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 (12 page)

With nothing to do except think, my mind kept returning to my mother. I was ashamed of myself for how little I’d thought about her since I’d come to Oz, but now I couldn’t stop wondering whether she had made it through the tornado, about whether she was searching for me or whether she was laid up somewhere, drunk or stoned or whatever else.

If there was even a chance she was out there, looking for me or hoping I’d make it home okay, then I couldn’t give up. I’d made a promise to myself that I’d do anything to help Ollie and his family, thinking that my mother was beyond my help—but now I realized that, no matter how far away my mother was, no matter how far gone she might be, I would always feel a sense of obligation to her.

Then again, it’s not like I was in much of a position to help
anyone
right now. Honestly, I could use a little help myself.

After two or three days—I think, but who knew?—Pete came to me again.

“I don’t have long,” he said, stepping through the door. His voice was strained with uncharacteristic panic. “Your trial is tomorrow,” he said. “The news is all over the palace.”

I sat up in bed with a start. I had been down here so long now that I’d nearly forgotten I had a trial coming up at all. The wild look in Pete’s eyes reminded me that, as bad as things were, they could still get worse.

“What exactly does a trial entail?” I asked, still holding out some irrational hope that maybe I could be exonerated.

He shook his head and looked down at his hands.

“Just tell me,” I said. “Maybe there’s some trick to it. Things like that always work in fairy tales.”

“Do you honestly think this is a fairy tale?” Pete asked.

“Just tell me what to expect.”

He sighed, finally relenting. “Her Royal Highness’s kangaroo court. It’s a total joke,” he said. “I think the only reason she bothers with trials at all is because she likes wearing the big white wig. Once you go to trial, you’re already as good as guilty. I don’t think there’s ever been a not-guilty verdict as long as the court’s been in existence.”

In the face of my impending Fate Worse Than Death sentence, I found that I was surprisingly calm. Maybe it just didn’t seem real.

“So what do I do?” I asked.

Pete looked at his hands. He tousled his hair, and then looked back at me in sheepish apology. “We could make a break for it,” he said. “Maybe with two of us, we could fight our way past the guards.”

We both knew what a dumb idea it was. “That will just get us
both
killed,” I said. “What’s the point of that?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

“What about magic? I mean, this is Oz, right? Isn’t there some spell that would work? It doesn’t even have to be a good one.”

He shook his head. “I never learned to do magic,” he said. “I was never good at it, and no one ever thought it was important for a gardener to learn, especially once Dorothy made it illegal for anyone except her and her friends to practice it. I wouldn’t even be able to cast a simple extinguishing spell without it setting off the magical alarms and going on trial myself.”

“What about someone else? Do you know anyone who would give you, like, some kind of mystical trinket or something? I mean, I don’t know . . .”

“I thought of that. I talked to every illegal practitioner I could think of and none of them will help. It’s too risky. Anyway, I doubt anything like that would work down here. There are anti-magic wards everywhere in the dungeons. You’d have to be really powerful to break through them. Like, Glinda powerful.”

“Some magic shoes would really come in handy right about now, huh?” I said.

“Seriously. Maybe . . .” He stopped himself.

“Maybe what?”

“It’s nothing. It’s just—there might be one more person who . . .”

“Who?” I asked eagerly.

“No,” he said. “It would never . . .”

“Who?”

He spoke with finality this time. “No. It won’t ever work.”

“Please,” I said. “Whatever you can do. Please just try.”

Pete nodded. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll ask. But it’s a long shot. It’s the longest shot.”

We were both quiet. I scraped my nails absently along the stone walls next to my bed, trying to make a mark. Any mark. It was like with Indigo’s tattoos. We all had our ways of saying
I was here.

“Listen,” Pete said. “Amy.”

I jerked my head up. “Yeah?”

He pulled something out of his pocket and stepped over to me.

“It’s not much. But maybe you can do something with this.” From out of his pocket, he drew a small kitchen knife, and pressed it into my hand.

He was right. It
wasn’t
much. But it was something, and he was giving it to me.

“Thank you,” I said. I leaned up to his face and kissed him solemnly on the cheek.

“I’m sorry I can’t do more.”

“I will make it,” I said firmly. At this point, I didn’t really feel like I had any choice but to keep believing that. Then I remembered one more thing. Something important. “Wait,” I said. And I ducked under the bed to retrieve Star.

I’d hated her from the moment my mother brought her home. I’d hated the responsibility of taking care of something that I never asked for, and I’d hated the way my mother seemed to care more about a rodent than she did about me. Or, she had cared about her until she’d
stopped
caring. Star and I were kind of in the same boat that way.

An unexpected well of emotion opened up somewhere behind my ribs. She had been a faithful companion since I’d gotten here. She was the last thing I had left to connect me to where I came from. And she had been a good friend. Even if she couldn’t talk.

I cupped her furry body in my palms and gave her one last kiss on the forehead.

“Take her for me,” I said. “Keep her safe for me.”

I had hated her and now didn’t want to let her go. Star was not so sentimental. She crawled from my hands and into Pete’s without looking back at me.

“Great,” he said. “Just what I’ve always wanted. A rat.”

I smiled. “Just do it.”

He lifted her up to his face and let her lick him. “Fine. I’ll take her,” he said. “But I’m not keeping her forever. Just until you’re safe and you can take her back.” He dropped her into the breast pocket of his shirt and she squealed happily.

“Go,” I said, giving him permission so he wouldn’t have to ask.

“I don’t . . . ,” he said.

“Just go. I’ll be okay. But if you know anyone who owes you a miracle . . .”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Pete said.

He placed his key in the wall. The door opened. I watched him go.

