It takes them several hours to make their way down the mountain, the rocky ground treacherous under their feet. Toto doubles back and forth between Dorothy and Lucas, all wagging tail and lolling pink tongue. It feels equal parts awkward and familiar, and Dorothy is struck with a disorientating sense of déjà vu, watching Lucas' broad shoulders as he negotiates a way through the scrub ahead of her.

By the time they reach the road, the sun has started to dip below the horizon, dyeing the sky a peachy gold that would be pretty if it wasn't accompanied by a chill that seeps through Dorothy's bones and sets her teeth chattering.

Lucas has been all but silent since they set out, but when he turns around and clocks her shivering he swears under his breath and lets the pack drop to the ground, already shrugging out of his coat, "Were you planning to say something, or just freeze solid and see if I noticed?" he says crossly, surprising her into a laugh.

She takes the proffered coat gratefully. It's comically big on her, but warm from his body and she has to suppress a little shudder of pleasure as she pulls it tight around her shoulders, "How much further?"

"To Ev? Maybe four days. I think we're done for today though." He scowls up at the darkening sky, "it's not safe to travel at night. Especially now. And it's been a long day."

She chafes at the delay, thinking of Jane, but he's right: she's aching with exhaustion, operating on too little sleep and too much emotion.

He's expecting her to fight him on it, so when she nods instead he feels a little of the tension release from his shoulders. "We should try and stay away from the villages," he says, "but tomorrow I'll see if I can get some horses from one of the outlying farms. That'll get us to Ev faster."

She remembers this from last time: the ease with which he reads her. "Thank you," she says, meaning it.

He manages to scrounge enough wood together to get a fire merrily crackling, and she's soon warming her fingers against the flames. Game is scarce, so Dorothy unearths more protein bars from the depths of the pack (Lucas cheerfully declaring them revolting) and they eat in companionable silence as the last of the light fades.

As the night gets colder and the twin moons rise Dorothy leans back on her elbows and scrutinizes the unfamiliar skies. She wonders idly if the constellations have names in Oz, and that reminds her of the question she's been meaning to ask Lucas: "What's Ozma?"

"Who's Ozma," he corrects her. "Princess Ozma. Well Queen now, I suppose." He thinks of the young ruler on whose unprepared - some say unwilling - shoulders has landed the fate of a realm on the brink of civil war, under threat from a terrible evil that no-one really understood. "She was the daughter and heir of King Pastorius. Everyone thought she'd been slaughtered with her parents, but it turns out some hedge witch named Mombi had been keeping her concealed."

Dorothy sits up in shock and stares at him across the fire, "Mombi. You're kidding."

He quirks a puzzled brow at her, and she continues: "Mombi was the woman who tried to poison you. She had a boy impriso- oh." She stops short, connecting the dots. "Tip. Tip is Ozma." It makes a sick kind of sense. No matter what she does, she seems to end up entangled in Oz's intrigues. Another thought occurs to her, "If Mombi was a witch then you couldn't have killed her."

She's inexplicably relieved by this news, but he remains silent and when she glances over at him he's looking at her with sad eyes.

"There's plenty of blood on my hands," he tells her, "one life doesn't change that." His voice gets rougher, "And I wanted her dead. When I saw her- and you were-" he cuts himself off and takes a few heavy breaths, "I wanted to tear her into pieces. I still do."

"Oh," she says, and realizes that despite the menace in his voice she's not afraid. It's much harder to remember Roan and the terrible clenching pressure of fingers around her throat when it's just the two of them camping out together under the black skies, and everything about him is telling her Lucas.

At her feet Toto whines into a huge yawn, breaking the sudden tension in the air, and despite herself Dorothy follows it with one of her own. In the dim light of the dying fire she sees Lucas' teeth flash white in a smile, and he says "Try to get some sleep, I'll take the first watch."

She's too tired to argue, and swathes herself tighter in her borrowed coat, tucking her hands into the too-long cuffs. "Don't let me sleep all night," she tells him sternly, shuffling down until her head is resting on the pack.

