Chapter 19

Nineteen

What a way to end a first kiss… Dorothy stared at the medieval door opposite and hugged herself against the chill of thick, stark black stone that surrounded her. Something dripped steadily. She didn't need to know what.

"I asked for the full experience," she lamented quietly, just to fill the interminable quiet. "Ask for a fairytale inn and a handsome hero, get… monkey birds and a dungeon."

She reached down to feel the tear on the hem of her pant leg, where Toto would undoubtedly have held on all the way to the castle if she hadn't told him to let go. Rubbing the frayed fabric between her fingertips, her mind hit replay: she saw Nick's wild eyes, and the snap of jagged jaws too close to his vulnerable face; her skin tingled with the memory of his embrace, her lips still bruised with the intensity of their kiss, her hands still marveling at how warm he'd been; she saw Lional charging on all fours, all too late, and heard Toto's whimper as the monkey birds carried her off. But it was Nick's hopeless, helpless expression, etched on his silverless face as she was hoisted above the hunting lodge, that burned like a coal in the center of her brain.

I'd kiss you again, even as a statue. I'd kiss you silver, iron, steel, any which way. I'd kiss you until the Curse broke, until you could kiss me back without pain. But that was fantasy. Magic didn't work like that.

Seeing him there, tan skinned and laughing in the Summer Solstoz evening had been proof of his truth. Nick had showed more affection in those few minutes than the entire time she had been with him in Oz, and even trapped in a madwoman's dungeon, she was more pissed that she'd missed the full day of his true self.

Dorothy needed to help him. Not in the clichéd "I can fix him" kind of way, but actually help by getting rid of the Curse.

Of course, that meant figuring out a way to take down the Wicked Witch. A seemingly impossible goal considering Dorothy was sitting in a cold, bleak food pantry with only one entrance, carved into the mountain, deep inside Wicked—formerly Wicker—Castle, trapped behind a frosty iron door that looked like it was custom-built to hold back ravenous hordes, and only locked from the outside. She'd checked.

It resembled a dungeon cell, so she was going to keep calling it one, but apparently, the Wicked Witch didn't deem her prisoner worthy of the castle underbelly. Either that, or she had another reason for keeping Dorothy there in the Oz equivalent of a walk-in freezer and not below.

As for the rest of the castle, it had been darkly beautiful, framed against the snow-covered mountainside as she had been flown in. All three moons had been out, two of them nearly full, soft brush strokes of light against the painting-like beauty of Lional's former home. The third had been a sliver, hanging dream-like behind the main tower. A tower that only showed its stony existence against the night-black sky by cutting the crescent moon in half like a pair of devil's horns. Dorothy wagered that the Wicked Witch loved when it did that.

"Right," she said, slapping her thigh like she was trying to make an Irish exit from a party. "Move around. Get to work. Got to be a way out. Keep busy."

She got to her feet and winced, her shoulders on fire. Pain pulsed where the monkey's claws had sunk in so deep, they'd hooked right under the clavicles, making her easy cargo to just dangle while the monkey had concentrated on flying.

"Clean that up first, before it festers," she hissed, her breath pluming.

At the back of the pantry were sparsely stocked shelves. Huffing and puffing toward the promise of liquor and a rag to wash out her wounds, she passed a barred window and paused to lift up on tiptoe, though it was a view she'd already seen on her flight in.

An "orchard" of frosted trees littered the courtyard below, frozen where they'd tried to run. Not trees at all, not really, but a second reason to figure out how to put an end to Zolesha, as if Dorothy needed one.

Reaching the shelves, she inched her burning arm up toward a promising-looking bottle. A jolt ricocheted up from her shoulder, making her hand spasm. Her clumsy fingers knocked the bottle and she watched, stricken, as it rolled off the shelf. Her other hand shot out to try and catch it, clenching her teeth against the lightning bolt of acid agony that splintered down her nerves in the attempt.

The bottle smashed on the hard, black stone of the pantry floor.

