Page 28 of Son of a Witch (The Wicked Years 2)

“You can say Elphaba to me.” Liir unwrapped the broom and held it up for Glinda to see.

Glinda didn’t look at the broom. She was staring at the Witch’s cape. She hoisted herself to her feet and reached to touch its hem. “I’d know this anywhere. This is Elphaba’s cape. How did you come by it? Answer me, thug—thief—or I’ll have you thrown in Southstairs.”

“Fair enough, I’m headed there anyway. Yes, it’s her cape. Why wouldn’t it be? I took it when I left her castle. I’m her—”

He couldn’t say son. He didn’t know. “I’m her helper. I came from the castle with Dorothy. When the Witch melted, all that was left was the broom. The Scarecrow brought it back to me after Dorothy vanished. No one else wanted

it.”

“It’s a burned stick. Throw it on the fire.”

“No.”

Glinda reached out a hand, and Liir took it. She wanted help getting up. “Let me look you in the eye, young man. Who are you? How did you come to be at Kiamo Ko?”

“I don’t know, and that’s the truth. But I served the Witch and saw Dorothy safely to the Emerald City, and I need your help.”

“You need my help? What for? Bread, cash, a false identity to help you slip sideways through the cracks? Tell me what you need, tell me why I should help, and I’ll see what I can do. In memory of Elphaba. You knew her.” Her head tilted again, but up, this time, and it was to keep the sudden wetness from spilling into her carefully colored false eyelashes. “You knew my Elphie!”

He would not indulge in cheap grief. “I want to find out what happened to a girl kidnapped by the Wizard’s men a few years back. She lived at Kiamo Ko when we got there.”

“We?”

“The Witch and I…”

“The Witch and you.” Her hands reached out hungrily for the cape and rubbed its hem, as if it were leaves of thyme or hyssop. “What girl might that be?”

“Her name is Nor. She is the daughter of Fiyero, one-time prince of the Arjikis, and his wife, Sarima, also kidnapped that very day. You knew Fiyero.”

“I knew Fiyero.” It was clear Glinda did not want to speak about him. “Why should I bother with you?”

“Nor was his daughter. She was my—” Again, he couldn’t say half-sister. He didn’t know. “My friend.”

Glinda reached out and took the charred broomstick and cradled it. “I know about friends.”

“Friends have children,” Liir said carefully. “If you can’t help your friends, you can help their children. Do you have children?”

“I do not. Lord Chuffrey was not so inclined.” She reconsidered. “I mean to say, he is so very old. Old and wealthy. His interests lie elsewhere.”

She drifted among the occasional tables. “I don’t know why this girl you mention was taken away, or, if she proved that much of a worry, why she should still be alive.”

“Everyone knows the Wizard is gone. Surely his enemies don’t need to stay imprisoned? If she’s alive, why shouldn’t she be released?”

A rustling of stiffened tulle sounded in her underskirts. “How do I know you are telling the truth?” she said at last. “These are such treacherous days. I’ve spent my adult life up till now in salons and theater boxes, not in closed assembly with grasping, pinching…ministers.” She spat out the word. “Insects. And I thought girls at school were devious. Here, every impassive expression hides a bloated ambition for—for dominance, I suppose. And any one of my so-called loyal cabinet could be sending you in here with a tale designed to catch at my throat. I must have more proof you are who you profess to be. This may not be Elphie’s cape you’re sporting. Maybe my sorrow tempts me into seeing what I would love to see. This may not be her broom. Tell me more, you Liir. How did her broom come to be so burnt?”

“I’m not sure. In truth, I didn’t see her die, I only heard what Nanny and Dorothy and the others said. I was locked downstairs. But the broom burnt, that’s all I know.”

“Anyone could tell a lie!” cried Glinda. “Anyone could burn a broom and make up a story about it!” She beat herself on the breastplate with a clenched fist, and suddenly rushed across the room, overturning a small table and shattering some china dolls. She flung the broom in the fire. “Look, I could do it, too. There’s nothing to it.”

“Take the broom, burn it,” he replied. “Take the cape and burn it, too, or sew it into a hairshirt and wear it under your fancy ball gowns. It doesn’t matter. Give me a way to get to Nor, and to get her out; you can have whatever you want. I will come back and serve you as I served the Witch. I have no other plan for my days alive once I answer the question about Nor.”

Glinda collapsed on the nearest stool and wept. She needed a man to come and take her in his arms, to give her a shoulder. Liir wasn’t a man, nor was his shoulder made for a highborn lady to weep upon. He stood foolishly by, twisting his hands, averting his eyes here, there.

“Look. Glinda, look.” In his excitement he forgot to use her title.

She raised her eyes and turned to where he was pointing.

The fire still danced and hissed. Some trick of physics caused the flue to hum faintly like an old folk melody, as if someone were on the rooftop playing an instrument. The music was not merely consoling—and it was that—but commanding: look, it said, look. The broom lay on the back of a log that seethed with flames of pumpkin and pale white. The broom was untouched.

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