Laughter at the Academy

by Seanan McGuire

  And there had been other children in Otherways before her.

  “You can’t be part of two worlds forever. The heart doesn’t work like that. There isn’t room, any more than there’s room in a mouth for two sets of teeth. Baby teeth fall out. Childhoods end. That’s how adult teeth, and adult lives, find the space to grow.” The Truth Fairy leaned close, voice almost a whisper as she said, “Haven’t you ever noticed how so many people seem to walk around empty inside, like there’s a hole cut out of the middle of them, a space where something used to be, and isn’t anymore? Someone has to dig the holes, Crystal. When your baby teeth don’t fall out, someone has to pull them.”

  Hearts can heal, that was what Naamen had told her. But there’d been more to it, hadn’t there? Hearts can heal, as long as they remember the way home.

  Hearts could forget the way home.

  The Truth Fairy rose on buzzing wings. Crystal’s eyes widened, the reality of the moment sinking into her bones. There was no rescue. There was no salvation. Her name was going to be added to the quiet ranks of the forgotten, and never spoken again, not now, not tomorrow, not to the next child to stumble through the light of the Passage Star.

  She was never going home again.

  The knife went up. The knife came down. And somewhere deep inside her, in the place that the Truth Fairy’s knife sought with such unerring skill, Crystal Halloway screamed.

  Morning dawned, as mornings always do. Paul and Maryanne Halloway were in the kitchen when their daughter came down the stairs, yawning and wiping the sleep from her eyes. “Morning, Mom and Dad,” she said, voice muffled by the hand pressed against her mouth. “Breakfast?”

  “Scrambled eggs and toast,” said Maryanne. “How did you sleep?”

  “Really well.” Crystal smiled a little blearily, as she dropped herself into a seat at the kitchen table. “I had the weirdest dreams.”

  Her father looked up from his laptop, leaving his half-composed email unsent. “What about?”

  “You know, I don’t remember now?” Crystal’s smile became a puzzled frown. “Something about a rabbit, I think. I don’t know.” For a moment, her frown deepened, taking on an almost panicked edge. “It seemed so important…”

  “Don’t worry yourself, dear.” Maryanne put a plate of eggs and toast down in front of her daughter. “Eat up. You don’t want to be late for school.”

  “Yeah.” The frown faded, replaced by calm. “We’re talking about college applications today. I should probably be on time for that.”

  Crystal ate quickly and mechanically, and after she left, her parents marveled at how focused and collected she’d seemed, like she was finally ready to face the challenges of growing up.

  Neither of them saw the empty space behind her eyes, in the place where a lifetime of adventures used to be. Neither of them saw the hole cut through her heart, waiting to be filled by a world that would never satisfy her, although she would never, until she died, be able to articulate why.

  Neither of them really saw her at all, and it wouldn’t have mattered if they had. Done was done, and a heart, once truly broken, could never remember the way home. Crystal’s father had grown up in that same house; had known adventures and excitement in a world whose name he no longer knew. He would love his daughter all the more for having lost the same things he had lost. And her mother…she didn’t remember the talking horses or the magical wars or the young prince with webs between his fingers, not consciously, even if sometimes in the night she cried. Both of them knew that empty space more intimately than they could understand.

  And none of them, not Crystal, not her parents, could hear the distant, thready sound of a giant spider—the Guardian of the Passage to the Beyond, the one who had guided and guarded a hundred generations of human children, nurtured them, loved them, and lost them all—weeping.

  Emeralds to Emeralds, Dust to Dust

  It shouldn’t really come as a surprise to anyone that I love Oz and all its derivative works (although I have a huge soft spot for Wicked, both as a book and as a musical: when all else fails, root for the villain). When I was asked to contribute to an anthology of Oz stories (Oz Reimagined, edited by John Joseph Adams and Douglas Cohen), I jumped at the chance. Since we were working from the public domain, we had to adhere to the first book in the series, not the famous movie with Judy Garland or any of the things that had come after.