She swore, loudly, as tiny shards scattered everywhere. The biting cold, settling into every inch of her body except where the silver shoes still clung to her feet, was bad enough. She'd just made it worse, risking a fragment of glass in the backside if she sat down again.

A face door—even more unwelcoming than the guard's door at the Emerald City gates—squealed open to reveal a dark-haired beauty with moon-pale skin, red-apple lips, and strange, night-dark eyes. She looked at Dorothy through the iron bars, frowning.

For a split second, Dorothy thought Zolesha had lost her green skin, perhaps because of the Solstoz, and had been summoned by the smash. But when the woman spoke, her voice held a brand of kindness and worry that the Wicked Witch wouldn't have been able to fake in a million years.

"What was that noise? Are you hurt?"

Dorothy winced back to the spot right in front of the door, sliding down the icy wall. "I was looking for something to clean out the nice little hollows your monkeys left behind. Dirty claws and open wounds don't mix." She nodded to the shattered bottle and flashed the woman a cold smile. "Hope it wasn't a rare vintage."

"I'm sorry," the woman said. "I can fetch you something, if you like? I can't open the door, not until Zolesha says you're free to go, but I can find something that'll fit through these bars."

"I guess that makes you my own personal guard?" Dorothy asked.

"No," the servant replied through the face-height square of bars set in the otherwise solid door. "The witch's soldiers are responsible for that. I'm here to help with any requests you might have."

"Well then, forget the bleach and branding iron," Dorothy said dryly. "My first request is to be let out of here."

The servant girl gently laughed. "I guess I should have said, ‘I'm here to help with most of your requests.'" She hesitated, glancing down for a moment. "I don't even have the key."

"She doesn't trust you, then?" Dorothy sighed, gingerly attempting to roll her shoulder.

The girl stared at Dorothy through the bars of the door, not with malice or cruelty, but with a wide-eyed curiosity. "Would you like something for your wounds?" she said after a pause. "Something to drink too, maybe?"

"Maybe in a little while," Dorothy answered. She could, in fact, very much use a bucket-sized mug of something warm to shake off the chill, but she couldn't trust this girl either. "I have some questions, if you're allowed to answer any."

The girl considered the request and dipped her dainty chin in a nod, her face sparkling faintly as if she hadn't fully wiped off all of last night's glitter. "I don't see the harm in that. Zolesha told me to keep you company. Although I suspect she meant ‘keep an eye on her.' I think I can do both."

The Wicked Witch had definitely meant no fraternizing. When the evil woman had her monkeys shove Dorothy into the pantry, her demand to her flying servants had felt more like a Mafia boss ordering underlings on how to handle a particularly dangerous opponent.

But if the servant girl was going to willingly blur her instructions, Dorothy was all for it. After all, a conversation might reveal whether or not this woman could be trusted, and in a behind-enemy-lines situation, having an ally might change everything.

"Are you related to the Wicked Witch?" Dorothy asked. "You look like it, but you sure don't sound like it."

The servant shook her head. "No, but I can understand why you would think that."

"A lot less broccoli colored, and the nose doesn't look like it might sprout a sapling." Dorothy tilted her head, forming her thumbs and forefingers into a square and peering through it at the woman. "You definitely moisturize more. Not as close to… mummy left in a tomb for thousands of years. Same with your hair. If you weren't keeping me captive, I'd ask what conditioner you use. But aside from that, you're her spitting image."

The girl laughed gently again. "Spitting image," she repeated. "Well, there was water involved."

Cryptic comment aside, constantly thinking of the young lady as the servant or the girl wasn't going to do, so Dorothy introduced herself.

"I'm Dorothy Gale," she said, "and you are?"

"My name is Myrsina," the not-quite-guard responded.

"Pretty name."

"Same to you." Myrsina smiled shyly. "But I wouldn't say my name is pretty. Zolesha named me after the first version of the spell, when she learned how to make me. Some of the other servants call me ‘Flaky,' but I think they were being mean. They think I don't notice that sort of thing."

