CONTENTS
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Excerpt from No Place Like Oz
Back Ads
About the Author
Books by Danielle Paige
Copyright
About the Publisher
PART
ONE
Mombi was neither a Good witch nor a Wicked witch—not yet. In fact, she was hardly a witch at all.
She did her best to hide the fact, of course, and most of the citizens of Oz had so little magical skill themselves that in mixed company her magic was impressive enough.
But she knew exactly what she would do differently if she’d had even an iota of the powers that witches had. Over in Munchkin Country, the Wicked Witch of the West had enslaved an entire nation, built herself a castle, and, rumor had it, communed regularly with the dead. Glinda floated around on a cloud of glitter, enchanting people right and left with her sparkly and effective wand. Her sister, Glamora, stuck in a cycle of endless sibling rivalry, was known for reversing her sister’s spells and signing her name in purple sequins. The Wicked Witch of the East, like her sister, had a whole population of Winkies under her control, as well as a battalion of winged monkeys to carry her about as she pleased.
Mombi was sure that power was not meant for ruling monkeys or sprinkling around glitter or talking with dead people. The powerful witches of Oz were wasting their power on petty squabbles. And she would travel to the ends of Oz or the ends of the Road of Yellow Brick to find the power she lacked.
But Mombi, though she called herself a witch, was little more than a garden-variety enchanter, good for entertaining guests at banquets and very little else. For now all she could manage was the flashy stuff that impressed people at parties: pulling Winkies out of hats, dazed and blinking; conjuring fireworks in the shapes of butterflies and lumenberries; temporarily stoppering the mouths of small children so that they were unable to throw a tantrum. But when it came to real magic, Old Magic, the deepest magic of Oz, she was useless. She knew the truth about her power. And all the other witches knew it, too.
And the truth was, Mombi wasn’t terribly fond of banquets or parties. Or performing. Or, for that matter, people. She was pretty sure magic was meant for something other than tricks.
Which was why she’d traveled all the way to Gillikin Country herself, hoping to pick up some hints from Glinda. Glinda might have been fond of glitter, but she had real power, and Mombi knew she could learn from her—even if she used her own power for something different.
The Wicked Witches were notoriously picky about their apprentices (and rumored to eat the unsuccessful candidates). Glinda was annoying, and the food in her palace was terrible (she refused to allow anything that wasn’t pink inside the castle walls), but she was more approachable than most witches with her degree of power. She hadn’t exactly jumped at the chance to help Mombi, but she hadn’t said no outright either.
It wasn’t until Mombi had packed all her witchy accoutrements—baskets of toads, several very expensive jars of eye of newt, a suitcase full of dried herbs painstakingly gathered by Mombi herself, and various pills and powders—and carefully selected the most witchlike of her various capes and dresses, and transported herself via a long and uncomfortable third-class carriage ride through the mountains until she finally arrived at Glinda’s doorstep, grubby and irritable from the journey, that she realized Glinda had never had any intention of helping her at all.
“Welcome, darling!” Glinda had cooed, lounging on a pink sofa piled with pink cushions in her pink-walled sitting room. She was arranging a bouquet of pink flowers with one hand; a pink-cheeked handmaiden was polishing the nails of her other hand (pink, of course); and a pink-liveried footman was feeding her strawberries dipped in pink icing. “It’s so lovely to have company! No one ever comes to visit me all the way up here.” She pouted prettily, then she shot a glance at the handmaiden. “Don’t smear it this time,” she snapped. The handmaiden’s pink cheeks turned a shade paler.
“It’s so hard to find good help these days,” Glinda sighed. “Anyway, dear, what brings you here? How is your family?”
Mombi didn’t have any family. Or at least none that wanted her. She had grown up in an orphanage on the edge of Gillikin and Munchkin Countries. And with no history of her own and no one to tell her otherwise, little Mombi decided that she was most definitely a witch.
She’d obtained spell books from a Munchkin she knew from the orphanage who had opened a shop filled with magical things. Most of the items contained only small magic, but he swore that the books were the real thing. Supposedly they were sourced from ancient magic. Possibly once owned by the Wicked Witch of the West herself.
