Authors: Danielle Paige
Her name is Dorothy. And she’s my boss.
Technically, Ozma is my boss. She’s the rightful ruler of Oz, and when she was running the show, things were great for us here in the Emerald City. I don’t know anything about where I’m from—I was left on the doorstep of the Emerald Palace as a tiny baby. Ozma and I grew up together there. I knew she’d one day be the ruler of Oz, too, but she never acted like someone who was about to be a queen. She was just my friend, and the palace servants became my family. I’ve never known anything else.
Then Dorothy showed up—the first time—and everything changed. She killed the Wicked Witch of the East and with the help of the Tin Woodman, the Scarecrow, and the Cowardly Lion, the Wicked Witch of the West. She saved Oz. Then she vanished back to the Other Place—the world she came from, where magic doesn’t exist. Ozma took her rightful place on the throne, and things were basically perfect. Although I still didn’t know anything about my real family, I’d lived in the palace for my whole life and Ozma and the servants were the only family I needed. I loved my work in the palace, as strange as that may sound—it gave me a real sense of pride to do a good job keeping everything running. Nobody plans a banquet like I do. I can remember the names of every single dignitary of Oz—
and
their children, pets, favorite foods, preferred seating arrangements, wives, husbands, ex-wives, ex-husbands, and what room in the palace they most like to stay in when they visit. My detail-oriented nature is what makes me so good at my job, and it’s why Ozma ultimately promoted me to be the youngest head maid in the history of Oz. I wasn’t going to be a famous queen or a powerful sorceress, and I was fine with that. I was good at something that I loved, and I’d get to spend my life doing it.
And then Dorothy came
back
, and that’s when things got weird. She was different—she wasn’t the sweet, innocent girl we all adored who had saved Oz. Dorothy moved into the palace, and this time she was here to stay. And then, after a palace ball one night, suddenly Ozma wasn’t herself anymore; overnight she went from our vivacious, caring, generous queen to a vacant ghost of herself wandering the halls of the palace like the world’s creepiest talking doll. Sometimes she didn’t even recognize us. At first, Dorothy pretended she was helping out, ruling on Ozma’s behalf. She kept Ozma close by her side.
But then Dorothy dropped the pretense pretty quickly, and none of us knew how to stop her, or even if we could. Suddenly, our peaceful palace was full of soldiers. They looked like the Tin Woodman, but there was something about them that didn’t feel right. The Scarecrow left his own corncob mansion out in the hills of Oz and moved into the palace, where he shut himself up in his suite of rooms and began to work on something mysterious that Dorothy referred to as his “experiments.” The Scarecrow had always seemed so harmless before, just kind of dopey and pleasant despite his brain upgrade, but the maids who took him his meals came back from his rooms with stories about sinister equipment and cages covered in blankets, behind which they could hear rustling and faint, soft moans, like something crying out in pain. We’d see lights coming from his rooms at all hours, and hear crashing and banging in the middle of the night. Pretty soon I had to bribe my staff with extra time off in order to get them to so much as clean the hallway outside his room. And the stories of what they saw
inside
sent chills up my spine.
Dorothy acted as though nothing was wrong—as though whatever was happening was totally normal. If any of us asked her about it, she’d fly off the handle in one of her infamous tantrums. So we left it alone.
I also quickly realized that Dorothy doesn’t like me, but I am careful to keep myself useful. I want to figure out what’s going on in the palace, and with Ozma, and I can’t do that if Dorothy kicks me out. And I think even she realized that dismissing me out of hand would clue the rest of the servants in to the fact that something was
really
wrong. Ozma would never condone such a thing, and for all intents and purposes, Ozma is still the ruler of Oz. I make sure for the time being to keep everything the way Dorothy likes it. I make sure her rows and rows of dresses are hung neatly, organized by color, occasion, and material (and yes, of course, season). Her bacon is extra crispy, the floors are extra scrubbed. I know exactly what it takes to keep the palace running like clockwork, and Dorothy knows I know, and so for now we’re in kind of a standoff. She hates me, but she can’t get rid of me, and I intend to keep it that way.
She is the only one who’s allowed to use magic in the palace. She says there’s too much of a risk of disaster otherwise. But I think the real reason is that she doesn’t want anyone to have more power than she does.
I’m not sure how much longer I can stand it here. Every once in a while, I’ll get a chance to pause for a moment at a window, looking out over the glittering green towers of Oz and daydreaming about what life used to be like when Ozma was in charge and Oz was the way it should be. When Dorothy was a national hero, not a national menace. When—
“
Jellia!