Dorothy heard the name almost as background static. Her mind had locked onto the first part of the servant's declaration. Made her?

"It's funny, Myrsina. I knew someone with your name back home," Dorothy lied. It came a little too quickly and easily for her own taste, but she needed any advantage she could get. "She was a super cool woman in my research group at college. From Greece, with this incredible dark hair—same as yours. She was absolutely beautiful, and the boys would nearly trip over their own feet to talk with her, but she was crazy smart and kind too. That rare kind of person who's utterly perfect, but you can't hate them for it, 'cause they're too nice—you know? Anyway, it was her name, and I always liked it."

A little praise to soften her up,Dorothy thought, immediately cringing as she remembered Auntie Em's words, in case she sounded disingenuous.

"Cool?" Myrsina laughed behind her hand for a moment. "I love that. Yes, I like being cool as well."

She beamed in unbearably na?ve happiness. A glass-sharp sliver of guilt slid deep into Dorothy's chest; she was actively befriending someone to try to take advantage and gain the upper hand. It was so much like what her mother would have done, and the reaction was nothing short of visceral.

Dorothy's whole body started to tremble, and not from the chill of the root cellar, but a physical revulsion toward her own behavior.

As quickly as she had come up with the idea, Dorothy tossed it aside. She decided to just befriend the girl without looking for an angle. She might be stuck in the dark of the witch's castle, locked in, but that didn't mean she had to lose her soul as well as her mind.

"Exactly what do you mean by ‘made me'?" she asked Myrsina.

"She created me out of snow and ice. Is that what you meant?"

Struggling past the ice and snow part, Dorothy pursed her lips in thought. "Sure. But why?"

"Oh… well." Myrsina glanced back, as if to make sure the coast was clear. "I'm her drain. If she has any emotions she doesn't want to feel, she pours them into me. It's the only way she can be truly Wicked. No good emotions here! No, thank you!" She wagged a finger playfully and laughed her sweet, musical laugh. "That's why she didn't think I needed a new name and just gave me the spell's title. I'm not really a person."

Dorothy thought it was more likely that Myrsina was a normal woman who had been enchanted to believe those things. But then again, Dorothy had her own scarecrow friend who had been enchanted into life right before her very eyes, so it was quite possible she was made of snow and ice.

"My friend is a scarecrow that Glinda made a week or so back," she told the glitter-skinned woman. "He's like you, I guess, but maybe not as solid. Although, he's probably better in hot temperatures."

Myrsina laughed again. "I do have a bad habit of melting." Her laughter faded into a sad sort of hiccup. "She always brings me back, though. I'm grateful every time. Who else gets so many lives? It's a blessing, truly."

It sounds rehearsed, truly. Dorothy held her tongue.

"So, how exactly did this whole ‘made me' thing happen?" she asked instead, partly to continue bonding with Myrsina and partly because she was genuinely curious.

"According to Captain Racine, Zolesha pricked her finger and let three drops of blood fall onto a snowbank. Then, she used her magic to make me step out of it, fully formed and ready to serve. Then, she broke the wand so I could never be unsummoned." Myrsina mustered a more nervous laugh. "I melted yesterday, actually. It's always scariest when it's not Zolesha's doing. At least when she melts me because I've disappointed her, I know she'll eventually bring me back when she needs me again. But… yes, yesterday was scary."

"So, you're technically Curse magic?" Dorothy asked, filling in the blanks. Yesterday was the Summer Solstoz. Why else would Myrsina have melted, if not because she was made of Curse magic?

"I guess," Myrsina said. "I don't really know for certain. Is that okay?"

"Sure," Dorothy said. "Forget I mentioned it."

The girl smiled again and happily nodded. It was like seeing a flesh and blood—or, technically, a very realistic snow sculpture—version of Straw.

