Dorothy Must Die: The Other Side of the Rainbow Collection: No Place Like Oz, Dorothy Must Die, The Witch Must Burn, The Wizard Returns, The Wicked Will Rise (10 page)

On every wall, stained-glass windows seemed to tell a story. I knew most of it already: it was the story of Dorothy.

There was Dorothy’s house in the cyclone. Dorothy walking down the road of yellow bricks, arm in arm with her famous friends. Dorothy facing off with the Wicked Witch of the West. They all went on like that. The last panel showed Dorothy kneeling, as a girl I recognized as Ozma placed a crown on her head.

But where was the one that explained what happened after that?

“Don’t speak until spoken to,” the Tin Woodman was saying brusquely, and I realized that he was talking to me. “And don’t look Her Highness directly in the eye.”

I felt nauseous. He had just killed my friend, and now he was giving me an etiquette lesson.

I had never seen anyone die before. I’d thought it would leave me scared, but now all I wanted to do was fight. More than anything I wished to put my fist through the Tin Woodman’s face. Or worse.

But I was no match for him, let alone him and his whole death squad. If I tried to lift a finger against any of them, I knew that the last thing I would see was one of Dorothy’s sick, sad, phony rainbows. It wasn’t worth it.

The Tin Woodman either didn’t notice my anger or didn’t care. He was too busy lecturing me: “And for heaven’s sake, stand up straight. The princess deserves respect.” With that, he overcorrected his own already perfect posture and frowned at something on his metallic arm.

It was bubble splatter. Indigo splatter. I swallowed hard, fighting my gag reflex as he used a little blade from his Swiss Army fingertip to scrape it away with a look of private satisfaction.

Just then, a flourish of trumpets began to play out of nowhere. The Tin Woodman and his men bowed down awkwardly—all except the one on wheels who just bowed his head. Their metal limbs creaked as they kneeled. I rushed to kneel along with them. I kept my eyes trained steadily on the ground.

With a few clicks, her shoes appeared right under my nose.

They were bright-red high heels, at least six inches tall and made from the shiniest leather I’d ever seen. Or maybe they weren’t
shiny
, exactly. They didn’t reflect the light as much as they seemed to shine from within.

I heard a thumping sound beside me. It was coming from the metal shell that was the Tin Woodman.

“Well, look who we have here,” a sharp voice said. “Go ahead. Stand up.”

I took a breath and rose slowly to my feet to face the owner of the shoes. She was both exactly and nothing like I could have imagined.

This was not the same girl I’d read about. She was wearing the dress, but it wasn’t
the
dress exactly—it was as if someone had cut her familiar blue-checked jumper into a million little pieces and then put it back together again, only better. Better and, okay, a little bit more revealing. Actually, more than a little bit. Not that I was judging.

Instead of farm-girl cotton it was silk and chiffon. The cut was somewhere between haute couture and French hooker. The bodice nipped, tucked, and lifted. There was cleavage.

Lots of cleavage.

Dorothy’s boobs were out to
here
, her legs up to
there
. Her face was smooth and unblemished and perfect: her mouth shellacked in plasticky crimson, her eyes impeccably lined in silver and gold. Her eyelashes were so long and full that they probably created a breeze when she blinked. It was hard to tell how old she was. She looked like she could have been my age or years older. She looked immortal.

She had her hair pulled into two deep chestnut waves that cascaded down her shoulders, each one tied with red ribbon. Her piercing blue eyes were trained right on me. I knew I was supposed to look down, like the Tin Woodman had instructed. Instead, I found myself falling into her gaze. I couldn’t help it.

Her eyes didn’t look evil. They looked curious and almost kind. Like she was just trying to figure me out. She was so pretty that it was hard to imagine she was responsible for Indigo’s death or any of the other atrocities I’d been told were her fault.

As we stood there, face-to-face, the Tin Woodman creaked back up from his bow and began to speak.

