Elphaba pushed through the crowd, her small valise at turns smacking into passers-by or beating an inconsistent tattoo on the flank of her leg: bump, bump, bump. She counted fifty paces before glancing over her shoulder, by which time the carriage was long gone. Her eye remained dry as she dodged a pailful of dishwater suddenly expelled through a window; the slight spasms of her shoulders were only her shivering as the wind delicately plucked the tassels of her scarf.
She had said that she didn't know where she was going, and that was no lie. Her last coin had been sacrificed for Glinda's meal; now she was alone, stranded in the deceitfully beautiful Emerald City. Though it was late morning, the air was chilled, and heavy clouds sealed out the sun. Still the towers of the Wizard's Palace glittered wickedly, hatefully.
She ducked into a poorly-cobbled alley to escape and emerged still in the vast shadow of the palace, but no longer in the city centre. Ironic, how the gleaming minarets conveniently eclipsed the tin roofs and collapsing walls of the slums. Huddled outlines clustered in the gloom, as if ashamed of their squalor; insects scuttled audaciously across the filth and shards of broken bottles. Gone was the perfume of wealth and prosperity.
Elphaba stalked grimly by, tightening her grip on her bundle of clothes and trying not to stare at the miserable tableaux that flashed past. A Munchkin girl in black stockings – perhaps Nessarose's age – dragged languidly on a cigarette as she waited for evening to bring forth her patrons, the smoke swirling around her head like a silvery halo. A Vinkus woman outside a crumpled shanty tiredly dragged her broom back and forth though there was nothing left to sweep, those familiar Arjiki diamonds distinct on her bare forearms. A dirty Quadling child, pot-bellied with malnourishment, gawked at her with its one good eye. She even glimpsed a few pigs (or Pigs, perhaps?) scrounging through the stinking refuse, eyeing her warily as she passed.
Here was an indiscriminate mingling of races not found anywhere else in Oz, brought about simply through sheer destitution. Poverty she had seen plenty of in Quadling country, but never such utter despair.
A wizened crone shuffled out of the murky shadows, leering, two skeletal claws clamping onto Elphaba's arm with terrifying strength. She wrenched away, recoiling from the clotted stench of piss and ale. The old witch chortled drunkenly and lurched away, weaving haphazardly from side to side. Elphaba watched her go, her expression unreadable, clenching her fist until the knuckles burned white.
That night, Glinda sobbed vehemently, trying to keep warm beneath the cheap, grimy sheets and feeling very sorry for herself. A hundred miles away, Elphaba settled sleepless outside an abandoned warehouse and looked up at the splendid metropolis, still trembling with wordless fury.