by Lisa Fiedler
They were free.
But Maud was no more.
Glinda wasn’t sure how she made it to the rocking chair. Perhaps Ben carried her. Perhaps she crawled. Such was the depth of her heartbreak.
The dark-eyed girl in the charcoal cape had taken it upon herself to remove the sewing basket from beside the rocker and toss the military uniforms into the fire.
Maud was all Glinda could think. Her mother’s friend and mentor, a courageous Foursworn rebel, was gone. Maud, the only one who could help her rescue Tilda from the Witch’s prison by pointing her to the whereabouts of the Fire Fairy, had unraveled.
When Feathertop returned to tell them of his dealings with Blingle, Glinda felt as though she were listening from the bottom of a deep, dark hole. The Wizardess, the eagle explained, struggled viciously until they were well above the treetops. It was as if she’d been too angry at first to even recall that she had Magical abilities, but the moment she did, she threw a hex upon him, which forced him to open his beak and release her.
“The presence of power does not guarantee the absence of stupidity,” Feathertop mused. “Naturally, she fell like a stone, tumbling through the blue sky. I lost sight of her after that.”
“If the Witch dispatched Blingle here,” Locasta noted, “that means she either made a very lucky guess, or she knew Glinda was on her way.”
In the rocker, Glinda trembled. Locasta was right; the danger of the quest was now undeniable. Aphidina was in pursuit.
Gremil and the dark-eyed girl, who had quietly introduced herself as Shade, went to the kitchen to see what might be had for supper.
Locasta talked with Squillicoat, who shared what news he had of the Revolution; in turn Locasta explained what had happened to Tilda. Ben fiddled with Maud’s spinning wheel, pausing occasionally to ask Glinda if she was all right.
She wasn’t.
Later, following a satisfying meal of sizzled asparagumtion spears on a bed of saffrompy rice, Gremil said it was time for him to go. He would set out on the Road of Red Cobble to seek the nearest Mingling and begin his training as a Revo.
The others wished him nothing but the best. Glinda could only manage a nod of farewell.
It was not until midnight, after the others were all fast asleep, that Glinda rose from the rocker and tiptoed to the fireplace to fetch the cross-stitch sampler from its frame.
Using a spool of golden thread from the sewing basket—the same thread, she was certain, that Maud had used to stitch up the back seam of Haley Poppet—Glinda began to sew, centering her careful stitches beneath Maud’s Z-shaped flourish. When she was finished, three new words had been added to the old sampler, their letters a twinkling of gold against the white background:
TRUTH ABOVE ALL.
With a contented sigh, Glinda tucked it into one of the pockets Locasta had wisely and considerately danced into her trousers. “Truth above all,” she whispered to the moonlight.
From the shadowy corner where Shade slept, she thought she heard the quiet girl return the wish.
Then Glinda closed her weary eyes and went to sleep.
26
THE GIFTS OF OZ
Glinda . . .”
Someone was shaking her from a sleep in which she had dreamed of nothing but nothing.
“Glinda, it’s time to wake up.”
Her eyelids felt heavy as stones; she willed them open. Ben’s large brown eyes looked back at her.
“There is word from Miss Gage,” Locasta said, her lips quirking into a half grin. “But you’ve kind of got to see it to believe it.”
Outside the Ozian morning was soft and sweet. And filled with butterflies.
Thousands! Millions, perhaps—hovering, dipping, bobbing. Glinda imagined she was looking at a multitude of winged kisses come to life in the air behind Maud’s house. Monarchs and fritillaries, painted ladies and cloudless sulfurs, floating, flying, and spinning like a pastel daydream.
Her mouth fell open. “It’s beautiful.”
“Wait,” Locasta whispered. “It gets better.”
Indeed, the kaleidoscope of butterflies had begun to move in what looked like an acrobatic ballet. They were arranging themselves into a figure, each bringing its own dainty geometry to the task.
The first few dove downward to the grass; the next several came to settle above them. A third battalion swept into the swiftly emerging image, belling outward in the shape of a long skirt. Another bunch fluttered above these, nipping inward to become a ladylike waistline. Torso, arms, and shoulders appeared, and finally, a very familiar face.
