The hallway was a tunnel of noise, and Glinda was drowning in it.
"Glinda, the report from the Western aquifers—the water levels have dropped another three inches since Tuesday."
"Your Royal Goodness, the Emerald City Constabulary reports unrest in the lower districts. They are asking for authorization to impose a curfew."
"Glinda, please. The Treasury is refusing to release funds for the reconstruction without a Royal Seal. We cannot pay the workers."
Glinda walked. She didn't just walk; she cut through the air like a blade, her chin tipped up, her eyes fixed on a point in the middle distance that didn't exist.
The newly refurbished corridor—a breathtaking expanse of cream marble and soft, blush-gold leaf—felt less like a palace and more like a narrowing throat. Every step she took echoed against the pink walls, accompanied by the urgent, scurrying footsteps of a dozen advisors, generals, and clerks.
She gripped her clipboard against her chest like a shield. Her knuckles were white.
"The aquifers," Glinda said, her voice tight, lacking its usual musical lilt. "Divert the reserves from the palace fountains. All of them. The citizens need water more than I need scenery."
"But the aesthetics—" an advisor started.
"Drain them," she commanded, not slowing down. "Next."
"The Petition, Glinda," Pincus, her chief aide, said, his voice low and strained as he kept pace with her. He held out a heavy scroll. "The High Council has submitted it again. They are insisting on a formal title change. 'Glinda the Good' is a sentiment, not a rank. It holds no legal weight."
Glinda didn't break stride, though her jaw tightened. "I threw the petition in the fire yesterday, Pincus."
"They drafted another one. The instability is growing. The people are frightened. They need to know who is in charge. They want you to accept the title of Empress."
Glinda stopped.
She stopped so abruptly that the entourage behind her collided in a rustle of stiff fabric and parchment. The hallway went silent, save for the distant sound of construction hammers.
Glinda turned on her heel to face him. The "Good Witch" smile was gone. Her face was pale, drawn, and terrifyingly serious.
"I am not an Empress," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "The Wizard thought he was one. And we are still dealing with the aftermath."
"But—"
"I am Glinda the Good," she said, her eyes flashing. "That is the only thing standing between this city and a riot. Do not try to turn me into a tyrant."
She spun around and kept walking, the click-clack of her heels sounding like a clock counting down.
"Glinda, please," Pincus pleaded, chasing her again. "If you won't take the title, you must at least take the seat. You must inspect the renovations. The construction crew says the dais is ready. You must see the Throne."
Glinda let out a breath that shook in her chest. She turned a sharp corner, leading the pack of grim-faced men toward the East Wing.
"Fine. Let's look at the empty chair. And then you will give me silence."
The Throne Room smelled of sawdust, wet mortar, and desperation.
It was a cavernous space that had once been the Wizard's intimidating sanctum. Now, scaffolding climbed the walls where workers were stripping away the green emerald facades to replace them with warm, rose-gold marble.
"Here," Pincus said, pointing to the center of the room.
There, bathed in a spotlight of harsh white light, was the throne.
It wasn't the Wizard's green mechanical monstrosity. It was new. It was golden. It was delicate, ornate, and terrifyingly permanent.
"We built it to the archives' specifications," Pincus whispered. "It is the seat of the Royal Family. It has been waiting for forty years."
Glinda stared at it.
It didn't look like a chair. It looked like a trap. It looked like a golden maw waiting to swallow her whole.
"Sit, please," Pincus urged, his voice desperate. "The Council believes that if you just sat in it... if the workers saw you in it... it would project stability."
Glinda looked at the velvet cushion. She thought about Ozma, the child princess the Wizard had deposed to take this spot. She thought about the lie that this entire city was built upon.
"I cannot sit there," Glinda said, her voice hollow.
"Glinda—"
"I said no." She stepped back, the gold of the throne reflecting in her terrified eyes. "It isn't mine. It never was."
She turned away from the dais, her hands trembling. "To the Wardrobe, Pincus. Let's get the fitting over with."
She marched out of the room, leaving the empty throne looming in the dark.
The Royal Wardrobe was quieter, but the air was thick with tension.
Twenty minutes later, Glinda stood on a podium. Her shoulders burned. Her feet, encased in crystal heels for ten hours, were throbbing with a dull, sickening pulse.
Three seamstresses worked around her hem in silence, their mouths full of pins.
"Tighter in the waist," the head seamstress murmured, yanking the corset strings with brutal efficiency.
Glinda gasped, the air seized from her lungs. "It hurts."
"A Queen must be rigid," the woman replied, not looking up. "The posture must be absolute."
Glinda stared at her reflection in the tri-fold mirror. The dress was magnificent—a towering creation of silver and blue steel. It wasn't a dress; it was armor. It was a cage made of silk.
"The crown," Pincus said, stepping forward.
He held a velvet pillow. On it sat the Great Crown of Oz. Heavy gold, studded with emeralds and rubies. It was an ancient thing, heavy with history and blood.
"Just try it on," Pincus whispered. "Glinda, please. The military needs a photo. They need a symbol."
Glinda looked at the crown. It glittered under the lights. It looked like it weighed a thousand pounds.
"I told you," she whispered, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. "I'm just Glinda."
"You haven't been 'just Glinda' since the water melted the Witch," Pincus said, his voice hard and devoid of pity. "You are all that is left. Put on the crown."
He stepped closer. He lifted it toward her head. The shadow of the gold fell across her face, eclipsing the light.
Panic, sharp and cold, exploded in her chest.
"No!"
Glinda shoved Pincus away.
The crown tumbled from his hands, hitting the floor with a heavy, sickening thud. A ruby cracked loose and skittered across the floorboards like a drop of blood.
The room went dead silent. The seamstresses froze. Pincus stared at the crown on the floor, his face pale.
"I am not her!" Glinda yelled, her voice breaking, the soprano facade shattering completely. "I am not Ozma! I am not the Wizard! And I am not a Queen! Stop trying to make me one!"
She ripped her arm away from the seamstress, hearing the expensive lace of her sleeve tear. She stumbled down from the podium.
"I am going to my room," she breathed, her chest heaving. "Do not follow me. Do not bring me a petition. Do not bring me a crown."
She turned and fled.
She walked down the hallway with the desperation of a hunted animal, ignoring the stares of the guards. She reached her double doors, threw them open, and stumbled inside.
She slammed the door. Click. She threw the bolt. Clack.
The silence was instant, but it offered no relief.
Glinda didn't make it to the bed.
She kicked off her shoes. She unhooked the back of the ruined dress with fumbling, shaking fingers, letting the heavy fabric pool around her ankles.
She walked in her silk slip to the chaise lounge by the window and collapsed onto it.
Her body ached. Her feet throbbed. Her head felt like it was split open. The "Glinda" face—the powders and the pastes—felt heavy and oily on her skin, like a mask she couldn't peel off.
She curled her knees to her chest, burying her face in a velvet pillow. She didn't cry. She was too exhausted to cry. She just lay there, breathing in the scent of lavender and dread.
Across the room, on her desk, the Grimmerie sat in the shadows. She could see the faint outline of its leather cover.
Usually, she would go to it. She would study. She would try to find the spell that would fix the aquifers, or the spell that would make her brave enough to do what they wanted.
But not tonight.
"I can't be who they want, Elphie," she whispered into the darkness. "I'm just a fraud."
She closed her eyes, praying for sleep to come before the sun rose and the petitions started all over again.