  This is my urban fantasy film noir Oz. It stands alone, but don’t be surprised if one day you click your heels and find yourself looking at a new trilogy. I’ve met me, after all. Contains gendered slurs: Dot really doesn’t care for Ozma very much, and often expresses herself through profanity.

  The pillows were cool when I woke up, but they still smelled of Polychrome—fresh ozone and petrichor, sweeter than a thousand flowers. I swore as I got out of bed and crossed to the window, opening the curtains to reveal a sky the sunny fuck-you color of a Munchkin swaddling cloth. There was no good reason for the sky to be that violently blue this time of year—no good reason but Ozma, who was clearly getting her pissy bitch on again.

  Sometimes I miss the days when all I had to deal with were wicked witches and natural disasters and ravenous beasts who didn’t mean anything personal when they devoured you whole. Embittered fairy princesses are a hell of a lot more complicated.

  I showed the sky my middle finger, just in case Ozma was watching—and Ozma’s always watching—before closing the curtains again. I was up, and my girlfriend was once again banished from the Land of Oz by unseasonably good weather, courtesy of my ex. Time to get ready to face whatever stupidity was going to define my day.

  As long as it didn’t involve any Ozites, I’d be fine.

  The hot water in the shower held out long enough for me to shampoo my hair. That was a rare treat this time of year, and one I could attribute purely to Ozma’s maliciousness: lose a girlfriend, get enough sun to fill the batteries on the solar heater. It was a trade I wouldn’t have needed to make if I’d had any magic of my own, but magical powers aren’t standard issue for kids from Kansas, and none of the things I’ve managed to pick up since arriving in Oz are designed for something as basic as boiling water. That would be too easy.

  I was toweling off when someone banged on the bathroom door—never the safest of prospects, since the hinges, like everything else in the apartment, were threatening to give up the ghost at any moment. “Dot! You done in there? We’ve got trouble!”

  “What kind of trouble, Jack?” I kept toweling. My roommate can be a little excitable sometimes. It’s a natural side effect of having a giant pumpkin for a head.

  “I don’t know, but Ozma’s here! In person!”

  My head snapped up, and I met my own startled eyes in the mirror. The silver kiss the Witch of the North left on my forehead the day I arrived in Oz gleamed dully in the sunlight filtering through the bathroom skylight. “I’ll be right there. Keep her happy while I get dressed.”

  “I’ll try,” he said glumly. His footsteps moved away down the hall. My surprise faded into annoyance, and I glared at my reflection for a moment before I turned and headed for my room. Ozma—fucking Ozma—in my apartment. She hadn’t been to see me in person since the day she told me we couldn’t be together anymore, that I had become a political liability thanks to my unavoidable association with the crossovers.

  I will always be a Princess of Oz. Nothing can change that, not even the undying will of Her Fairy Highness. But I am no longer beloved of the Empress, and if I want to see her, I have to go to the palace like everybody else. So what the hell could have brought her to the crossover slums at all, let alone to my door?

  I wrenched drawers open and grabbed for clothing, only vaguely aware that I was dressing for battle: khaki pants, combat boots, and a white tank top, none of which would have been anything special outside of Oz. Here, the tank top was a statement of who and what I was, and why I would be listened to, even if I was a crossover and not a natural-born citizen. Only one type of per
son is allowed to wear white in the Land of Oz; it’s the color of witches, and I, Dorothy Gale, Princess of Oz, exile from Kansas, am the Wicked Witch of the West.

  Putting in my earrings took a little more care. I would have skipped it if Ozma had sent a representative instead of coming herself, but it was the very fact of her presence that both made me hurry and take my time. Ozma needed to see that I was taking her seriously. So in they went, until my ears were a chiming line of dangling silver charms, slippers and umbrellas and field mice and crows. I checked my hair quickly, swiping a finger’s-worth of gel through it with one hand. The tips were dyed in blue, purple, red, and green—the colors of Oz. Only the colors of the Winkie Country were missing, and as I’m a natural blonde, they don’t need dye to be represented.