” Dorothy’s voice tore through the air, a piercing shriek that made me flinch. I’d been scrubbing the palace floors since sunrise. Dorothy had been on a tear since she staggered out of bed long after the palace was up and bustling, and I’d had the bad luck to be standing next to her when she decided the floors were filthy, despite the fact that we’d cleaned them the day before. I sat up from my brush and bucket as the relentless
tap-tap-tap
of her heels came storming into the room, and just barely scrambled to my feet and executed a clumsy curtsy.
“What are you
doing
?” she snarled. “Why are you
filthy
?” She’d used magic that morning to dress herself—there was no mistaking the way she was stuffed into her corseted and impossibly short dress, or the glittering haze that surrounded her as she moved. Her hair was curled into tight, childish ringlets that were a strange contrast to her glossy red mouth and heavily rouged cheeks. As always, her magical red heels glowed like the fires of Hell. If you got close to those shoes, it was almost as though you could hear them talking to you in a low, seductive whisper.
“You look terrible,” Dorothy said.
So do you
, I thought.
“You asked me to scrub the floors this morning.” I kept my eyes downcast.
“I most certainly absolutely did no such thing,
Jellia
.” She always said my name like it was the worst insult she could think of. It drove me nuts. I dared a look up at her through my lashes, trying to judge her mood. If she’d truly forgotten, I’d only make her angrier by contradicting her. If she was trying to torment me, she’d only leave me alone once she saw me squirm like a worm on a hook. She was looking out the window with a scowl, her attention already elsewhere, which meant I wasn’t on her hit list for the day. Yet.
I rolled my eyes and swallowed my pride. “I must have misheard, Your Majesty,” I mumbled.
“Get yourself cleaned up at once,” she snapped. “I’m throwing a banquet and it has to be perfect. And I want all my dresses laid out—and the ballroom prepared—and I want all the Munchkins
out
of sight.
Every
last one of them, especially that filthy little blue one. Is that clear?”
“Of course, Your Majesty. Someone is visiting the palace?”
“Glinda is returning tomorrow,” she said coolly.
Even I, practiced as I was becoming in keeping my emotions out of my expressions, couldn’t hide my shock. Glinda was one of the most powerful witches in Oz—possibly
the
most powerful witch in Oz. Rumor had it that she was somehow responsible for Dorothy’s return, although no one knew exactly what she’d done.
Then Glinda had vanished shortly after Dorothy had moved into the palace. I know I wasn’t the only one who’d breathed a sigh of relief.
“Glinda is coming
here
?” I blurted. Dorothy narrowed her eyes, studying my face, and I cursed my big mouth. If she was back in the Emerald City now, I was pretty sure it wasn’t to deck us all out in ball gowns and tiaras.
“Surely you’re thrilled,” she said, and I recognized the danger in her voice.
“Oh, of course.” I scrambled to cover my slipup. “I’m just—it’s just a surprise to have such a, um”—I was hit with a burst of inspiration—“such an
exalted
guest. It will be an honor to receive her.”
An expression of disgust crossed her face. “And change your dress,” she said. “You look like you crawled out of a sewer.” She laughed out loud at her own joke, pivoting on one glittering heel and stalking out of the room. Her ridiculously short dress switched back and forth with each stride. I sighed and scowled down at my mop bucket. Something was up, and I had the sinking feeling whatever was about to happen wasn’t going to be good.
The morning of Glinda’s arrival, the palace was a hive of activity. Servants ran back and forth, putting up decorations and frantically cleaning. Delicious smells from the kitchen filled the halls. I inspected every maid I passed, making sure everyone’s uniform was spotless and perfectly fitted. When I heard the clatter of carriages from the courtyard that signaled Glinda’s arrival, my heart skipped a beat. If everything wasn’t perfect, I’d be the one to pay for it.
Dorothy and Glinda shut themselves up in Dorothy’s chambers as soon as Glinda entered the palace. I spent the rest of the afternoon making sure that everything in the banquet hall was ready for Glinda’s big welcoming dinner. The long table was heaped with white flowers that released a gentle aroma of jasmine into the air. The crystal chandeliers glittered. The tablecloth was a snowy, spotless white, richly embroidered with silver thread. Every place was set just so. Even Dorothy, I thought, couldn’t find fault with anything here.