"I'll wake you," he assures her, and she gives him a pointed look that makes him smile again before she closes her eyes.

He waits until her breath evens out and deepens, and when he's sure she's asleep he rises to his feet. The fire is high enough to be seen in the darkness so he banks it down, making sure it's still warm enough to keep the pink in her cheeks. It's cold during the night, and there's a brittle sharpness to the air that wasn't there before the Beast came.

He remembers the last night he'd spent with Dorothy under the open sky. Beneath the cover of the forest with Sylvie sleeping a few feet away she'd slid cold fingers along his jaw and drawn him deeper into her kiss. He'd felt a shiver go through him and couldn't tell whether it was from the snow or from wanting her.

With an effort he drags his mind away from the memory – it does no good to remember what had been, and the feelings are too painful to dwell on. What is lost is lost.

Sitting back down by the fire he can feel the fatigue creeping up on him. Any other night he would have unsheathed his weapons and kept himself awake coaxing the nicks and dints from the blades, but he doesn't want Dorothy to wake and find him with sword in hand so he takes a deep breath of the bracing air and trains his eyes on the surrounding darkness.

As a soldier he's spent his share of nights awake under the stars, exchanging stories and ribald jokes with other members of his regiment. More often than not it would just be him and Eamonn towards the end, the two of them staring into the fire and talking quietly about their pasts, their hopes for the future. When the older man spoke of his wife and children there was a softness in his voice that made something in Lucas ache. He wonders what happened to his former captain after the arrival of the Beast in Emerald City, hopes that Eamonn had enough time to escape with his family before the gates were barred.

It was refugees from the city who'd found him, two nights after the great winged shadow had passed overhead. They'd lifted him down from where Dorothy had left him, laid him gently in the back of their cart and carried him to undeserved safety in Ev. One of the men in the group had been an apothecary and his two young children had watched in silence as he'd unwrapped the binding around Lucas' ribs and revealed the wound she'd given him. To his relief the man hadn't asked him any questions; had simply nodded and said stiffly, "At least whoever patched you up knew what they were doing" before retying the bandages around him.

The air gets colder as the night progresses, and Lucas watches the moons make their slow way across the sky. It's a few hours before dawn when he hears her say his name in the darkness, so softly that for a moment he thinks he's imagined it. When she says it again there's a hint of panic in her voice, and he's by her side before he realizes that she's still sleeping. She's been having nightmares, Em had told him, and when he sees how tight her fists are clenched he curses low under his breath. He doesn't want to startle her awake, but wants even less to leave her at the mercy of her subconscious.

He kneels down beside her, saying "Dorothy", and when he reaches a hand out to her shoulder three things happen in quick succession: Toto lurches awake, and when he sees Lucas looming over his mistress he gives a warning bark that's laced with menace. It wakes Dorothy, who opens her eyes with a frightened gasp, her hands coming up defensively, and Lucas barely has a chance to register the glint of gold on her fingers before a concussion of power surges through him and he's thrown back a few feet, the wind knocked from his lungs.

She's on her feet before the stars clear from his vision, hurrying over to where he landed with an "Oh my god, Lucas."

He can't quite catch enough breath to tell her he's fine, and suddenly she's on her knees beside him, tugging at his shirt and laying his chest bare to the cold air.

"I'm so sorry." Underneath the mat of hair she can see a starburst of reddening skin – whatever she's done to him it's going to bruise. She lets her fingers skate along the line of his sternum, presses gently on the cage of his ribs. Nothing seems to be broken, thank god, and the wheezing hitch in his breath is fading with each exhale. She can feel her own heart thundering with the combination of adrenaline and magic pumping through her veins, and with an effort she tries to slow her breath down to match his.

She coaxes him into a sitting position, peeling his shirt wider so that she can check his sides, and he says hoarsely "That was a nice trick," as she prods at his abdomen. She doesn't reply, but her fingers still against his skin, and when he turns his head to look at her she's staring at the scars on his ribs.