  Clapping the diamond bracelet that represented the favor of the Winkies around my left wrist, I gave myself one last look in the mirror and left the room. Voices drifted through the thin curtain that separated the apartment’s narrow back hallway from the main room: Jack, a high tenor, almost genderless, and perpetually a little bit confused; a low tenor that had to belong to one of Ozma’s guards; and Ozma herself, a sweet, piping soprano that I used to find alluring, back when it whispered endearments instead of excuses. I stopped at the curtain, taking a breath to bolster myself, and then swept it aside.

  “I’m flattered, Ozma,” I said. “I didn’t know you remembered where I lived.”

  The main room served as our living space and as the reception area for my duties as the Crossover Ambassador. It was shabby, as befitted both those roles. Ozma stood out against the mended draperies and twice-repaired furniture like an emerald in gravel.

  Her back was to me, facing Jack and a guardsman in royal livery. If we could have conducted the entire meeting that way, I would have been thrilled. Sadly, it was not to be. Her shoulders tensed, and then the Undying Empress, Princess Ozma, turned to face me.

  She was beautiful. I had to give her that, even if I never wanted to give her anything again. Her hair was as black as the midnight sky, and like the midnight sky, it was spangled with countless shining stars, diamonds woven into every curl. Red poppies were tucked behind her ears, their poisonous pollen sacs carefully clipped by the royal florists. It all served to frame a face that couldn’t have been more perfect, from her red cupid’s-bow mouth to her pale brown eyes, the same shade as the sands of the Deadly Desert. Her floor-length green silk dress was more simply cut than her court gowns; I recognized it from garden walks and picnics, back in the days when I was in favor. She wore it to throw me off balance. I knew that, I rejected it…and it was working all the same.

  “I granted you this space,” she said sweetly. “Of course I remember. How are you, my dear Dorothy?”

  “Peachy,” I snapped. “What are you doing here, Ozma?”

  “It’s such a beautiful day outside, I thought you might need some company.” A trickle of poison crept into her words. That was all it ever took with Ozma. Just a trace, to remind you how badly she could hurt you if she wanted to. “Don’t you love the sunshine?”

  For a moment, I just gaped at her, inwardly fumbling for some reply—any reply, as long as it didn’t involve hurling something at her head.

  Finally, I settled for, “Not really. What do you want, Ozma? Because I don’t want you here.”

  “Ah. It’s to be like that, is it?” The sweetness vanished from her face as she straightened, looking coldly down her nose at me. “There’s been a murder. I expect you to deal with it.”

  “Uh, maybe you’re confused. I’m not a detective, and I’m not a member of your royal guard. I’m the Crossover Ambassador and the Wicked Witch of the West. Neither of those jobs comes with a ‘solve murders’ requirement.”

  “No, but both of those jobs come with a ‘control your people’ requirement, and Dorothy, one of your people is a murderer.” Ozma’s lips curved in a cruel smile. I balled my hands into fists, pushing them behind my back before I could surrender to the urge to slap that smile right off her smug, pretty little face. “The body was found Downtown, in the old Wizard’s Square. My guards are holding it for you. Find the killer, and deliver him to me.”

  “Or what?” The challenge left my lips before I had a chance to think it through. I winced.

  “Or I find a new ambassador to keep the crossovers in line. A proper Ozite, perhaps, one who will have the nation’s best interests at heart.” Ozma kept smiling. “And you, my dear Dorothy, can look forward to an endless string of cloudless days. Sunshine does keep spirits up in the winter, don’t you think? Rinn will stay here to show you to the body. Whenever you’re ready—but it had best be soon, for everyone’s sake.”

  She turned, leaving me staring, and swept out of the room. Her guard remained behind, standing uncomfortably beside the door. Jack stepped up beside me, his big orange pumpkin-head tilted downward to show the unhappiness his carved grin wouldn’t let him express.

  “Well, that wasn’t very nice,” he said.

  “Get my pack,” I replied, snapping out of my fugue. “I’ve got a murder to solve.”