But now she stood awkwardly in front of Glinda, her suitcases piled around her, realizing she wasn’t in Gillikin Country anymore. Her long, wavy dark hair was usually unbrushed. Her dresses were never quite the style, and they usually fit her badly. She never touched makeup, and her shoes were always scuffed. Her knees were a bit on the knobby side and her arms were too skinny to be shapely. None of these things bothered her in the least under normal circumstances. But in Glinda’s beautifully appointed, ultrafeminine sitting room, Mombi stuck out like a dirty footprint. Glinda herself was wearing a low-cut, perfectly fitted pink dress, its long skirt belling prettily around her on the tastefully arranged cushions. Her flawless skin nearly glowed with its own healthy luster. Her thick hair was glossy and the color of spun strawberry gold. Her long eyelashes fluttered and her mouth sparkled with glittery pink gloss. A huge pink gemstone hung from a thin silver chain just over her cleavage, drawing attention to her perfect breasts.
Next to Glinda, Mombi was aware of her own lack of color and sparkle. But she had never had interest in those things. She hated pink. She hated glitter. Why did Glinda bother with all the dazzle when she had the real thing—real power—underneath. If Mombi had an ounce of the power Glinda had, she wouldn’t dress it up in pink and bedazzle it. She would want her magic to speak for itself.
“Didn’t you get my letter?” Mombi’s words came out more harshly than she had intended, and Glinda arched a plucked eyebrow. Mombi wasn’t much of a diplomat, either, which she suddenly regretted.
“I get so many!” Glinda said. “All these invitations. Doesn’t it just seem like someone’s having a ball or a wedding every week? I’m exhausted.” She giggled.
Mombi was only ever invited to children’s birthday parties as the entertainment. “So you didn’t read my letter?” she persisted stubbornly.
“Dearest, did you send me a letter? Oh, the butler probably misplaced it.” Glinda looked around, seeming to notice for the first time that Mombi was standing uncomfortably in front of her, shifting her weight from foot to foot. “Don’t you want to sit down so we can have a proper gossip? What’s the latest in Gillikin Country?” She giggled again.
Mombi had never gossiped in her life, and even if she did, nothing she knew would possibly be of any interest to Glinda. She set the suitcase she was clutching down with a sigh and made her way to the nearest chair.
“Oh, not that one, darling, do you mind? It’s a terrible chore to get dust out of those cushions. Why don’t you pull up a footstool so you don’t get anything dirty?”
Mombi flushed a bright, ugly red, but she didn’t want to antagonize Glinda within the first fifteen minutes of her visit. “Do you want slippers, dear?” Glinda added pointedly. Mombi looked down. She was tracking mud from the road all over Glinda’s pink carpet.
“I’m all right,” she mumbled, flushing even brighter. Glinda settled back into the cushions and looked at her. There was a knowing sparkle in her crystal-blue eyes. Mombi had a feeling that the witch knew exactly why she was there,
and was simply amusing herself by pretending ignorance. But as insufferable as Glinda was, she was incredibly powerful—although you’d never guess it to look at her. Suck it up, Mombi told herself. Maybe Glinda was only testing her. Maybe this was only a game. But if that was the case, Mombi had no idea of the rules. She didn’t even know what game it was Glinda was playing. Subterfuge was not her style. She preferred to get to the point.
“Like I said in my letter,” she said, “I was hoping to study with you.”
A tiny smile tweaked the corner of Glinda’s mouth upward and was gone again in a flash. “To study with me?”
“Magic,” Mombi persisted. “I know quite a bit already. Some,” she amended. The glitter in Glinda’s eye was even brighter now. “Some basic things,” she added quickly. She was already wondering if coming to Glinda for help had been a huge mistake. But how else could she learn? Glinda was one of the most powerful—some people said the most powerful—witches in Oz. And power was what Mombi wanted.