"Zolesha must've brought you back pretty quickly after the sun set, huh?" Dorothy continued.

"She did! I was so relieved!" Myrsina beamed. "It happens so slowly, you see—the melting. I get so nervous and worried, wondering if this will be the last time I see the world, and I have such a long time to think about it before I'm a puddle. I worry about it when I'm not melting, to be honest with you, but then Zolesha starts pouring in all kinds of happy emotions and pleasant thoughts she doesn't want, so I quickly forget about melting again. It's so very nice to be alive, isn't it?"

"Right now? Not so much. Generally? Yes." Dorothy smiled.

Myrsina reached up and wrapped her hands around the metal bars of the small window. Traces of frost appeared near her fingers, and she yanked her hands away as if she'd accidentally touched something hot.

She really is snow, Dorothy thought in wonder. Jacqueline Frost herself.

"You're not going to melt now, are you?" she asked, wishing she could take back the question even as she had blurted out. It somehow felt extremely rude.

For Myrsina's part, she was quite happy to answer. "The castle is cool enough, and I sleep outside every chance I get. I'm told we're in summer now, and if this is the warmest it's going to get in the entire year, I should be fine." She paused. "Actually, you're in my bedroom."

Just when Dorothy thought that Oz had sent its last curveball at her, a new one launched from the mound.

"This is your bedroom?" Her voice cracked, her mouth so dry that if she was going to keep chatting with her new friend, a glass of something would help. "I don't suppose that you could go and fetch me the drink you offered? The medical supplies wouldn't go amiss, either, before my arms fall off. Sadly, I can't be remade."

"Of course," Myrsina happily replied. "What would you like, drink-wise?"

Dorothy didn't get to answer. Zolesha's voice echoed down the hallway, a poisonous copy of Myrsina's lilting, sweet one.

"Do you need twenty minutes in front of the fireplace?" the witch snapped at the servant. "Get away from the door, you incompetent snowflake! You're supposed to keep an eye on our prisoner and keep her fed, not keep her company!"

"I'm sorry, Zolesha," the young ice maiden responded, her face pulling away from the iron bars. A second later, a sour green face filled the gaps.

"Well…" the Wicked Witch barked at Myrsina.

"What can I do for you, Zolesha?" the servant's voice replied, straining with a desperation to do the right thing, to not screw up. Dorothy knew that tone intimately; she'd used it enough in her own childhood.

"Should I give your head a shake, see if we can't find some brains sloshing around in there somewhere?" Zolesha rolled her eyes. "Open the door!"

Myrsina's gulp reached all the way into the pantry. "You have the key, Zolesha."

"And you have hands, don't you? I should know; I made them."

A jangle of keys later, and Zolesha stepped into the room. She had a wand in one hand and a bandolier strapped diagonally across her chest. The long strap of leather had loops every few inches, thirty-plus black and dark-gray wands slotted through them like far-too-long wooden bullets.

Dorothy wondered if she could overpower the witch and maybe throttle her spindly neck. If her monkeys hadn't skewered my shoulders… still no. A peek behind her down the long hallway ruled it out almost immediately. Two men in guard uniforms with green-painted faces stood tall and imposing behind Zolesha and her glittery "drain." Apparently, the witch didn't take chances.

"Stand up," Zolesha ordered Dorothy.

She met the Wicked Witch's eyes. "Or what? You'll get your monkeys to clash cymbals day and night, torturing me with sleep deprivation?"

"What a creative idea. I might save that for later." Zolesha smiled, nodding with a sort of impressed surprise. "I was thinking more simply. If you don't get up, I'll have one of my guards cut your legs off and get the shoes that way."

"Still got crow feathers in your ears, huh?" Dorothy replied. "We already told you, the shoes go back to Glinda if they come off me." She felt it was important, so she also added, "Or if I die."

"Nuance is key, Dorothy Gale." Zolesha waved the wand in the direction of Dorothy's legs, making her flinch despite herself. "Even if I do cut off your legs, they will still technically be on your body. Your body parts, at any rate."