“Miss Gage!” Glinda exclaimed, recalling Madam Mentir’s reprimand about unfinished lesson plans for a Butterfly Collecting class. Clearly, Miss Gage was putting her knowledge to better use.
The quiet beating of countless wings gathered itself into an airy adaptation of Miss Gage’s voice.
“My dear Glinda, I am so very sorry about Maud. She was true to the Foursworn to her very last breath, and our cause burns brighter in the wake of her passing.”
“But how will I find the Fairy and save my mother without Maud?” Glinda asked, her voice cracking over the name.
“You must find a way,” said Gage. “Readiness and hope are the order of the day.”
In a flutter of color, the butterfly whose place marked Miss Gage’s lips separated itself from the group to alight above the bridge of Glinda’s nose, as if the teacher-Sorceress were pressing a gentle kiss upon her forehead; it left a pale, glimmering lip print on Glinda’s skin.
“Take good care,” Gage whispered, sending more butterflies to deliver Magical kisses to Locasta, Ben, Shade, and even Feathertop, who was perched upon Ben’s shoulder.
The rest of the butterflies dispersed into the brightening daylight, slowly dissolving the fluttering portrait of Miss Gage as they did.
Watching them take to the sky, Locasta touched her thumb to the spot on her forehead where Miss Gage’s lip mark still shimmered, then blew gently upon it and said,
“From affection, comes protection,
If we’re parted, you’ll be guarded,
Thanks to this, a shielding kiss.”
As the words trembled in the morning air, a curlicue of silver light shot out from the kiss print. The twinkling encircled the four children and the eagle briefly before making a sputtering ffffzzztttzzttt sound. With a judder and a blink, the light vanished.
“Hmmm. Guess I’ve still got some work to do on that one,” Locasta muttered.
With the kiss still tingling on her forehead, Glinda watched the last butterfly disappear into the blue. Just before she lost sight of it, she was sure she heard the wingy sound of Miss Gage’s voice.
“Find the Fire Fairy, Glinda!” it called to her. “Find Ember.”
Back inside the cottage, Ben set about brewing a pot of sweet razzleberry tea while Glinda and Squillicoat sat at the dining table.
“Do you have any insight as to the whereabouts of the Elemental Fairies?” Glinda asked the apothecary. “Ember in particular.”
“I’m sorry to say I do not,” Master Squillicoat replied. “Though knowing Tilda, I’d be surprised if she didn’t let on more than you realize.”
“You mean like a hint?” said Locasta. “A clue?”
The apothecary nodded.
“I suppose it’s possible,” Glinda conceded. “Although most of what she said sounded so strange and nonsensical that—” She broke off with a wince.
“What’s wrong?” asked Locasta.
“My palms are stinging! It feels as if I’m holding fire, or broken glass or—”
Broken glass! Glinda’s mind spiraled back to her mother’s capture—the birds at the windows, the glass panes splitting, the cracks taking the form of words.
She ran to the parlor window and pressed her hands to the panes. Recalling the words her mother had spoken, she whispered, “Destruction, no; instruction, yes.”
Crrrraaaacckkkk—fissures spread through the glass like a crystalline firew
ork, splintering into Tilda’s unmistakable script!
“How is this happening?” asked Locasta. “You aren’t Magical enough to execute this kind of enchantment yet.”
“It’s not just Magic,” said Squillicoat. “It’s memory mixed with the Magic that exists in this cottage. We don’t just remember with our minds, you see. We tuck memories away within all of our senses—touch, taste, smell.” He nodded to the window. “Glinda has been carrying this particular memory in her hands. It seems she just needed a place to put it.”
Glinda read the message in the broken window aloud, and Ben quickly jotted the words in the Maker’s journal. “Fire, Thought, Last, and”—she waited for the final word to etch itself into the glass—“Independent.”
These were the same words Tilda had gone to such lengths to emphasize just before Bog broke down the door.
Glinda’s mother had given her clues!