Power was what Mombi wanted more than she wanted anything else in the world. She didn’t care about riches, or beauty—well, as long as she wasn’t standing next to Glinda, anyway—or being famous. She had no use for fancy clothes or palaces or butlers or handmaidens or fabulous jewels. Or cleavage, she told herself, thinking involuntarily of her own bony sternum compared to Glinda’s enviable assets. What she wanted was power, far more power than she had currently. She wanted to feel the Old Magic of Oz flowing through her. She wanted to be a witch, not a party favor. And she had done everything she could on her own. She needed Glinda. The problem was, she realized, that Glinda didn’t need her. Which was something she probably should have thought about more carefully before she’d come to ask the witch for help.
“You want to study magic? With me?” Glinda pressed one hand, still clutching a pink rose, to her chest and widened her blue eyes.
“Yes.”
“Then show me what you can do.”
Mombi gulped. She had not expected a test. She went through her repertoire, beginning with cards and ending with the rabbit trick.
Glinda stood up and walked over to her, petting the bunny with her perfectly manicured hands. The light from the picture window reflected off the sparkly lacquer, momentarily blinding Mombi. She blinked, and when she opened her eyes, the bunny was gone. She looked up and realized that it was floating in a bubble near the ceiling. Glinda looked smug.
“What you have shown me are nothing more than magic tricks, dear. You might be better suited as a wizard’s apprentice.”
“I want to learn from you.” Mombi couldn’t accept that this was it. She wouldn’t. She knew she was destined for more. “I can do it. I know I am a witch. I know it in my bones and in my heart.” She bit her lip and grabbed one last thing from her bag.
It was a new spell she’d been working on for weeks with no result. But she needed to show Glinda something.
“May I have the rabbit back, please?”
The bunny floated back down into her hand.
She said the words. Put the bunny back into the hat. She felt a flicker of desperation.
Mombi remembered being in the orphanage among the Munchkins and telling them that she was a witch. She had always stood out. Too tall. Too avert to colors and singing. But when she said the word witch, they looked at her differently. Some with fear. Some with respect. Some with idle fascination. But the word had transformed her in their eyes. Truth be told, it transformed the way she thought about herself. And from that second on she was determined to make it true.
She closed her eyes and repeated the spell.
When it hopped out of the hat again, the bunny was no longer a fluffy white, but a striking shade of powder pink.
A smile crept over her face, and Glinda clapped her hands together.
“My dear, do you know what you just did?”
“What?”
“That was very close to transformation magic.”
Transformation magic was supposed to be Wicked and something that only the highest level witches could do.
“Can you change it back?” Glinda demanded.
That was the rub. That was why transformation was a scary thing. Changing something in the first place was hard. Changing it back was even harder—and took much more magic.
“That would be the real trick, dear. Still,” she said, glancing at the rabbit, “the bunny and I are both tickled pink.”
“Does that mean you’ll make me your apprentice?” Mombi pushed.
“But I barely know anything,” Glinda purred, fluttering her eyelashes.
Glinda was not very good at being modest, Mombi thought.
She tried to make her voice take on a flattering tone, although it came out more in the false, too-loud honk of a used-carriage salesman. “Glinda, stories of your power have spread across the Land of Oz,” she said. “Everyone knows you are the greatest witch of our age. I could never dream of approaching your level, of course. I wouldn’t think of trying. And I know you’re very busy with—” Mombi racked her brain, trying to think of things Glinda might be busy with. “With charitable acts?” she ventured. “And balls and banquets. It would be a tremendous honor to study with you.” Glinda’s eyelids were half lowered in pleasure as she basked in Mombi’s praise.
And that, Mombi realized, was what she had to offer. Something Glinda didn’t have. Someone other than her servants to tell her how wonderful she was. It went against her nature to pretend to be so obsequious. She wasn’t accustomed to flattering others—or to humility. But the power she had wasn’t enough. She wanted Glinda’s knowledge. And she was willing to do anything to get it. Anything at all.
“Your beauty is legendary, too,” she added. “And your palace is even more wonderful than I had heard. Everything about it is so, er, wonderful.” Mombi tried to think of more things to compliment.