Dorothy didn't know if it was a bluff—or if the witch was unsure herself, but crazy enough to experiment—so she stood up and tapped her shoes against the stone floor.

"Now what?" Dorothy asked. "Want me to do the Texas two-step for you?"

"Take them off."

"They won't come off."

"I want to see what happens when you try. Humor me."

Dorothy shrugged and reached down to pull one of the shoes loose. It clung to her foot like it was superglued to her skin.

"See?" Dorothy gave an extra few tugs. "No bueno."

She looked up just in time to see the black point of the wand aimed at her legs. A jolt of magic slammed into her knee and rocketed down her leg to her toes. It swept her off her one-legged, shoe-tugging, flamingo stance and slammed her face first into the stone. She only saved her nose by ruining her elbows instead as she flung her arms out.

"What the hell?" Dorothy scrambled back to her feet. The wand was already being handed off to Myrsina, a fresh one coming out of the bandolier.

Dorothy took a step forward, prepared to take the punishment from the guards in exchange for knocking the witch's crooked-branch nose around to the back of her green head, but magic ripped out of the next wand, and Dorothy found her feet yanked forward as she crashed onto her back. Stars twinkled in her eyes, dancing among black spots.

She was barely onto her side and staggering to her knees when another magical force struck her legs. Thousand-toothed bites of energy shredded her legs from knee to ankle, though they didn't even leave a mark. That was followed by a cold so thick her knees froze, and then a spark of lightning that sent her into uncontrollable spasms, as if she'd been hit with a taser, and then a cramp of muscles that bucked her legs in bruising bounces against the stone floor. Each time, there was the sound of another wand being pulled free of leather, and the clatter of the wooden stick to the stone floor, where Myrsina crouched to pick it up.

"I thought… you couldn't… Curse someone… more than once?" Dorothy breathed out through the pain when her body finally settled.

"These aren't Curses," Zolesha said, her words punctuated by the leather-wispy drawl of another wand being drawn from the bandolier. "These are just simple spells. Nothing permanent, though you might sting for a while. It's fortunate I've given you the most luxurious room for your recovery."

The next wave of pain was like ten thousand stings from ten thousand wasps, as promised.

"You have a lot to learn about Oz magic," Zolesha said, her smile growing tighter and tighter with every failed attack. "It's not all Curses and Blessings."

Another bolt sparked up Dorothy's spine, her back arching violently up off the stone, her skull set to crack as an almighty pressure swelled inside. Her eyes bulged, her tongue falling back into her mouth, blocking her airway. Panicked, her fists thumped against the floor, her throat gurgling out a sound that wasn't even close to the "help, please" she wanted to scream, as if that would do a damn thing.

"Stop it, Zolesha," Myrsina called out. "It's not going to work. Glinda's spell is too strong. You're just hurting her."

Dorothy sagged onto the black flagstones as the spell loosened its hold, dragging in breath after burning breath. She wanted to sob out in thanks to the ice maiden, but her pride kept her mouth grimly shut as she stared at the blurry rafters high above her panting face.

"We never know until we try," Zolesha laughingly replied. "Now, shut that pretty mouth and let me carry on my work in peace, before I get a sudden urge for a nighttime drink and decide to fire up the stove. Nothing makes a cup of tea quite as delicious as melted mountain snow."

Myrsina didn't respond, her sparkling hands shaking as she hid them behind her back. If Dorothy had to guess, those kinds of threats weren't empty, and the poor "made" girl had probably faced worse.

"Now," Zolesha continued, "I've got a lot of Wicked Deeds stored up, and I feel like I'm getting fuller by the second. That cup of tea can wait a while."

Dorothy realized how powerful and easy Wicked magic was—at least for Zolesha—as fresh pain racked her body. The witch was getting stronger, wickeder, even as she cast her evil spells. That was why every spell was agony. The pain was fueling the magic, letting Zolesha fire off more and more and more. The enchantments themselves could probably be cast without harming Dorothy, but the pain was the point.