But that night, as we served dinner to Dorothy, Glinda, and her entourage, everything in the palace felt off. The air snapped with tension, and all the servants were nervous. I looked around and noticed Ozma wasn’t present. Dorothy sulked at her end of the table, her habitual fake smile replaced with a sullen scowl. Glinda sat next to her, and the two of them talked quietly on their own. I moved back and forth between the kitchen and the banquet hall, trying to catch snippets of their secretive conversation.
“How are the Scarecrow’s experiments coming, Dorothy? Are we on schedule to begin mining?”
“He’s doing his best,” Dorothy mumbled. “But we’re all worried about you-know-who. If you had better control over your sister—”
“My sister is unimportant,” Glinda snapped, cutting her off sharply.
“But he’s a danger to all of us,” Dorothy said petulantly. “Who knows why he’s returned? Or what his plan is?”
“My spies tell me that he hasn’t returned; he never left Oz at all. He may be throwing his lot in with the Wicked . . .” Glinda’s voice was cool and calculating. I couldn’t quite catch the end of her sentence, and it wouldn’t do to show I was listening.
The wicked what?
I wondered. “And we don’t yet know for a fact that he means to depose you,” Glinda said, her voice low. “His power—”
She cut herself off, looking at me. I lowered my eyes. “Go get more wine, won’t you, Jellia?” she said sweetly. “And you mustn’t pay attention to Dorothy and me. We’re just indulging in silly gossip!” She tittered gaily; it was like watching an eagle try to sound like a mouse.
“Yes, Your Eminence,” I said, curtsying quickly and turning to obey her request.
The Wizard
, I thought, my mind spinning as I went back to the kitchen. They were talking about the Wizard—they had to be. And Glinda was helping Dorothy—which meant that she must know about Dorothy’s slow takeover of the palace. Did Glinda know what was wrong with Ozma? Could the Wizard really have returned to Oz? And if he had, what did that mean for us? Had he returned to overthrow Ozma and take back the throne? Or did he realize that Dorothy was out of control? Was he trying to regain control of Oz—or protect it? And what
exactly
was the Scarecrow working on?
Astrid, one of the youngest servants, tripped on her way from the kitchen to the dining hall, bringing my thoughts back to the moment. I was right behind her and watched in dismay as she dropped the platter of roast beef she was carrying and burst into tears. “I’m—I’m—I’m sorry,” she sobbed, falling to her knees and trying to pick up the shattered pieces; she only succeeded in soaking her dress in the messy remains of the roast. I looked around quickly. Thankfully, we were alone in the corridor and no one had seen her blunder.
“It’s all right,” I said gently, hauling her to her feet. “I’ll make sure a Munchkin cleans this mess up.” I eyed her dress. Magic in the castle was strictly forbidden among the help, but I’d risked it before when trouble brewed. Besides, Dorothy was already tipsy so I didn’t think she’d notice, and being shorthanded at the banquet could end in disaster.
“Here,” I said, tugging at her dress and concentrating. I could feel the warm buzz in my hands, and Astrid gasped as the stains disappeared.
“Th-thank you, Jellia,” she whispered. She seemed shocked—almost as if she’d never seen a staff member do magic before. I’d always assumed everyone else here used it when they were in a fix.
“You can’t go back into the hall with that face. Smile.” I dabbed the remaining tears out of her eyes with the corner of my apron and looked at her sternly as her mouth quivered. “I mean
really
smile, Astrid. Go back to the kitchen and don’t carry anything to Dorothy until you look like you mean it.” It would be handy, I thought, if there were some spell that could keep all of us permanently smiling; Dorothy was only too happy to dole out punishment at random to anyone who didn’t look like they were having the absolute best time of their lives in her company. That was a hard level of happiness to fake.
“Yes, Jellia,” she whispered, and fled.
But that wasn’t the end of her mishaps for the evening. A few minutes later, as I topped off Dorothy’s wineglass yet again, a rigid grin fixed across my own features, Astrid came back into the banquet hall with a fresh platter of roast beef. Instead of a smile, her face bore an expression of terror. I caught her eye and tried to signal her to turn around, but it was too late. Dorothy could spot suffering from across a room like a cat on the prowl for errant mice. “Annabel,” she crooned, her voice dripping with lethal sweetness. “Come over here with that.” Astrid’s eyes went wide in fear. At Dorothy’s feet, Toto growled from his jeweled velvet pillow. Not for the first time, I thought that I’d have sacrificed a body part if it meant I could throw that wretched dog out a window. A very high window. Astrid rounded the banquet table with her platter and came to stand on Dorothy’s other side.