Page 27 of Son of a Witch (The Wicked Years 2)

Liir said, “You tell Lady Glinda that a boy at the back gate has the Witch’s broom. Tell her Dorothy gave it me. I don’t care how long you take, I’ll wait.”

“That thing? That’s a corpse of a broom. Not fit for kindling.”

“It’s been through a lot. That’s how you know it’s the real thing.”

“You’re a stubborn bugger. I can’t be standing here chewing the fat all day. Tell you what. Do me some magic with that broom and I’ll see what I can do for you.”

“I can’t do magic. And the broom isn’t a magic wand. It’s a broom. It sweeps.”

“Sweep a floor with that thing, you’ll leave char marks, and I’ll be the one cleaning up after you. Get out of here, now. Go on.”

Liir raised the broom again and tilted it forward. The houseboy shrank back, as if afraid flecks of scorch would fall on his livery. Noticing this, Liir decided it would be worth his while to wait around and see what happened.

His instincts proved sound. The houseboy wasn’t able to resist gossiping about his conversation with Liir. Just before noon, a housekeeper came out, tucking her apron strings in and wiping crumbs from her lips. “Love a grouse, you’re still here, and that’s a good thing!” she gabbled. “The houseboy’s been docked a month’s pay for being silly-headed! Get over here, Her Haughtiness wants to see you at once! You reek, haven’t you washed? The pump, there, boy, scrub your grubby armpits and wipe that smirk off your face. This is Lady Glinda that lives here, not some cow-mistress. And hop smart, you. She’s waiting.”

HE WAS BROUGHT TO a lady’s parlor and told to behave and touch nothing.

He could look, though, and he did. He had never seen an upholstered chair before. He’d never seen one chair face another chair that looked identical. Cushions everywhere, fresh flowers, and gleaming crystal bubbles set on little stands. A collection of commemorative baubles, he guessed. To what end?

A fire of aromatic woods burned in the dainty hearth. Why a daytime fire in such a well-built mansion, when the citizens outside couldn’t get close enough to a brazier to warm their hands, let alone soften their supper bricks of congealed molasses?

He wandered to the window to open it, let in some air. It looked out over the canal where he and the Scarecrow had drifted the night before. From this height, he could see the rooflines of the fancy houses. Palaces, almost, or palaces-in-training. Beyond the chimney pots, beyond the roof gardens, the cupolas and spires and domes, two more massive buildings rose: the domed Palace of the Wizard, in the dead center of the City, and off to the right, the steep bluestone ramparts of the prison known as Southstairs.

It was like looking at a picture in a book—not that he’d seen all that many books. Only the Grimmerie, and that only from a distance. Here, the etched rooflines seemed like a hundred man-made hills. Set here and there to delight the eye with infinite variety in depth and perspective.

Under every roof, a story, just as behind every brow, a history.

He hardly believed he had summoned the nerve to come here. But it was all he could think of to do. The Princess Nastoya had promised, in exchange for his helping her, to listen for news of Nor. But why work backward? The Princess would have to be scrubbing the news of the Emerald City to learn about Nor. Whereas now—he was here already—so let Princess Nastoya work out her troubles for herself. Liir had all the City before him. He would be forthright and claim what he wanted for himself. On his own terms.

“The Lady Glinda,” announced a man’s voice. When Liir turned, the door was already being drawn closed behind her, and Lady Glinda came near.

It was like being approached by a decorated holiday tree tiptoeing in jeweled slippers. Lady Glinda was the most exceedingly dressed person Liir had ever seen. He almost flinched, but knowing that Lady Glinda had been a friend of Elphaba’s stiffened his nerve. “How do you do,” she was saying, in a voice like a piccolo blowing soapsuds. She tilted her head. Was it an upperclass gesture, like a genuflection? Ought he pivot his head in reply? He remained upright. “Liir, is it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He had never called anyone “ma’am” in his life. Where had that come from?

“They said it was Liir. I thought I might have misheard. Please, won’t you sit—” She took a better look at the state of his clothes and changed her mind. “Would you permit me to take a seat? I’m not resting well these days, and it’s a strain.”

“Of course.” He realized he was to remain standing, though he drew a little nearer. Settling gingerly on a chaise longue upholstered in peppermint stripes, she arranged a bolster at the small of her back, and then reclined, lifting one ankle up from time to time. Maybe she had a twitch.

“I’m told you have something to show me, a talisman of some sort. You’ve got it wrapped in that shroud. A broom, a witch’s broom. The broom? The broom of the Wicked Witch of the West?”

“I didn’t call her that,” he said.

“How did you come by it? Last I heard of it, that Dorothy Gale was humping it around the Palace like some sort of a trophy, brandishing it for all to see.”

“I’m told she’s gone,” said Liir.

“She is.” The tone of authority was convincing. Tired, regretful, convincing.

“Gone the way old Ozma is gone? Disappeared? Done in?”

“Gone is gone,” said Glinda. “Who knows, maybe Ozma herself will be back someday. I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

“And maybe Dorothy, too? Or is she gone too far to come back?”

“You ask bold questions of a lady you’ve just met,” said Glinda, and she looked at him sharply. “And you haven’t answered mine. How did you come by Elpha—I mean the Witch’s broom?”

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