“But what do they mean?” Locasta asked, strumming her fingers on the dining table so fervently that the teacups rattled in their saucers.
“My mother did say something about allowing my ideas to burn like fire.”
“Fire, as in the Fire Fairy,” said Ben. “Now we’re getting somewhere. What else did she say?”
“That the only kind of thought that would last was independent.”
Locasta frowned. “So what’s the connection between those four words and the whereabouts of the Fairy? What could possibly be the link?”
Glinda’s eyes flew open. Link.
As in chain!
A vision of a red stone on a platinum chain flashed in her mind, and she repeated the fourth word, just as Tilda had, rolling the syllables slowly from her tongue: “In . . . de . . . pen . . . dent. Can it be? Can it really be that simple?”
“Can what be that simple?” asked Squillicoat.
“I know exactly where the Fairy is hiding!”
“Where?” Locasta and Ben chorused.
“Here!” Glinda reached for the red beryl stone on its chain around her neck. “In. The. Pendant.”
Everyone stared at Glinda, whose fingers were fumbling beneath the neckline of her tunic. When her hands came away empty, she wanted to weep. “It was here! Right here around my neck! She gave it to me . . . but then Bog came and it flared in his eyes . . . he broke the chain . . . he flung it.”
“I believe she’s finally lost her mind,” said Locasta.
“No!” said Glinda. “Listen to me! There is a gemstone. A red beryl pendant. My mother gave it to me just before Bog broke down the door. I think she tried to tell me that the pendant is the answer to defeating the Witch.”
“Jewelry?” Locasta scoffed. “You’re suggesting we can vanquish a Wicked Witch with accessories? What else will we need for this brutal attack? A pretty parasol, perhaps, maybe a couple of hair ribbons?”
“I used my hair ribbons on Clumsy Bear,” Glinda blurted, and immediately regretted it, as it earned her a disgusted eye roll from Locasta. Taking a deep breath, she willed herself to be steady. “What I am trying to tell you is that the Fire Fairy is . . . in the pendant.”
Ben’s eyes lit with understanding. “Ember’s hiding in the stone!”
“Yes!”
A silence fell over the cottage; four pairs of eyes went to the V neckline of Glinda’s tunic as everyone realized at precisely the same second what the problem was.
Locasta, of course, was the one to put this realization into words. “You had the Fire Fairy. And you lost him?” Her eyes flared like purple flames.
Glinda’s green eyes flared back. “I did not lose him. A mud monster ripped him off my neck and threw him across the room!”
“You should have gone back for it!”
“Did you not hear me say ‘mud monster’?!”
“I would have gone back!”
“Calm down, Locasta,” Squillicoat admonished. “In Glinda’s defense, she did not know at the time what the stone contained. And since we cannot change what has already happened, we will simply have to trust that the stone is still in the house where the muck monster threw it after removing it from Glinda’s neck.”
Now Ben ventured a question: “Does anyone else think it odd that Tilda gave the stone to Glinda?”
“What are you getting at, lad?” Squillicoat asked.
“Well, if Tilda knew she was being taken to the Witch, why didn’t she just keep the pendant with her and unleash Ember when she got there?”
It was an excellent question, which had the occupants of the cottage settling into a contemplative hush. A hush that was broken suddenly when Locasta began to hum, softly at first, then louder and with more gusto. It wasn’t Maud’s counting song this time, but Glinda recognized it nonetheless.
“That’s the song my mother sang just before we ran off into the Woebegone!”
“Whoa! Be Gone,” Locasta corrected automatically.
Glinda resisted the urge to challenge her. “Do you remember the words?”
Locasta nodded, then closed her eyes and, in a voice as sweet as fresh air, sang the words that Tilda had sung:
“As fire seeks a place to burn,
In seeking strength, no stone unturn,
A perfect fit must be achieved
For this bright flame to be conceived.
Wisdom waits, where shadows fall.
A friend, like truth, can conquer all.”
When she was finished, Ben grinned. “Fire seeks a place to burn. Sounds like another clue to me!”
