A Fiery Friendship Read online

  TO MARIA AND NICK MAKRINOS, THE PARENTS I ALWAYS WANTED

  —GABRIEL GALE

  FOR MY DAD, BUDDY, WHO REMEMBERS ALL THE BEST MOMENTS, IF ONLY IN HIS HEART

  —LISA FIEDLER

  A LETTER FROM THE CREATOR,

  GABRIEL GALE

  Greetings, Reader.

  I, Gabriel Gale, am one of a fortunate few who can claim the honorable title Royal Historian of Oz. I have been to the Land of Oz many times. It is a land in a realm called Lurlia—a place constructed by the will and talent of Fairies and Fairyfolk. And it is much, much closer than you think.

  I realize the idea of crossing realms might be difficult to believe, but the best and most interesting things generally are. What is important for you to understand is that I know Oz, backward and forward as they say, meaning that I have studied its history and I have seen its future. I also happen to have a very personal connection to the subject. But that is a discussion for another time.

  I have shared all of my Ozian knowledge with a colleague who is being credited as the “author” of this book, but that is merely a publishing formality, since neither she nor I nor anyone else can “write” history; history happens. Our job is to remember and reveal it, without (as people often do) reinventing it. In the case of Oz, there is no need to take such liberties, for no amount of reinvention could possibly compare with how it actually happened.

  And continues to happen.

  At the time when this story begins, Oz was in a state of great and lingering unrest. I would say the turmoil had gone on for centuries, but in Oz time does not reckon itself in such terms. Four ferocious Witches led the four separate countries of Oz, and every citizen, be he Winkie or Munchkin, be she Quadling or Gillikin, was taught to hate anyone who lived beyond the borders of his or her own country. War was always a possibility then, and there is upheaval still in this wondrous place today—trouble, danger, Wickedness. I have already lent my energies to the fight, for I believe that Glinda’s call to arms from long ago remains our call to arms today.

  Know this: before you have finished reading this letter, a hundred thousand Magical things will have occurred in Oz. Some of them Good, and some of them Wicked. That is the part that never changes.

  In conclusion . . . whatever you’ve heard about Oz is the story.

  What I am about to unveil to you is the truth.

  And so we begin, when Glinda the Good was a mere thirteen years of age. It is (according to Earth’s calendar) the cusp of summer in the late 1700s.

  And the time . . .

  . . . is midnight . . .

  1

  WICKEDNESS ON THE LAWN

  If Glinda Gavaria had known how long it would be before she would ever again sleep the deep, peaceful sleep of the innocent and unaware, she might have elected to ignore the voice outside her window and simply remain in bed.

  But the murmurings that awoke her from her slumber were impossible to ignore:

  “Wax and wane, shrink and swell, sister to all, who loves us well

  Fairy of brilliance, Fairy of night, lead us to wisdom, set us to right.”

  As Glinda’s senses unfurled into wakefulness, her eyes opened to a room awash in shimmering moonlight. Into this luminous glow, she called out softly, “Mother?”

  Her mother’s voice came back to her, though not precisely in reply:

  “Beloved Moon Fairy, you gaze upon us from heights unattainable, ruling the sky with hopefulness and grace.”

  It was a moment before Glinda realized her mother’s words had not come not from the parlor where she often sat up late, sewing by the fireside; they had come from outside on the back lawn.

  She tossed aside her bed linens, causing Haley Poppet to slip from the covers and land in a cottony heap on the rough wooden planks. Stepping over the rag doll, she padded to the window and peered out at the tiny yard.

  There beneath the ruby maple tree stood Glinda’s mother, Tilda, bedecked in a flowing cape of fabric so sheer it might easily have been spun from rainwater and cobwebs.

  Tilda tilted her head toward the uncommon brilliance of the midnight sky; her russet-gold hair swung back in a cascade of shining ringlets, revealing the delicate chain of platinum she always wore around her neck. Dangling from this was a glittering red stone cut in the shape of a teardrop. Glinda had never seen her mother without it, and there in the moonlight it seemed to gleam more brightly than ever before.