  The Wizard was the first person to cross the shifting sands of the Deadly Desert with body and soul intact. He wasn’t the last, not by a long shot. We should have known something was wrong with the spells that protected Oz when I made the crossing over and over again, traveling by every natural disaster in the book, but what did I know? I was just a kid, and Oz was the country of my dreams. I would have done anything to get back there. When Ozma told me I could stay, that we could be best friends and playmates forever, I cried. I would have done anything she asked me, back then. I would have died for her.

  The one thing I couldn’t do, not even when she asked, was stop the slow trickle of crossovers from appearing in Oz. They each found their own way across the sands, some intentionally, some by mistake…and since each method of crossing back to the “real world” seemed to be a one-shot, once they were in Oz, they were in Oz for keeps. At first, Ozma left them to find their own way. It had worked well enough for the early arrivals, but fewer and fewer crossovers were coming from places like Kansas. The farmlands found themselves overrun with people who didn’t know which end of the plow was which. They threw the newcomers out, and one by one, the crossovers came to the only destination they had left.

  The City of Emeralds. Which was now the Emerald City in nothing but name; only the oldest, richest denizens still wore their green-tinted glasses, updated with a special enchantment that made anyone who wasn’t born in Oz disappear completely. This led to a few collisions on the streets, but as far as they were concerned, it was worth it. For them, the Emerald City was still the pristine paradise it had been before the crossovers came. For the rest of us…

  Jack and I left the apartment by the back door, with Ozma’s guard tagging along awkwardly behind us. He looked as unhappy about the situation as I felt. His look of unhappiness deepened as he realized that we were heading for the stairs. “Are we not taking the skyways?” he asked, hesitantly.

  My status as a Princess-cum-Ambassador-cum-Wicked Witch is confusing for some people—especially the kind of strapping young lad that Ozma liked to employ. “No, we’re not,” I said curtly, and promptly regretted my tone. It wasn’t his fault. More kindly, I explained, “We’re going Downtown, remember? Not every building in this area has connections to both the streets and the skyways. It’s better if we go down low as soon as we can. If we take the skyways, we’ll come out miles from Wizard’s Square.”

  “I have a piece of the road of yellow brick attuned to my comrades in arms. It would lead us where we needed to go,” he said, with the pride of a farm boy who’d never had his own magic before.

  I remembered being that young, and that naïve. I hated him a little in that moment, for reminding me. “That’s just dandy, but I know where we’re going. This door lets out within half a mile of the Square, and I’d rather not walk any farther if I can avoid it. You don’t want to walk that far through Downtown eith
er. It’s not safe.”

  “I am in service to the Undying Empress,” he said proudly. “I fear nothing in this city.”

  “Just keep telling yourself that.”

  Jack snorted. It was an oddly musical sound, thanks to the acoustics of his head.

  Rinn frowned at us. “I am sorry. Is there something I am unaware of?”

  “We’re going Downtown,” I said. “Have you ever been there before? Yes or no.”

  “…no,” he said sullenly.

  “I didn’t think so. All right. First rule of Downtown: don’t act like your position means anything to the people who live there. Most of them were city folks before they crossed, and they’re still city folks. They don’t appreciate being reminded that things are different now. Second rule of Downtown: don’t mention Ozma.”

  “But why not?” Rinn sounded honestly confused. “Surely they’re grateful.”

  “Grateful? She herds them into slums. She coddles the ones who catch her eye and leaves the rest to fight for scraps. She lets them kill each other, steal from each other, and do whatever they want, as long as she doesn’t have to look at them. Downtown isn’t grateful. They hate her more than almost anyone or anything in Oz.”

  Rinn’s eyes widened. To him, I was speaking blasphemy. “What do they hate more?”

  My smile was thin as a poppy’s petal. “Me.”

  We’d been descending as we walked, moving out of the rarified air of the upper city and down, down, down where the lost things lived. Buildings like mine are rare these days. They’re technically considered Uptown, since they’re connected to the skyways, but they also have doors leading Downtown, making them vulnerable to compromise, no matter how many spells are layered on to keep them secure. Good Ozites refuse to live in places like mine.