I was ready for them when they came for me the next day. I had paced my cell all night making plans, none of them very good. If I was going down, I was going to do it kicking and screaming. Not to mention biting, clawing, and hair-pulling. And, of course, stabbing. My knife—tiny as it was—never left my hand.

I heard them coming long before they reached me. The Tin Woodman and his metal men made a lot of noise descending all those flights of marble stairs.

As they creaked toward me, I crouched in the corner nearest to where I knew the door would appear and waited. I didn’t really know what I was going to do when they got here, but tackling the Tin Woodman as soon as the door opened and then making a break for it would be a start. It wasn’t the best idea I’d ever had, but at least it was something.

Thunk, crash, creak, thunk.
My heart began to pound. It was do-or-die time.

I was so focused on where the door was about to appear, and what I would do when it did, that I didn’t even notice when the room began to fill with hazy purple smoke until it was so thick I couldn’t see a thing. When it had cleared away, an ancient-looking woman was standing in front of me.

Her nose was big and crooked and bulbous with a big, hairy wart on the very tip. Purple rags barely covered her sagging, wrinkled flesh. And to top it off, she wore a hat. A black one, so weathered it was almost gray, its point standing at attention.

A witch,
I thought.

She looked impossibly old, her face one big wrinkle with eyes that were coal black and seemed to go on forever. When I looked into them I somehow knew in one glance that she was as old as Oz itself.

A strong, cold breeze hit me in the face.

I stepped back. I didn’t know whether I was supposed to be frightened or happy. Mostly I was just confused.

“Who are you?” I asked. I could hear the footsteps of the Tin Woodman getting louder. “How did you get in here?”

“I’m Mombi,” she said in a scratchy voice. “And how do you
think
I got here?”

“
What
are you, then?” I asked.

She gave me a sly wink. “
Another
question that you already know the answer to. But I’ll give you a hint anyway: I’m the Wicked kind. Now are you coming with me or not?”

I was happy she wasn’t the Tin Woodman, but, like Pete, I had no idea who this person was. I wasn’t going to just run away with her right off the bat.

“Well?” she asked impatiently, tapping her pointy toes against the floor as I stared at her. “They’re almost here. I can get you out of here, but you have to make up your mind quick. Will you join me? Yes or no?”

Yes or no.
This was the kind of thing you read about in fairy tales. What she meant was that if I wanted her help, I would have to agree to something. She just wasn’t going to bother telling me what until it was too late.

Thunk, stomp, thunk, squeak.

“What’s the catch?” I asked. “I’m not giving you my firstborn, if that’s what you want.”

“Oh,” she said. “That won’t be necessary. The second-born will do.”

Seeing me blanch, she let out a long, hearty cackle. “You’re smart,” she said. “I suppose you’re right to ask. There’s
always
a catch with us wicked witches. But I don’t care much for babies—I’ve already had a few bad experiences with them, if you want the truth. No, you can keep your disgusting spawn. Don’t see how you’ll manage to get any children at all if you stay here, though. Dorothy’ll have you dead before sundown.”

We heard the key begin to turn in the lock outside.

Mombi sighed as the door in the wall began to appear. “Girls your age,” she said, shaking her head. “Always takes you forever to get out of the house.
Now
we’re going to have to fight.” She backed up into the corner and squeezed her body so tightly against the wall that it almost looked like she was sinking right into it. “At least I see you have a knife already.” She nodded to my hand where I was clutching my weapon so hard that I thought I might be starting to lose circulation. “Let me just give it a tiny little enchantment to make it more useful.”

She wiggled her pinkie and thumb in my direction and clicked her tongue a few times. When I held my knife in front of me, I saw that it was pulsing with a purple glow.

If this was going to make it more useful, it was just in time: the door swung open and the Tin Woodman stepped into the room.

“Amy Gumm,” he announced, “it is time to face your judgment.”

It took him a beat to realize that I wasn’t alone. “Guards!” he shouted. “Seize the girl! And the witch!”

He fanned the blades of his hand out in front of him as he lunged for my new ally, his crew rushing into the cell behind him.

Sword-Arm was in front of me, advancing with sword outstretched, backing me into a corner. I stepped out of her way, ducked under her, and thrust my kitchen knife toward her chest just as she pivoted to face me. I missed, but I was surprised at how close I’d come, at how the weight and heft of the knife felt so natural.

Suddenly I knew exactly when to thrust and when to parry, when to go high and when to go low and when to twist away. I felt like I could do some real damage with this thing.

So I sliced and diced and feinted as the Tin Soldiers all scrambled to grab me. A line of bright red blossomed across Sword-Arm’s cheek as I connected. I pulled back at the sight of it, but the knife urged me forward again. I gave the head on the bicycle two flat tires in no time, sending him sprawling onto his side on the floor, where he struggled to pull himself upright with his weird, handlebar arms.

When the one with the panel covering his mouth—the one who had killed Indigo—grabbed my arm and twisted it behind my back, I pushed against him with my free arm and wiggled loose. He put out his arms in an almost shrug, offering himself up for another attempt, like he was daring me to fail at checking him again.

Then he charged at me, this time crouching low to deliver some kind of deadly head butt.

I ducked out of the way at the last moment but he spun quickly around and caught me in the back, slamming me to the ground. I lay motionless for a second, the wind knocked out of me. He nudged me with his foot, roughly rolling me over. Grabbing me by the neck, he hauled me to my feet and pulled me close to him, so close that I could tell by his eyes if not his mouth panel that he was smirking.

I was over this. I had been through too much. I had seen too much.

I had been angry before. At Madison. At my mom. But I had never felt anything like this. I could feel myself seize up, every muscle contracting at once, gripped by what Dorothy had done to Indigo, by what she had planned for me. But instead of stuffing it down, or blurting out something stupid, I struck.