  “I know it is a great risk to summon you, Princess Elucida,” Tilda confessed, her eyes skyward, her arms outstretched. “But I find myself in profound need of your guidance.”

  She’s summoned the Moon Fairy? thought Glinda. This smacked of that which in Quadling Country was an undertaking most strictly forbidden:

  Magic.

  Ages ago, all forms of mystical pursuit had been outlawed. Only the Witch Aphidina and those to whom she’d granted her express permission were still allowed to engage in Magical activities.

  “I’m dreaming,” Glinda whispered, shaking her head in disbelief. “That is the only possible explanation. I have to be dreaming.”

  For where else but in a dream would her mother invoke Princess Elucida, Fairy of the Moon? As far as Glinda knew, Elucida existed only as a character in an ancient piece of Ozian folklore.

  “My daughter has come of age, Moon Fairy, and the time has come for her to know. If I am to prepare her for all that is to come, I must see now with my own eyes what peril awaits.” Tilda held out one upturned hand. “Despite the danger of this errand, I ask that you share with me that which only you can see.”

  The response came swiftly: a trembling moonbeam gathered itself from the glow and settled gently upon Tilda’s open palm; an unbidden thrill shot through Glinda at the sight of it. Even in a dream, such potent Magic was wonderful to behold.

  Tilda closed her fingers around the streak of light, coaxing it into a glimmering ball. Then she lifted her willowy arms to the sky, and as she did, the graceful movement was reflected in the looking glass above Glinda’s dressing table, giving the bizarre impression that her mother was both inside and outside at the same time.

  The effect was so entrancing that suddenly Glinda wanted nothing more than to be outside in the moonlit yard beside her mother, though whether to prevent the Magic or to join in it she wasn’t entirely sure. The beauty and mystery of the act drew her to it, even as the threat of punishment caused a knot to form in her chest.

  Glinda ran through the parlor, past the spinning wheel and the dying fire on the hearth, into the kitchen with its heavy oaken door. She reached for the iron handle and pulled.

  But the door did not budge.

  She tried the window. Also locked tight. Pressing her face to the glass panes, she watched as her mother bowed her head.

  “I accept your secrets and your wisdom,” Tilda murmured, her fingers going to the red stone at her throat. “And I ask that these be made visible.” Then she tossed the shimmering ball of moonsparkle into the middle of the yard.

  A sudden breeze swept through the yard, rustling the branches of the ruby maple, rippling the grass beneath the swirl of Tilda’s gossamer cape. Glinda watched, astonished, as the moonlit yard began to transform into something unfamiliar. The curtain of the night seemed to crackle and splinter, as if the very atmosphere were breaking, twisting itself into a wavering phantasm.

  Where the moonbeam had landed, four dark figures were now assembled on the lawn, facing one another like points on a life-size compass. Their faces were featureless smudges, and in them Glinda sensed an undeniable ugliness, if not of countenance, then surely of character.

  The sinister foursome encircled three equally hazy shapes, though these were made not of darkness but of fea
r. They formed a trembling triangle within the outer circle.

  It was clear that these interlopers were unaware of Tilda standing just inches away. Somehow, Glinda understood that they did not exist in the now but in a realm somewhere beyond. Their presence revealed a moment yet to come, an event still in the making. This was a vision of the future; and Tilda, with the Moon Fairy’s aid, had called it forth!

  A flicker of motion near the ruby maple caught Glinda’s eye; a fifth specter was materializing like a shiver along one’s spine. But this newcomer did not join the circle; instead, it hid behind the tree, where Tilda could not see it.

  Glinda knew instinctively that this fifth being was a darkness beyond all imagination; a vile intrusion, an invasive tagalong, riding the glittering coattails of Elucida’s Magic. It was as faceless as the others except for the presence of two glowing orbs where its eyes belonged, pustules of red light that seemed to glare out of the future. Not quite eyes but eerily eye-like things, trained on Glinda’s mother, who continued to study the four ghastly figures in the circle.

  With a flutter of her fingers, Tilda uttered the word, “Identities,” and as she did, the gloom began to fall away from the figures, one by one.

