Fifty-Fifty
"I thought you said that you could read people like a book."
"I can." Said Fiyera defensively. She then paused, glancing upwards. "Well. I don't really read books very much, though."
"Shocking."
Prologue
Good news.
Glinda was soaring, gliding, then drifting, high above Oz. Alone in her bubble. Nobody but the clouds and the endless sky to see her. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
Oh wait, a sparrow. Perhaps not quite.
She's dead.
But still, Glinda wasn't someone who could hope to remain unseen; not today, yesterday, and likely not tomorrow. It just wouldn't do, to waft so. She had an entrance to make and an appearance to keep up. So, she steadies her pace. Pulls her bubble into a flawless sphere. Holds herself with perfect poise. And she descends, gently, elegantly, immaculately.
The Wicked Witch of the West is dead.
So, there were the people. The citizens of Oz. The ones she danced her dance for. See how they rejoice? How they sing? The frolic, the banter, the glee - oh the glee! And - admiration, is it? Ah. They have noticed her, is all. Glinda, that is. Their Glinda the Good.
Oh, and how fervently she is welcomed! Backs lean and necks crane – just to see her all the better. The syllables of her name are etched across their lips. All semblance of propriety is forgotten as some point up at her outright. Well, never mind. They've been waiting to see her, after all. So eager they all are, to hear what she has to say. Desperate even.
Disgusting.
Glinda's lips curve into an angelic smile and she directs a few refined waves in their direction.
Well, then. It's time to tell them.
Time for the good news.
But I think I will stay here, while I do. Just here in my bubble. Not down there, where no one mourns the wicked. Not with the sparrows, who are so indifferent to mourning.
No. Just here is fine.
I'm Glinda in her bubble.
And in here; I'll mourn whomever I damn well please.