Dorothy Must Die (31 page)

Sindra was inappropriately excited considering just yesterday her predecessor’s arm had gotten hacked off.

“Isn’t Dorothy generous?” she asked as we all lined up in the back of the ballroom, waiting for the party to begin. “These new uniforms are just lovely. And so comfortable, too!”

I smiled and nodded. It was true that the smooth green satin of the dress we’d been instructed to wear for the party felt good against my skin, but I thought
comfortable
was a little extreme. For one thing, it was too short, and I kept having to stop to yank down the skirt to be sure my underwear wasn’t showing.

Since I’d last seen it this morning, the ballroom had been lavishly tricked out and transformed to the point where it was unrecognizable. A hundred ruby-red disco balls glittered against the dark, domed ceiling, but unlike the disco balls I knew from back home, these weren’t suspended by anything. They floated on their own, pulsing in time to the music and dipping and hovering and twirling like shiny beating hearts.

Meanwhile, the wooden parquet I’d spent so many hours hunched over and scrubbing was magically gone, replaced by a transparent dance floor that looked down onto a brilliant, starry night sky, every constellation brighter and closer than they’d ever looked from the ground.

Instead of the usual cloth coverings, the tables were veiled in pink, hazy mist that looked like it had been torn straight from the clouds during sunset. Sprouting from the middle of each table was a centerpiece that I recognized: the giant, ever-changing flower from the greenhouse—the one with the blossom that transformed right before your eyes from a rose to a dahlia to an orchid to a lily and on and on in a kaleidoscopic rush that was enough to almost make you dizzy.

“It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?” Sindra whispered reverently. “Glinda did the decorating. She always does such a good job.”

It’s a
little
tacky,
I wanted to say, but the truth was, I couldn’t help thinking it was beautiful, too. Knowing what was coming—that blood would almost certainly be spilled across the stars—made me feel a little sad.

“Yes,” I told Sindra. “It’s amazing.”

I could feel the magic coursing all around me and wondered how much of Dorothy’s power was dedicated to running this place. It must’ve been part of the Order’s plan; with all the magic happening here, hopefully no one would notice the witches performing their wards outside the palace. Not until it was too late.

The doors swung open and as the guests began to stream in, the trays we held magically filled themselves with hors d’oeuvres and drinks. The cocktails were garnished with what looked like real emeralds and rubies that floated upon the surface.

My heart fluttered. It had begun—no turning back now. The only way I was going to get through the night was by convincing myself that nothing was out of the ordinary—that killing Dorothy was just another thing to check off my list of duties for the day. No big deal.

“Okay, gals,” Sindra announced, facing the rest of us. “You’ve seen what happens to screwups, right? Let’s, um, do the opposite. Let’s make this ball one they’ll be talking about for years to come!”

Oh, that won’t be a problem
, I thought to myself.

The maids dispersed, each of us making our way around the room and presenting the partygoers with their choice of food and drink. I served a group of Flutterbudgets who took forever to decide what to drink, each of them reassuring the next that they were making the right decision, then throwing their selections back like they needed to loosen up more than anything. Next was the stern-looking royal family of Winkie Country, all dressed in sparkling pressed-tin suits that would’ve made the Tin Woodman envious. They barely looked at me when I passed.

As soon as our trays were empty, they filled themselves up again. No one talked to us or paid much attention to us at all. All we had to do was look pretty and not trip.

The whole place thumped with music and all the guests were laughing and chattering. They gathered around Scraps, the Patchwork Girl, and began to cheer as she pranced and pirouetted in an acrobatic routine that was somewhere between break-dancing, voguing, and gymnastics.

When she cartwheeled into a perfect split, a roar went up from the crowd. Scraps stood and bowed for her audience, and then the music shifted to something slower and moodier. All of the disco balls that had been whirling around began drifting toward the highest point in the domed ceiling. There, they merged together and began to pulse in time with the music like a huge ruby heart.

The heart began to descend slowly. The chatter of the room went silent, and everyone stood still watching it. I scanned the crowd, trying to pick out all the important players. Surprisingly, most of them seemed to be missing: I didn’t see the Wizard, or Ozma, or Glinda, or Dorothy. The Scarecrow, the Lion, and the Tin Woodman were missing, too.

For now at least, it was just the B-list.

When the glass heart reached the floor, it exploded in a shower of red glitter. Something landed on my arm and I realized the flashing dots of red light thrown by the disco balls had magically solidified into rose petals. I brushed them off, trying to see through the haze of glitter, confetti, petals, and pink-hued smoke.

She really knew how to make an entrance, I’ll give her that. There, in the center of the room where the glass heart had been just a moment ago, stood Dorothy. Her entourage appeared, too, fanning out behind her—the Scarecrow, the Tin Woodman, the Lion, and Glinda—but they dispersed quickly into the party.

Dorothy looked radiant and majestic, every inch a princess. Her lips were glossed but not with PermaSmile—her smile easy and relaxed, and somehow giving off physical warmth if you looked directly at it. Her nails were bedazzled with actual rubies; her hair was pulled up into a spiraling tower of curls, streaks of gold running through it, leading to an ornate emerald hair comb at the pinnacle—the road of yellow brick and the Emerald City, I realized.

She wore a long, formfitting, beaded gown that flared out at the bottom and was corseted so severely that I wondered how she could breathe. Her breasts weren’t the only thing Dorothy was trying to show off: the fishtail was slit up the side, revealing her
most
important assets.

Her shoes, of course.

The crowd went wild at Dorothy’s entrance. Their cheers and whoops resounded thunderously through the huge room. Dorothy batted her eyelashes and flicked her wrist, all fake-humble like
Aw, shucks.