  The first to appear was Daspina, the Wild Dancer of the West, rising from the murky depths of her own shadow. Her nimble body was clothed in a swirling gown of yellow, adorned with rows of snake scales. On her feet she wore a pair of Silver Shoes, and as though unable to resist the urge to dance, she swayed and shimmied in her place to some raucous music only she could hear.

  Across from her, on the eastern point of the mock compass, Ava Munch, the Royal Tyrant of the East, emerged like a spring zephyr with a winter chill. Known for her extraordinary beauty and her even more extraordinary ruthlessness, Ava carried herself proudly, cradling in her hands a Silver Mask. On her regal frame she wore a gown of opulent blue silk that matched her lapis-colored eyes.

  In the northern position loomed Marada, the Brash Warrior. Fully turned out in heavy armor, she was tall and muscular, short on grace but long on ferocity. Her face seemed to fight its way out of the blank darkness, presenting itself with a scowl on her thin purple lips. Covering her hands were a pair of Silver Gauntlets, which glinted in the moonlight.

  Glinda’s stomach lurched at the sight of them, the diabolical Witches from the North, East, and West. A feeling of dread filled her as she turned to watch the transformation of the fourth lifeless smudge—the one that occupied the southern point of the circle.

  This last visitor revealed herself from the ground upward, as if she were a weed growing out of the soil. First came the slim skirt of a red satin gown, climbing into a slender torso over which was draped a gleaming vest of finely woven Silver Chainmail. Proud shoulders sprouted next, then an elegant neck. Her head appeared, adorned with a tall headdress. Finally, Glinda saw the exquisitely angular face.

  The most familiar face of the whole horrid quartet: Aphidina. The Witch of the South.

  But that was impossible. Aphidina was known to despise the three other Witches, denouncing them as her sworn enemies. Aphidina, who was known by all to be fair and generous and wise, would never deign to associate with such evil.

  Aphidina was a worthy queen.

  And the others . . .

  . . . were just plain Wicked.

  Glinda felt a coldness creep over her. She was about to call out to her mother to cease this dangerous escapade when her gaze was pulled skyward by a silent spark bursting forth from the midpoint of the moon. It traced a downward path through the sky like a single, illuminated teardrop, sparkling against the velvety blackness of the night. As it drew nearer, Glinda saw that it, too, was a living creature.

  “Elucida, Princess of the Moon,” she whispered.

  Closer and closer she came, this delicate, sweet-faced Fairy with translucent wings. Wings, Glinda realized, that were beating frantically in search of escape! Kicking and thrashing, Elucida struggled to halt her quickening descent. Glinda could see the panic on her face as she clawed at the night sky, desperate to fight her way back up to the moon.

  But the force that dragged her down was far too great; she was trapped, dangling as if from an invisible noose, above the Witches’ heads. The light that spilled from her luminous skin poured over the three cowering shapes in the center of the circle, as if to save them from this vicious ritual, but even Elucida’s moonlit brilliance could not dispel the darkness that held them there.

  Daspina attacked first, swinging her hips and arms in graceful time as she sang, “Dance, Moon Fairy, dance—dance until you are so lost in your own distraction that you’ve forgotten there is anything to accomplish!”

  Elucida’s body began to jerk and jitter, writhing without rhythm or reason until she was spent from exhaustion.

  Still dangling, the Fairy spun a quarter turn to face Marada, who said nothing except to emit a growl. Clasping her gloved fists above her head like the victor of some unholy battle, she stomped her spurred sandals in the grass as if she were on the march. With every thunderous pound of the Warrior’s feet, the fragile Elucida became more and more entangled in heavy iron chains.

  When Marada had finished, the Fairy spun again, so that now her pleading eyes were locked on Ava Munch’s. Raising the mask to her face, Ava spoke in a voice like breaking glass: “Displease me not, nor irritate, or sudden death will be your fate,” and as she chanted, a powerful blue force radiated through the eye slits of the Silver Mask—a Magical gaze so hateful and so terrifying that the Fairy cried out and began to shrivel. As she did, Aphidina took hold of her, turning her to face the southern point on the compass. Although her grasp was tender, the Fairy winced in pain.

