disturbance with one of the other maids. Astrid here will be taking Hannah’s place.”
Dorothy glowered at me. “Can she count?”
“She’s a wonderful counter,” Jellia said. I nodded in agreement
, but Dorothy had already stopped caring. She threw her head back and stretched, clapping her hands together.
“Where are we on the guest list for the ball?” she demanded.
“Everyone who’s anyone will be there,” Jellia asserted. “Jinjur, Polychrome. I even heard from Scraps, the Patchwork Girl.”
Dorothy frowned, like she wasn’t all that impressed with her guest list. Well, maybe if she weren’t always exiling and executing people, they would want to come to her parties.
“Whatever,” Dorothy snapped, and pointed to the tray of nail polish that was sitting on a small vanity in the corner. “Anna. Nail polish.”
It took me a second—and a look from Jellia—to figure out that Anna meant me. I nodded shyly and brought the tray over, wondering where I was supposed to put it. Jellia just tapped it quickly and it floated right out of my hands, hanging steady in the air.
“What would you like today?” Jellia asked, surveying the rainbow of polishes. I was happy to see that at least when it came to her manicures Dorothy had a sense of variety. There must have been at least a hundred different colors.
Dorothy sat up and swung her feet to the ground. As she did, her shoes made a ruby-red comet’s tail through the air. I had to stifle a gasp. It was like they were glowing from the inside, like they wanted me to notice them.
Jellia and Dorothy were prattling on, deciding on the best nail art for the day—stripes or swirls or sparkles? They sounded like they were talking from the end of a long tunnel. I couldn’t take my eyes off the shoes. I was transfixed.
So beautiful. So shiny. So perfect.
Whoa, get a grip, Amy.
I’d taken pride in wearing the same ratty pair of knockoff Converse since freshman year. They were broken in, comfortable, and something the Madison Pendletons of the world wouldn’t wear in a million years. I’d never given a crap about shoes before, especially not the bedazzled variety. So why now? Something wasn’t right.
Even as I reasoned with myself, the glow from the shoes intensified. I realized they were shining just for me, that Dorothy and Jellia couldn’t see them, not like I could. They were calling to me.
A numbness spread over the skeptical part of my mind.
I wondered what it would be like to have people wait on me the way we were waiting on Dorothy. What it would be like to have a closet full of dresses. What it would be like to have power.
Power that came from those shoes.
I want them, I thought. I need them.
I should just take them.
I was vaguely aware of my body moving, my hands clenching and unclenching. Slowly, I reached toward Dorothy’s feet.
“Astrid,” Jellia warned, yanking my elbow back.
I ignored her. I wanted those shoes.
“Astrid!” she said again, this time angrily. She snapped her fingers right in my face, tearing my eyes away from Dorothy’s feet. I blinked. Looking up at Jellia, I felt like myself again, and I knew that the shoes had been doing something to me.
Jellia just glared, as if to say Didn’t I warn you?
Dorothy was busy holding up a bottle of polish to the light, thinking about her impending manicure. When I glanced in her direction, I saw her eyes narrow and her mouth twitch up in the tiniest sneer. Had she noticed? Did she know what her shoes were doing?
“Astrid,” Jellia ordered firmly, “the princess needs her hair brushed.”
“One thousand strokes exactly!” Dorothy snapped, still not looking up at me.
I took a deep breath and moved behind her. I grabbed the brush from my pocket and pulled it slowly through Dorothy’s thick auburn locks. Her hair smelled like lemons and sunshine. I expected there to be a rotten note underneath, but there wasn’t. It was all sweetness and light. This is what evil smells like, I realized.
One, two, three, four . . . I counted silently, being careful not to yank too hard when I hit a rare tangle. It was actually sort of relaxing—I felt much better now that I had something to focus on other than the shoes.
“Let’s do the hearts,” Dorothy finally decided. “Use the pink glitter. Blue for the base.” She extended her hands to Jellia and I realized that there was something gnarled about them. The rest of Dorothy was perfect, but her hands looked like an old woman’s.
Jellia pulled up a stool and picked out the first color. Dorothy began to hum a low waltz under her breath while Jellia got to work.
Jellia was an artist. Her fingers moved delicately and quickly over Dorothy’s nails, tracing the outlines of tiny hearts without even the tiniest mistake. Still, you could tell it wasn’t easy. Jellia’s brow crinkled in concentration and it quickly began to shine with sweat as she worked.
“Tell me the gossip,” Dorothy demanded. “No one ever tells me anything. There must be something interesting going on in this palace of mine. I know you know. The servants always do.”
“Let me think,” Jellia said. As she spoke, she glanced up at me, probably to check on my progress. I was at two hundred. I met her eyes, flashed her a reassuring smile, and then nearly nicked the back of Dorothy’s ear with the brush.