Not a limitless supply, Dorothy told herself, writhing on the ground, unable to double-check how many were actually left on the bandolier. Just ten more. No more than twenty. Twenty-five max. She would manage that. She'd count them off, until Zolesha was done.

Another drawl of another wand against leather. Another leap of pain through Dorothy's legs. Another clattering of wood on stone. Over and over, as Dorothy counted.

And as she noted through tear-fuzzy eyes that Zolesha was on her last, she nearly blew out a sigh of relief… until the Wicked Witch spoke.

"Go to the wand room, Myrsina," Zolesha rolled her wand-wielding hand, flexing out any aches, her voice loud over the gasping echo of Dorothy's lost breath, "and bring me another bandolier of fresh ones. This is going to be a long night, Dorothy, so don't you fall asleep on me. I wouldn't want you to miss a thing."

"It seemswe're going to have to wait for the Winter Solstoz after all," Zolesha said as she let the third empty bandolier drop from her hand. One of the guards dove forward to catch it before it hit the floor, tucking it under his arm as he crouched to pick up the final used wand.

He had taken Myrsina's place as pickup skivvy a while ago, breaking each used wand and tossing them into a large wicker basket. Myrsina herself stood out in the cool hallway, having fled from Dorothy's screams of pain, but the unsanctioned departure would undoubtedly cost her.

Dorothy was sideways on the chilly floor, her back to the wall, a sheen of sweat soaking into her clothes, the silver shoes still on her feet. There'd been a few points where even she would've sawed her own legs off, if it meant getting the onslaught to cease.

"My friends are going to get me out of here," Dorothy whispered, her voice barely above a croak. She risked the words anyway, hoping to manifest the idea by putting it out into the universe.

"Well, slap some wings on my back and call me a flying monkey—the inferior creature is still conscious!" Zolesha cackled, observing with manic black eyes, high on Wickedness. "What a tough little walnut you are, Dorothy. I'll crack you anyway, but I can see why loverboy wants you so badly. A word of warning: he can't handle a strong woman who knows what she wants. But it doesn't much matter—rest assured, he's not going to come charging in here to save you."

The guards finished gathering up the last of the wands and left into the hallway, while Myrsina stepped in and stood beside the door, her face aimed at the floor, shiny tears frozen to her snowy skin. Though Dorothy was the one who had been wrung through a wringer of pain, she felt a pang of sorrow for the servant girl. With the feeling came another one, a comfort that she only ever felt when Auntie Emma or Uncle Henry told her how different she was from her mother. Even in that low moment, she could feel empathy for someone else.

Myrsina looked up at Dorothy. "Do you really think they'll come for you?"

It was an honest question. And, apparently, a little too hopeful for Zolesha's taste.

"Daft as a brush," the witch muttered. "For a copy of me, you sure have none of my common sense."

"They'll come." Dorothy lifted her chin in defiance, staring down the Wicked Witch. "And when they do, I'm going to take one of your wands and break it off in your ass. Hope you've got the number of a Wicked proctologist."

There was a moment of silence, and the black eyes of the witch widened a bit. She smiled a crooked smile. "I like you, Dorothy of Kansas," she admitted. "What a shame."

Before Dorothy could respond, Zolesha suddenly frowned. She looked over at Myrsina and snapped her fingers, pointing at the ground in front of her witch-black shoes. "Here!" she barked at the servant.

The moment Myrsina was within arm's reach, the witch snaked a green hand around the girl's icy wrist, gripping tight. An odd glow moved through the visible skin of the snow-woman, like sunlight chasing shadows across mountain peaks. Those faint glitters across her hands, her forearms, her face, her neck, became stars, twinkling and pulsing. Meanwhile, Zolesha turned greener.

"Thank Oz for that." Zolesha shuddered, and roughly pushed the snow maiden away. "Now, I don't even tolerate you, Dorothy of Kansas."