  “Fear nothing,” said Aphidina, her words as soft and serene as falling orchid petals. “For this is Quadling and all is well. Here you are as safe and as free as I allow you to be.”

  From its hiding spot behind the tree, the fifth figure flung its arms into the air and made a seizing gesture. The four Witches did the same; moving as one, they threw their eager arms toward Elucida, capturing their prize in a violent four-pronged embrace. Daspina snatched her tiny fluttering feet, Marada gripped her hands, Ava grabbed her face. And Aphidina, cackling with a sound like dying leaves, reached out her long, long fingers to crush the fragile, fluttering wings.

  Glinda had not known light could shriek in fear, but Elucida cried out in such terror that the sound seemed to swallow the remaining glow from the sky, threatening to plunge the whole backyard—perhaps even the whole of the Lurlian realm—into total and endless darkness.

  From behind the tree, the dark haze of the fifth figure folded its smoky fingers into a fist, and Glinda felt the monster’s invisible stranglehold around her own throat; she tried to shout for her mother, but her voice was trapped in the stranger’s grip. Lungs clenching, arms flailing, she slammed her fist against the window hard enough to shatter one of the panes.

  The noise startled Tilda, who spun away from the ghostly vision of the Witches to meet Glinda’s eyes through the glass. Swinging her weightless cape, she summoned another gust of wind and the vision vanished in an explosion of darkness, taking the fifth figure with it in a blaze of failed light.

  The chokehold ceased and Glinda fell to the kitchen floor, gulping for air.

  In the yard, her mother waved her hands in a motion that was sweetly hypnotic and began to sing:

  “Do not worry, do not weep, dream your dreams and sleep your sleep.

  Stars belong around the moon and what belongs is coming soon.

  Sleep your sleep and dream your dreams. What is, is not quite what it seems . . .”

  Glinda’s eyelids drooped, then closed. She found herself once again curled beneath the coverlet of her bed with her rag doll tucked softly into the crook of her arm, though she could not remember walking back to her room.

  Perhaps she had been there beneath the blankets all along.

  Dreaming.

  From the looking glass above the dress
er, Tilda’s reflection whispered, “Only the truest among us will see through the darkness to bring forth the brightest of light.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Glinda, her words rolling into a yawn.

  “You will, my darling. And what you will know, above all, is truth.”

  With that, Glinda drifted back to sleep to finish her dream; a dream filled with questions waiting to be asked, tainted by the grim awakening of doubt.

  2

  REGRETS WILL NOT BE TOLERATED

  Glinda awoke to a sky filled with dazzling sunshine.

  This did not suit her mood in the least. Because today was to be the Day of Declaration at Madam Mentir’s Academy for Girls. Today Glinda would choose her future.

  As she made her bed, her mind prickled with the fading memory of a frightful dream. Stepping into her slippers, she took herself to the kitchen, where her mother was arranging flowers in a pewter vase.

  On closer inspection Glinda saw that the clippings were not yet flowers, only buds. Little knots of life, which would bloom into plump roses in the coming weeks. For now they were only the promise of the flowers they would soon become. She wondered why her mother’s hands trembled so; perhaps the stems had thorns.

  On the sideboard sat the Declaration Day invitation, scarlet lettering engraved on creamy pink card stock.

  Madam Mentir’s Academy for Girls

  STRONGLY RECOMMENDS

  THAT YOU ATTEND THE ANNUAL CELEBRATION OF DECLARATION DAY

  IN WHICH

  THE CONCLUSIVE CLASS SHALL CHOOSE THEIR FUTURES

  Schedule of Events

  AT THE HOUR OF TEN: BESTOWING OF THE SCROLLS

  AT HALF PAST THE HOUR OF ELEVEN: FAREWELL TEA

  REFRESHMENTS GENEROUSLY ARRANGED

  BY OUR MOST POWERFUL AND GRACIOUS BENEFACTOR

  APHIDINA, WITCH OF THE SOUTH

  Conclusives & Guests

  BE PROMPT. DRESS WELL.

  REGRETS WILL NOT BE TOLERATED.