Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction using the characters of Gregory Maguire's 'The Wicked Years' series and of L. Frank Baum's 'The Wizard of Oz' and sequels. I do not claim ownership of any of the characters or situations involved in this piece of work, this is simply a work of my imagination. Seriously I don't own anything, in fact I don't even own the laptop I wrote this on.
The sound of the clock on the wall striking midnight was muted by the noise of the party still raging downstairs. It had been days and still the people of Oz still hadn't tired, every night in houses all across the city they celebrated the death of the Witch, but their joy over this loss of life was perverse and left a sour taste in Glinda's mouth. Her social position being what it was condemned her, to fail to hold a party of her own would have been suspicious, but that didn't mean she had to attend. The hostess made the rounds before feigning a headache and retiring for the night, with her practiced smiles and perfect manners, she left the bright young things of ozmapolitan society to their revelry. Her guests would not even think about leaving until the early hours of the morning, it wouldn't be fashionable.
That was what it came down to in the end, fashion. It was the lifeblood of the well dressed and well-bred of the Emerald City.
As Glinda gazed blankly into her own reflection in the mirror of her vanity, she considered what little depth she had beyond her appearance, so perfectly crafted for public consumption since birth. Primping and posturing was only necessary for a girl in her position, her family were only titled matrilineally, their wealth was nothing to boast of, and with no siblings their future was placed firmly on her shoulders. It was her responsibility to attract a man of acceptable wealth and title, ensuring that their social mobility was firmly upward facing. Fashion and popularity and the gifts that nature had given her, these were the tools of her trade. She shouldn't be as scornful of the things which had gotten her to where she was today, and yet it all seemed so meaningless now.
Her position as Throne Minister was a sham. It wasn't something that she had ever wanted; she had a complete lack of ambition and she'd never before had an interest in politics. With the Wizard gone there was a power void, she had the esteem of the public (her works of charity were lauded as near saintly by the middle and upper classes) and the backing of the bankers. It was as simple as that. She'd fallen into place and the people of Oz would have to make do with her for the interim. Eventually someone else would come along with more motivation than she'd ever had, but Glinda wasn't at all naïve enough to actually think that now the Wizard was gone so too was political corruption. For all she knew even now plans were being drawn against her. Perhaps they'd create another scapegoat, invent a Munchkin assassin to martyr her and unite the people against the recently seceded nation.
With her fingers twitching nervously she released her hair from its artistic updo in preparation for a night of uneasy sleep, attempting to push away these dark thoughts. Her maid fussed with the fastenings of the wedding cake of a dress, eager to get her job over with and - what with the intricacies of ladies clothing - Glinda couldn't even begin to blame her. She could only think of one brief fortnight in her entire life when she'd had to do this for herself. She remembered the frustration, how she'd cursed Elphaba for dragging her off without a word to traipse across the countryside like a nomad as she'd awkwardly fiddled with the buttons that ran down the back of her dress, and the confusing, shivering delight she'd felt as green fingers had traced her spine while attempting to help her. It was conciliatory gesture from her friend but it had meant much more to her than that.
She was only down to her chemise when she batted away the girl impatiently, wrapping herself in a long silk dressing gown, and without a thought about nosy revellers left her chambers to trawl through the upper levels of the house.
The boy had arrived earlier that day, looking less like a boy and more like a stray cat, unkempt and uncared for. Seeing him filled her with nostalgia though she'd never before met him in her life, it hadn't taken her long to realise how much he reminded her of Nessarose, but despite this resemblance to the younger Thropp daughter, he'd forced himself into the house with a stubbornness which was all Elphaba. It was one of those infectious traits of Elphie's, she encouraged in people the will to fight back, although there had never been a time when Glinda hadn't rivalled her pure pig-headedness with her own wilfulness.
Glinda tried her best to quell those sudden reminiscences and think more on the topic at hand; the boy. The boy – oh what was his name again, she could have sworn she knew it a moment ago - had brought with him a broom, a cloak and a book. All the possessions he owned in this world, each of which had once belonged to the woman he refused to believe was his mother. He'd taken two of these items away with him but she kept the Grimmerie, for reasons she couldn't quite explain even within her own mind. He'd said he had no use of it, and it had called out to her. Something told her that it was important and so she'd taken it off his hands. There was nothing he could do with it anyway.
This was what she told herself now, as she unlocked the door to the attic where the various items of furniture which had gone out of fashion were kept, readily awaiting to be brought downstairs again when they fell back into favour.
Amongst the wealthy nothing was ever thrown away, one never knew how something could come in handy later on. That was probably how Elphaba had come into possession of the Grimmerie, the boy had said it came from Kiamo Ko and no doubt it had belonged to the Tigelaar family for generations. Now she had it. She hid in her attic as the Tigelaar's had, but she did not intend to let it go to waste. It had power, power that she could use, possibly for good, although she hated using that word these days, she felt it was being thrown around far too loosely.
Glinda glanced towards the stairs she'd only moments before ascended, hoping that no one would come looking for her. It wouldn't do to have the Throne Minister found hiding in her attic while a party raged downstairs. Earlier that day she'd hidden the book within an old portmanteau containing the moth-eaten clothes of Chuffery's late father, she now retrieved it, careful not to disturb the rest of the bags contents. Sitting on a sheet-covered chair, she cradled the Grimmerie in her lap, running her fingertips over the embossed, leather-bound spine and the rough edges of its aged pages. To all outward appearances it was simply some sort of old encyclopaedia, but she could feel the magic within, pulsing beneath her fingertips. She'd read many magical books in her time, both at Shiz and during the interim, but none before had left her with the impression that something lived between the pages.
Her interest in Sorcery had never waned; she had simply put it on the back burner for a time until it could be of use, like this book and the many generations of Chuffery's family memorabilia. Now was as good a time as any to sweep away the cobwebs and try her hand at magic again.
Sentimental value, she told herself. It was the sentimental value which drove her to take this book and to lock herself up here with it. It was Elphie's, that's why it feels so important. She didn't want power, she had no dark purpose, she just wanted a keepsake of her friend. Glinda repeated this to herself until it sounded more convincing before flipping open the front cover.
The book was blank.
Flicking through the pages did nothing but provide an almost musical accompaniment to her frustration, she should have known that not everyone could read the Grimmerie. She felt inadequate again, like she was back at Shiz again. Elphie could read the book, Elphie could do almost everything that she couldn't. Glinda groaned, closing her eyes and let her head fall forward into her hands.
There was a faint susurration and a light breeze cools her skin, disturbs her hair. The thought of someone discovering her with the book caused her eyes to snap open, but instead of being confronted by an interloping servant, Glinda found herself staring at the pages of the book as they turned of their own volition. After several moments it settled open at what appeared to be a random page. It remained blank for several long minutes, and in that time Glinda once again began to search for the source of the breeze, before ink blotches began to appear across the paper. It created disturbing patterns and pictures which disappeared after a moment, until eventually they settled into the glyphs of some unknown language. She couldn't read it, she didn't know the words or letters meant individually but she was somehow aware of what it meant.
A spell for rewriting the past, present and future.
Almost the second she read it, Glinda slammed the book closed and locked it away again. Hurrying back to her room she didn't care who saw her in such a state of distress, she had to get away from that book. She put herself to bed and laid there for hours, sleepless and agitated. Time manipulation, she must have read hundreds of theories on the subject but never before had she seen an actual spell. It confused her but the cause of her anxiety was the fact that the Grimmerie had chosen that, of all spells, to reveal to her. It knew what she wanted before she did herself.