"That's okay," Dorothy responded blithely. "As long as Nick tolerates me—no, more than tolerates me, if what your monkey birds interrupted was anything to go by—I'm perfectly fine."

Zolesha's thin lips twitched.

"You know…" The Wicked Witch tapped her fingers on her pointed chin. "I've still got reams of energy bouncing around in here with nowhere to go. Perhaps I should send for another bandolier of wands…"

The threat worked. Dorothy turned her face away and closed her eyes.

"They won't come for you," Zolesha said again, maybe to knock Dorothy's hope out of her, or maybe to convince herself. "One lit match will rid me of Glinda's insult to creation. All I have to do is put the wand that Cursed Lional's servants over my knee to have the precious pussycat bowing his head. As for Nick, I've sent him a little something—a gift from an old flame, to really incinerate whatever speck of spirit he has left to break."

That had Dorothy's full attention. Fire blazed in her, and she felt for the wall behind her. Slowly, painfully, she heaved herself to her feet and stared down the witch. Risking the bandolier and the fifty wands that would come with it, she growled at the green faced witch, "What did you do you, hag?"

Zolesha laughed, answering, "Something quite unforgivable and deliciously Wicked."

"Tell me!" Dorothy advanced on the witch, but the two guards shot forward, and the cell rang out with the sounds of swords clearing leather and the wicker basket of broken wands crashing to the floor.

"Oh no, this is delicious." Zolesha clapped her hands together. "I was going to give you a hint and watch you stew, but now I think I want you wondering what I've done. Apparently, that will simmer you down to an even more hopeless, helpless reduction."

She turned toward the guards, pointing at the spilled basket. One guard stayed between Zolesha and Dorothy, while the other gathered up the broken goods.

"But here's a hint for free anyway, for extra seasoning," Zolesha added. "No matter what you might believe, there's no way he's going to risk becoming a metal statue for the likes of you. A silly girl who'll soon get homesick. I've seen it all before."

"You don't know me, and I've a feeling you don't know him as well as you think you do," Dorothy declared as she stood to her full height, her strength returning to her legs. For all the magical agony she'd suffered, there was no real damage. It had all been pain for pain's sake alone. "He might look like he's made of tin, but his heart is pure gold. He'll come. And when he does, I hope he breaks your scrawny neck."

"Doubtful."

"I wish these guards weren't in here," Dorothy growled at her. "I'd do it myself."

Zolesha's black eyes flicked down to Dorothy's feet as if she were impressed that Dorothy was actually standing on them and then back up to her face. She gave a malicious grin. "Get comfortable, girl. Maybe Nick loves you, and maybe he's going to try and rescue you, but if he does, it's going to cost him everything. Ask yourself, could you love a statue?"

She twirled away in a swirl of black cloth and stalked from the room. On the way past Myrsina, the green menace touched her arm, a gentle pulse of light shining for a moment, before it—and Zolesha—were gone.

The snowy servant seemed caught in indecision as to whether she should follow the witch or stay at her post in the hallway.

"Come along, snowflake!" the witch barked distantly. "I've got some torches that need lighting."

"I'm sorry," Myrsina said, though it wasn't clear who she was talking to.

She lowered her head as she closed the door, once the guards had passed out of the room, and walked off down the hall, following her maker.

Dorothy hugged her arms to her shivering sides and couldn't help but feel a weird mental itch start to scratch at her mind. Something about the conversation had kicked something up. Something out of place. Something important.

But her emotions were boiling to a steam, her legs were fierce sticks of agony, and her body was chilling down her thoughts. The only things that didn't hurt were her collarbones, the wounds miraculously healed into small round scars, like a weird side effect of so many spells hitting her at once. Still, she racked her mind, trying to piece it together, certain that tip-of-the-tongue thought would come to her.

After all, she was going to have nothing but time to figure it out in the dark corners of the cold, tiny cell.