One of the servers scurried over to her and, without looking, she grabbed a cocktail, her lips pouting into a dainty sip. A long sip. Finally, the drink half finished, Dorothy blotted the corner of her lips with a napkin and raised her hand to silence her adoring subjects, as if everyone weren’t already watching her.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice all sugary sweet. “I’m so happy you could all make it here tonight to help me celebrate this wonderful occasion.”

A Munchkin in a bright-orange tuxedo standing in front of me turned to his companion, a squat, monkish man wearing a patterned kimono and a tentacle-like braid, and whispered, “What is the occasion anyway?”

“She just wanted to have a party,” the other replied.

I’d assumed this was some Oz holiday I didn’t know about. But all this work had just been for a whim.

Meanwhile, Dorothy draped a hand across her forehead.

“As many of you know, the last week has been a difficult one for me. One of my closest confidantes was revealed to be a wicked, nasty traitor, and as you can imagine, I was quite devastated. But I’m overjoyed to say that it’s all been sorted out, and things are better than ever. Now, before we get back to our dancing, I’d like to introduce a
very
special guest who I’m so thrilled to have here.”

The ballroom grew silent and we heard a rustling from the back of the room. A low murmur rippled through the crowd as it parted to make way for the new arrival. Who could Dorothy be talking about?

Then I saw her, lurching forward in jerky, awkward movements and barely balancing a serving tray full of drinks. Her face was bruised and swollen and her green maid’s uniform was splattered with blood. Where her eyes should have been there were instead just two empty, blackened sockets. Her mouth was hanging open as if it had been frozen in mid-scream.

“Unfortunately there was a bit of a mishap during her interrogation,” Dorothy said, “but luckily the Scarecrow was clever enough to reanimate her corpse so that she could be here tonight. Deceased or not, I wouldn’t want my favorite servant to miss the most fabulous party Oz has ever seen.”

It was Jellia.

The Munchkin in front of me dropped his glass. It didn’t shatter but was instead swallowed into the night sky beneath our feet. I assumed, around the room, other glasses were slipping soundlessly from other shocked hands.

I barely managed to steady my serving tray.

No one seemed to know what to do as Jellia limped forward—everyone’s face seemed to bear the same look of horrified confusion. Even Sindra had stopped dead in her tracks to stare, tears reflecting in her eyes.

“Well, have a drink!” Dorothy urged us all. “Go on. It would disappoint me so much if you didn’t.” Her voice was cheery, but there was something in her eyes, something tantamount to a dare.

The giant frog in the three-piece suit looked hesitantly at Jellia, then back at Dorothy, and finally plucked a glass of pink champagne from the tray.

“Here’s to loyalty,” Dorothy said. Slowly turning in a circle so she could see everyone in the room, she raised an empty glass as if to toast. Everyone followed suit, raising their glasses, too.

“To loyalty!” they cried out. This time, it didn’t sound so enthusiastic, but Dorothy didn’t seem to care.

Suddenly the lights went out. For the briefest moment it was pitch-black. A flapping noise came from overhead, like bats soaring from a cave, and then the room lit back up, now bathed in a dim, warm glow. Several winged monkeys swooped slowly above us, each one with a sparkling chandelier harnessed to its midsection by a dangling chain.

“Now let’s get this party started!” Dorothy howled. She let out a jubilant whoop, and dance music began to blast. Dorothy began to shimmy and shake, and soon the rest of the room was dancing, too.

Jellia continued her march around the room, tottering back and forth, stiff-legged, her empty eye sockets collecting stray pieces of glitter. Everyone she passed reluctantly helped themselves to a drink. It became a secondary sort of dance, watching guests anxiously shift around the room to keep clear of Jellia’s path.

I tasted blood. I’d bitten down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep myself from screaming out loud. I couldn’t believe I’d ever hesitated at the idea of killing Dorothy. Watching Jellia stagger around the room, a mockery of life, it took everything in me not to rush Dorothy right then.

“Ah, Astrid, long time no see.”

The Scarecrow stood next to me, his scratchy hand coming to rest lightly on the small of my back. I’d been so distracted giving Dorothy murder-eyes, I hadn’t noticed him approach. He plucked a flute of champagne from my tray, but didn’t drink it. I wondered if it would soak right through him.

“Aren’t these little gatherings just dreadful?” he asked me idly, his button eyes tracking a pair of fast-dancing Munchkins. “A tremendous waste of resources.”

I didn’t think I could look him in the face, knowing what he’d done to Maude and now Jellia, and not give everything away with my uncensored anger and disgust. I looked down at my feet and hoped it came off as demure.

“I think it’s lovely,” I replied through gritted teeth.

“Yes, well, you would,” he sniffed. “I’ll be ready to resume our nightly meetings soon, dear. I look forward to them.”

I suppressed a shudder.

“I have to go,” I said, and before he could reply, I shouldered my tray and started circulating through the party.

I noticed Glinda seated alone at one of the back tables. She wore a puffy, frilly gown, her red hair pulled into a tight bun and topped with a tall, cylindrical crown. Sindra approached her with a tray of drinks and the so-called good witch waved her off, not interested. Glinda never took her eyes off Dorothy, her expression mired in boredom, looking like one of those parents that begrudgingly attends a school play and then texts the entire way through it.

Meanwhile, Dorothy danced, hopping and shimmying and twirling. Some of the bolder guests—a fine-featured Winkie dignitary, a dashing-looking pirate with a wooden leg—attempted to dance with her, but she warded them off with wild glares, never breaking her motion. She was like a tornado, clearing her own space on the dance floor. It was manic and, in a way I didn’t care to think about, sort of sad.

But then the Lion slunk through my field of vision—licking his chops and eyeing me, because apparently patrolling the outskirts and creeping people out was his preferred party activity—and I realized I’d been standing still for too long. I wished more than anything that Gert had managed to kill him that night in the woods.