The Wicked Witch of the West was furious. No, she was more than furious, far beyond mere rage. Her blood threatened to boil and steam her insides, and when you looked in her eyes you had to look away, lest they root you where you stood.
Such was the anger that permeated the Witch of the West—she had shed her real name long ago-- as she appeared in a cloud of red smoke, ignoring everything except the house… her sister…those shoes. Those lovely, blood red shoes, still attached to her sister's feet.
"Who killed my sister?" she growled, at last taking notice of a small girl with a dog next to Glinda—the witch! "Who killed the Witch of the East?" The Witch could have slapped herself. Her name was Nessarose! Nessarose… The name had died on her lips.
The Witch walked up to the girl and her dog, searching for answers.
"Was it you!?"
Her eyes grew wide, and her blood red lips—the same color as those shoes!—opened.
"No, it was an accident! I didn't mean to kill anybody!"
The Witch's eyes narrowed dangerously. Anyone could say it was an accident. Anybody could have accidents. The girl was lying, she knew it!
"Well, my little pretty, I can cause accidents too!"
Glinda spoke up, in a voice that was obnoxiously sweet.
"Aren't you forgetting the ruby slippers?"
Of course! Nessa had promised that she could have them when she died… and she had died…
"The slippers! Yes," she intoned, moving mechanically to the house.
"The slippers…" The Witch reached down for the pair of shoes.
And they suddenly vanished. Nessarose's tortured feet shriveled into themselves, and her legs disappeared under the house.
"They're gone!"
If the Witch was beyond rage before, her anger had just increased tenfold. She marched up to where Glinda and the girl stood, her fingernails cutting into her palm when she made a fist.
"What have you done to them? Give them back to me or I'll-"
"It's too late," Glinda said, her voice still like sugar. She pointed down with her wand towards the girl's feet. The ruby slippers glinted like fiery, happy jewels on her feet.
"There they are, and there they'll stay," Glinda continued.
The Witch had had enough.
"Give me back my slippers," she cried—for they were hers, weren't they?
"I'm the only one that knows how to use them! They're of no use to you!"
She would take them and bury them, for they were a part of her sister as much as anything. They weren't meant for someone to parade around Oz in them. The shoes were magical in their own way. They told a tragic tale of a short life.
"Give them back to me! Give them back!"
And just as she was about to hex the lot of them, Glinda whispered in Dorothy's ear.
"Keep tight inside of them. Their magic must be very powerful, or she wouldn't want them so badly!"
The Witch howled. She had given them the magic; she had made Nessa walk! She wanted them all out of her life!
"You stay out of this, Glinda, or I'll fix you as well!"
Glinda laughed.
"Oh, rubbish! You have no power here! Now be gone, before someone drops a house on you too!"
The Witch glanced up, just in case. What Glinda said was true. It was the Witch of the East who had had power here.
"Very well. I'll bide my time," she hissed through clenched teeth.
"And as for you, my fine lady,"--the girl started—"it's true I can't attend to you here and now as I'd like!"
Oh, she wanted to kill the girl! Strangle her with her bare hands, wrench her dead sister's shoes off her feet, toss the body into a river!
"But just try and stay out of my way! JUST TRY!"
The Witch reveled in the fear she was instilling in the girl. She happened to glance at the dog, who eyed her curiously.
"I'll get you, my pretty, and your little dog too!"
With a cackle, the Wicked Witch of the West was gone in a puff of red smoke. She needed time to think… and plan. She needed those shoes.