“The Fairy of Fire seeks a place. A perfect fit must be achieved.” Locasta began to pace the cottage. “I think it’s telling us that before Ember can burn, the stone must first be fitted into . . . something.”
“Something my mother obviously did not have in her possession,” Glinda concluded. “Which was why simply wearing the pendant to Aphidina’s castle wouldn’t have been enough to destroy the Witch.”
“All right then,” said Ben, and ticked off a list of tasks on his fingers. “All we have to do is determine what this object is, where it is, how to retrieve it from this place ‘where shadows fall,’ and finally, fit the stone into it.”
Locasta gave him a weary look. “Right. That’s all we have to do.”
“Well, I didn’t say it was going to be easy.”
Glinda slipped her hand into the pocket of her breeches and closed it around the neatly folded sampler. Just feeling the stitches of the golden thread against her skin gave her hope. She noticed that the apothecary was tapping his chin thoughtfully.
“Master Squillicoat,” she said, “do you have an idea?”
“I believe I do.” He turned to Ben. “May I see that journal?”
Ben gave the book to Squillicoat, who allowed it to fall open in his hands. There, covering two full pages of the little journal, was a drawing of a beast with the head of a giant horned ram and the body of some pouncing catlike creature. Glinda stared at the drawing, unsure whether she should be comforted or intimidated by the existence of such a beast.
“ ‘The Queryor,’ ” Ben read.
“Never heard of him,” said Locasta.
“ ‘The Queryor,’ ” Ben continued, “ ‘is utterly neutral, neither good nor bad—like curiosity itself. Formed of ongoing inquiry and the desire to challenge and question, he represents the general essence of wonder and exploration. One may appeal to the Queryor when faced with the most dire or elusive of questions.’ ”
“So basically, he’s a know-it-all,” said Locasta.
Takes one to know one, thought Glinda.
“If anyone can help you discover the answers to your questions, it’s the Queryor,” said Squillicoat.
“Please tell me you know where he’s hiding,” Locasta said.
“The Queryor isn’t hiding,” the apothecary explained. “His lair is in the Centerlands of Oz.”
“Then it would seem the Queryor’s lair is our next stop,” said Locasta. “I sincerely hope the old horn-headed beast has the answer we’re looking for.
”
Glinda hoped so too.
Because without it, she would never see her mother again.
As they prepared to set out for the Centerlands, Glinda tried not to imagine walking through the front door of Maud’s cottage for the very last time. Noting the bemused look on the apothecary’s face, she wondered if he was thinking the same thing.
“What is it, Master Squillicoat?” she asked. When he didn’t answer, she followed his gaze to the broken windowpanes and tapped him on the shoulder. “Master Squillicoat, what do you see?”
“Hmm? Oh.” He shook his head and pointed to the broken glass, knitting his brow in concentration. “It didn’t occur to me before, as we were so focused on the words ‘Fire’ and ‘Independent,’ but it would seem that the other two, ‘Last’ and ‘Thought,’ might also be clues. I believe they refer to one of the Gifts of King Oz.”
“Gifts?” Locasta quirked an eyebrow. “What Gifts?”
“When the king was taken from us at the hands of the Wickeds, he left behind four precious and irreplaceable Gifts,” Squillicoat explained, picking up his teacup and swirling the dregs thoughtfully. “Oz’s Gifts were intended to live on with his spirit in she who would be born to follow him, as he had been born to follow her.”
“Princess Ozma,” said Glinda.
Squillicoat nodded. “Oz’s Gifts were endearingly simple and unimaginably generous. They were the fiery spark of his last thought, the unbridled emotion contained in his final teardrop, the eternal echo of his confident footsteps upon this Lurlian plane, and the life-giving power of the last breath he drew from and expelled into this world.”
“Elemental things,” Glinda observed. “So where are these Gifts now?”
“I have no idea,” Squillicoat confessed.
“Hnnffh. That’s just what Miss Gage said about the Fairies,” Locasta grumbled.
“Indeed,” said Squillicoat. “Though perhaps the time has come for this particular secret to be known.”