Dorothy didn’t even notice, she just went on humming her stupid waltz. But Jellia did, flinching on my behalf at the close call. That’s how it happened.
Jellia’s hand slipped. A drop of nail polish fell from the brush. I watched it go, as if in slow motion.
The sparkly pink polish landed in a blob on the pink carpet.
Dorothy shrieked.
The thing is, the polish almost matched the color of the carpet. Even if it wouldn’t come out, it was just a tiny little drop. No one would notice. But Dorothy would know.
“You idiot!” she screamed.
Jellia didn’t move. Her lips twitched at the corners of her frozen smile. “Princess Dorothy—Your Highness—I am so very sorry. It . . .”
She dropped to her knees in panic, dabbing frantically at the carpet with a handkerchief to blot out her mistake. But Dorothy put her hand out to halt the maid.
“Don’t. You’ll just smear it and make it worse.”
Jellia looked up, eyes impossibly wide above her frozen smile. But Dorothy was over it. Sort of. She shook her head.
“Should I send for soap and water?” Jellia asked. “I’m certain I can have it out in a moment.”
“Soap and water,” Dorothy repeated, snorting. She muttered something under her breath and a sizzle of energy sparked from her fingertips. The minuscule stain instantly disappeared. “The atrocious mess is not the point, Jellia. The point is that you were careless. Very careless. I’m used to better from you.”
“I’m sorry,” Jellia repeated, still trembling, sitting back down on her stool. “So very sorry. I can’t imagine what came over me.”
I swallowed. In a way, Jellia was covering for me. I’d distracted her.
Dorothy’s voice suddenly filled with syrupy kindness. “Oh, Jellia, dear. You can’t cry over a little spilled nail polish. I’ll think of some way for you to make it up to me.”
I resumed my brushing. Two hundred and one. I hadn’t forgotten my place. Jellia picked up the bottle of polish. I expected her to be relieved, but she was still quivering.
“I’ll just need to think of the appropriate punishment,” Dorothy said.
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“I wonder what it should be. . . .”
Jellia’s hand was shaking so much that she had to put the bottle down again.
“Did I tell you to stop?” Dorothy asked. Jellia’s eyes widened and she picked the bottle back up to continue. Her mouth was still stretched ear to ear but the rest of her face was crumpled in terror.
This was what Dorothy did to people. I had known Dorothy was cruel, but the joy she took in her cruelty filled me with disgust.
I thought of Madison Pendleton and all her minions, the people who had taken the same delight in tormenting me back in school. I thought of Gert, and of Indigo, and of Ollie hanging from the little post by the side of the road. I though
t of all the new orphans in the village of Pumperdink.
Then another thought came to me. It seemed so clear. I hadn’t heard from the Order since I’d gotten here. Maybe they’d forgotten about me. Regardless, I was within clear cutting distance. What if this was my best chance? If I was going to kill someone, I needed to be in control, and not rely on someone else to tell me when the time was right. Nox had made that mistake in the woods—he’d waited for Gert and Mombi before attacking the Lion, and look where that had gotten us. It had gotten Gert killed.
I could do it now. Dorothy was distracted, completely absorbed with punishing Jellia. She would never see it coming. She wouldn’t even have time to scream.
My heart was racing, but I took a deep breath. I didn’t pause in my brushing. Three hundred and seven.
I shifted positions ever so slightly and dropped my free hand out of Jellia’s line of sight, just behind Dorothy’s back. My knife materialized in my hand, its warmth spreading up through my arm.
I wrapped my fingers tightly around it. No one had noticed. I was inches away from her neck. Without even consciously casting a spell, I heard Dorothy’s blood pulsing through her veins.
I had the bitch right where I wanted her.
I pulled my elbow back and raised the knife so that it was just a centimeter from Dorothy’s spine. Would it be quicker to slit her throat or stab her in the back?
I hesitated. A moment ago, I’d been possessed by a pair of pretty shoes. Was that happening again? Were they controlling me right now? No. I wanted to kill Dorothy. I could undo everything she’d done, return the beauty and magic to Oz, create a happily ever after. It was all just one blade stroke and one seriously ruined carpet away.
Was I ready, though? Was I ready to be Amy the Assassin? God knows Dorothy deserved it, but—
Dorothy let out a high-pitched, ear-shattering scream that rustled the rows of dresses. She jumped up from her chaise, knocking it over. The brush snagged on her hair and flew out of my hand. I froze, unsure whether to hide the knife or lunge forward and stab her.
“Guards!” she bellowed.
Dorothy Must Die: The Other Side of the Rainbow Collection: No Place Like Oz, Dorothy Must Die, The Witch Must Burn, The Wizard Returns, The Wicked Will Rise Page 24