“In the name of Ozma of Oz,” he said. “By order of Princess Dorothy, I, the Tin Woodman of Oz, Grand Inquisitor of the Emerald Police, present—”

Without looking away from me, Dorothy flicked a flawlessly manicured hand at him and he shut right up. She cut him off in a bored voice. “Let me get a look at her. What is your name?”

“Amy Gumm.” My voice came out louder than I had expected. It sounded like it belonged to someone else.

I tried to inhale as shallowly as possible as she walked in a slow circle around me, the heels of her shoes
clack-clack-clacking
against the green marble floor.

As she examined me, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that while I’d been focused on Dorothy, two more people had entered the room.

I knew them both instantly. In one of the thrones—the larger one—sat the girl I recognized from the hologram—or whatever it was—back on the road. It was Ozma, looking dazed and vacant. Her eyes were open but no one was home. I wondered if this was really her or if she was just another illusion.

At Ozma’s side stood a tall thin man dressed in a baby-blue, one-size-too-small suit. Beneath a small hat, bits of straw and yarn stuck out in every direction. His face was a skein of tightly pulled burlap with two unnervingly lifelike buttons sewn on in place of eyes. His lips were thin lines of embroidery stitched in pinkish-brown yarn underneath a painted on red triangle for a nose. His buttons were fixed right on me.

A chill shot through my body. It was the Scarecrow. Like the Tin Woodman, he had been twisted and warped into something I hardly recognized.

“Now, Amy,” Dorothy was saying. “This is very, very important—and I need you to be completely honest with me.” She casually began to amble over to the empty throne next to Ozma’s, where she sat, tossed her head, and crossed her legs.

If I hadn’t read the story, I wouldn’t believe that she had ever lived on a farm. She had shed that girl long ago and replaced it with a poised, haughty princess. Her neck stretched upward as if she were searching for the perfect light. Her voice was perky, but there was a threat lurking somewhere in there, too.

I steeled myself for whatever she was going to ask, getting the distinct impression that she would be able to see through any lie.

“What do you think of my hair?” she demanded. She ran a long red nail through one of her curls.

She had to be kidding.

“Well?” she asked.

She wasn’t kidding. My life was about to be judged by how sincerely I delivered a trivial compliment.

Luckily, I had a lot of practice with humoring popular girls. Madison Pendleton had taught me well.

“It’s
so
pretty,” I said sweetly. “And so
shiny
!” I added for good measure when she looked unconvinced.

Dorothy smiled and clapped her hands together and leaned over to Ozma with an expression of deep confidentiality. “Ozma likes my hair, too,” she said in a stage whisper. Ozma just stared straight ahead with an unchanging expression.

Feeling like I was on a roll, I decided to keep going. Maybe flattery would get me somewhere—for instance,
the hell out of here.
“I’ve read tons about you. I saw the movie like a million times.”

Dorothy beamed. “Really? What do you mean?”

“Oh, you know,” I replied shakily. “You’re, like, an icon where I come from.”

Suddenly she narrowed her eyes at me. “And where, exactly, is that?” she asked.

“Kansas,” I said. “The United States.”

Her face instantly darkened. “Kansas,” she said slowly. “You’re from Kansas.”

“You’ve heard of it?” I asked, a hint of unwise sarcasm creeping into my voice. I knew it was the wrong thing to say, but I couldn’t help myself. It’s my greatest weakness: I never can.

“And how did you
get
here from Kansas, Miss Gumm?” she said sharply.

“Well . . .”

She arched an overplucked eyebrow and cocked her head, waiting for my answer. In my pocket, I felt Star wriggling, and I squeezed her tightly, hoping that she would get the message to calm down. I had a pretty good feeling the princess wouldn’t take kindly to the fact that I had brought a rodent into her royal court.

Star cooled it, thank goodness, but she had momentarily distracted me and now Dorothy was waiting for her answer. She cleared her throat testily. “What
brought
you here, Miss Gumm. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

I knew I should have made up a lie. But what was the point now? I had a feeling they knew more about me than they were letting on anyway. It was probably the only reason I was alive and Indigo wasn’t.