“Oh, stop,” Glinda cooed, waving the hand holding the flower in a protest that was obviously completely false. “You are too kind, dear Mombi.”
“It’s all true,” Mombi said humbly. “I’m only speaking the, um, truth.” She should have practiced royal compliments in the carriage. She wasn’t doing a very good job. But Glinda seemed pleased with her praise.
“I am very busy,” Glinda said.
“Of course,” Mombi said, her heart sinking. She didn’t have a backup plan. If heaping flattery on Glinda didn’t work, she was going to have to think of something else, and fast.
“And I couldn’t teach you much,” Glinda continued. She gave Mombi a keen, uncanny look that flashed across her face with something almost like menace. Glinda might like Mombi’s words, but she wasn’t falling for them. Despite her appearance, Glinda didn’t look like someone who fell for much.
“Anything at all would be the most extraordinary gift,” Mombi said quickly. She wondered if she should get on her knees and beg. No one else needed to know that she’d humiliated herself in front of Glinda. Not if it got her what she wanted.
Once Mombi had magic as powerful as Glinda’s, she’d never have to humiliate herself again. And that was all that mattered. She knew she was close. She’d been studying on her own for a long time. But maybe Glinda knew a shortcut. Maybe she’d tell Mombi what it was if Mombi found just the right way to flatter her.
And Glinda seemed to enjoy her embarrassment. Seemed almost to thrive on suffering. Not such a Good witch after all, Mombi thought.
Maybe that was useful information, too. “Let me think about it,” Glinda purred. “I imagine you’re staying somewhere in the capital?” She meant the capital of Gillikin Country, which was just a few miles from her palace. Mombi had passed through it on her way. It wasn’t a city—not compared to the bustling metropolis of the Emerald City, anyway—but a humble village. Most of its inhabitants looked as though they were just a few steps away from poverty, and their eyes were haunted as they glanced at Mombi’s carriage and then away once they realized she was neither wealthy nor a threat. Glinda’s own wealth was i
mmediately apparent, and Mombi had wondered why the witch didn’t take better care of her people. Now, in Glinda’s company, she was beginning to understand why. She liked to give the appearance of kindness, but the truth was that Glinda didn’t bother with taking care of anyone but Glinda.
So much for the Good Witch of the South. What other secrets was Glinda hiding in her remote, isolated palace? If she liked balls and banquets so much, why didn’t she live in the Emerald City? Was it because all the way out here, her secrets stayed kept?
“I was hoping—er, to stay with you,” Mombi confessed. “It would make lessons much easier.”
“I didn’t agree to give you lessons,” Glinda said, her voice deceptively sweet.
“If you did,” Mombi said hastily. “If you were to grant me this tremendous honor, I mean.”
Glinda sighed, pulling her other hand away from the maid and examining her nails critically. “Redo the pinkie,” she snapped, thrusting her hand back in the maid’s face. Mombi didn’t miss the look of fear that crossed the maid’s face before she bowed her head, murmuring, “Yes, mistress.”
“So hard to get good help,” Glinda repeated pointedly. Mombi was pretty sure the maid actually flinched. Interesting, she thought, and filed that away.
“I suppose I have room for you,” Glinda said. Mombi willed her face into an expression of delight. Glinda’s palace was enormous, and she was the only person who lived in it aside from her servants. She could have hosted an entire army if she wanted. But Mombi only nodded eagerly and stood up to curtsy awkwardly.
Glinda’s nostrils narrowed. She didn’t like the curtsy. Mombi sat down again immediately.
“Boris!” Glinda called in a sweet voice. Almost instantaneously, a man wearing a bow tie, a cummerbund, and spats rushed into the room. Mombi recognized him as a Flathead, one of the people indigenous to Gillikin Country who were so called because their heads were completely flat on top, as though they had been sheared off just above the eyebrows. The Flatheads kept their brains in special containers at their belts. This one, however, was missing his. His hand strayed involuntarily for the place at his waist it should have been, as if feeling for a ghost limb.