“A tornado,” I said, mustering a smile.

The hairs on the back of my neck were standing at attention. Inside the pocket of my hoodie, I felt Star quivering. I was pretty sure they didn’t know about
her
at least.

“Why you little . . .
liar
,” Dorothy spat. “How dare you!”

I opened my mouth to lie—an actual lie this time. To say that no, I hadn’t come from Kansas at all.

It was too late. Dorothy’s face was burning with aggrieved rage. “I am the only one. There can only
be
one.”

My gut twisted. I understood. We had the same story. It was like we were wearing the same dress to the prom. Only it wasn’t a party. Dorothy thought her landing here was fate—that it made her special. Another girl from Kansas meant that it was just a regular occurrence and that she wasn’t special at all. Or—worse—that I was here to take her place.

I did my best to scramble, trying not to trip over my words. “Your Highness, I’m just a regular girl from Kansas. I’m
nothing
like you. You’re a princess. Look at you. Me, I’m not interested in that. I just want to be myself—I’d never want anything that you have.”

I was only trying to placate her, but as I spoke the words I realized they were true. I didn’t want anything Dorothy had. I didn’t want to be anything like her.

Dorothy hooted in derision. “More lies! If you come from where I come from, all you
do
is want. And if you had even the smallest taste of what I have, you would never stop wanting.”

She tapped the tip of one of her shoes as if to illustrate her point. “There can only be one,” she repeated through gritted teeth.

Dorothy rose to her feet. Her face was pinched with barely suppressed fury. “Take her away,” she said.

The Scarecrow turned to her. “Your Highness,” he said in a calm, soothing voice. “Maybe we should let the Tin Woodman review the charges against her first?”

The Tin Woodman pulled out his stupid piece of paper and cleared his throat to read aloud. But Dorothy wasn’t having it.

“Take her
away
!” Her scream reverberated up through the room, ringing in my ears. Her face had turned a deep red, and her fists were clenched so tight at her sides that they were vibrating.

My legs buckled inward. I felt like I was watching the whole scene unfold from somewhere far away. From my new, distant vantage, I searched myself, looking for any shred of the strength and anger and stubbornness that had always served me so well. For any secret weapon buried deep within that could help me out of this.

I found nothing. I collapsed to my knees, shaking.

No one else in the room even flinched. “Amy Gumm of Kansas,” the Tin Woodman said calmly, “you will be tried for your crimes of treason one week from today. . . .”

For the first time, Ozma acted on her own accord, letting out a high, lilting giggle. Dorothy’s eyes were still drilling through me.

“If found guilty,” the Tin Woodman said, “you will be sentenced to a Fate Worse Than Death.”

My prison cell was a perfect cube, all white, without a speck of dirt anywhere. The walls were white limestone, freshly scrubbed, and the tiny bed in the corner was all white, too.

As soon as the Tin Woodman had slammed the cell door behind me after shoving me inside, the door had simply disappeared, like it had never existed. I pressed myself against the cool, smooth surface of the wall where it had just been, searching for a crevice, a seam, any sign at all that there was a way out—that there had ever been a way in. I didn’t find anything.

There
was
, however, a window in the room. It was no bigger than a foot wide, and it neatly framed a little swatch of the starry night sky. So Dorothy must have finally decided to let the sun set after all. When I stood on my tiptoes, the glittering green vista of the Emerald City was barely visible, poking up into the blackness.

To get to this dungeon, I’d been escorted down what had felt like hundreds of stairs. It seemed impossible that there could be a window all the way down here, deep in the bowels of the palace. But there it was.

It had to be magic. Was it the stairs that were just an illusion, or the window? And why was there a window in here anyway? It seemed unlikely that my captors would care whether or not I was comfortable.

Well, it was clean. And there was a view. That comprised the entirety of my prison’s luxuries. When I sat down on the bed in the corner, I found it hard as stone. That’s because there was no mattress to speak of: the bed felt like stone because it
was
stone.