The larger one is ragged: straight, but puckered around the edges. It's healed badly. The other – a few inches higher – is smaller, but fresher. She traces shaking fingers along the still-healing scar, remembers the sickening feel of the blade sliding into him. "I shouldn't have," she says brokenly.

He reaches for her hand, flattens her palm against his skin and holds her there as he ducks his head to seek her gaze in the darkness, "You should have. I deserved it, and more."

She won't look at him, keeps her head bowed and speaks to the ground; "I shouldn't have put you up there. You weren't a danger to me – by the time I'd stopped the bleeding you were barely conscious – I should have just left you." She's whispering, but he can hear the vehemence in her voice.

He can feel her trying to draw away and he presses her fingers harder against his ribs, capturing the heat of her palm against him. He shakes his head, telling her "You didn't know whether I'd come after you."

"No," she finally looks up and meets his eyes. "I was angry. It wasn't because of– because of what you'd done. I strung you up because I wanted to punish you for wishing that we'd never been." She takes a heaving breath, her voice rising, "Everything that had happened between us. I'd never felt like that before, and you just wanted to wipe it clean. Like it was nothing, like we were nothing."

"Dorothy," he cuts her off, "it wasn't nothing. It was everything." He wishes that he knew how to make her understand. "I gave up my life to be with Glinda. My friends, my home; I didn't even hesitate." He swallows hard, "For two years everything I was, was hers. Then you came along, and you laid waste to my heart, and I realized I'd sacrificed everything for a pale imitation of love. And I knew that when you left there'd be nothing left of me, and I think– I think I went a bit mad. I didn't want to forget because what had happened between us was meaningless. I wanted to forget because I knew losing you would destroy me."

Her eyes are huge as she stares up at him, and he finally falters to a stop, releasing her hand and gathering his jacket and shirt around him again. "I'm sorry," he says. "It's not fair of me to lay that on you."

She murmurs, "Lucas–" but doesn't seem able to continue, and after a moment he says; "Um. I should probably get some rest."

She looks conflicted, but nods her agreement, and standing she walks back over to the other side of the campfire as he shuffles down and wearily lays his head on the bare ground.

It's a long time before he sleeps.

Glinda can taste the rot of the human world on the back of her tongue. Mother of the Sound and Pure, hers is a sensitivity clearly not shared by the sister who had the temerity to summon her - summon her - to present herself to the little pretender who'd been frightened out of Emerald City hours after claiming the throne.

She'd had half a mind to refuse, but one thing she's learned from twenty years dancing attendance on a pompous old windbag is how to pick her battles, so she's here, and she's holding her tongue, even though West's pet project has been keeping her - a Cardinal Witch - waiting while she dealt with a string of grubby petitioners.

When the doors finally open and a uniformed guard gestures for her to follow, Glinda gathers her skirts around her and sweeps into the room, noting with disgust that no one announces her.

The room is ostentatiously decorated, with swathes of velvet curtains obscuring the walls, carpets underfoot, and the glitter of a chandelier hanging from the tall ceiling. It's a far cry from the refined elegance of Calcedon, but she knows that these mortals do enjoy their creature comforts.

Ozma has her pretty little buttocks planted on a high-backed chair that's been intricately carved with masks and cogs and Glinda can practically smell the power emanating from the girl's pores. It's bad enough that Roan's would-be assassin somehow managed to inherit East's gauntlets - why her idiot sister decided to dilute her power by siphoning the magic off into a pair of trinkets is a mystery she'll never understand - but West's decision to further pollute their sister's legacy by bestowing her spells on a mortal is unforgivable.

The girl doesn't stand as Glinda approaches, and the disrespect rankles even as she sees West's white-knuckled hand on the Ozma's shoulder and realizes that her sister is instructing her little queenling to remain seated. Hiding her contempt at the pitiful attempt at a power play she sinks into a curtsey, deliberately holding it just a beat too long.

Ozma clears her throat uncertainly, and says, "Mistress North. Thank you for coming all this way."

"My queen," purrs Glinda (she's nothing if not well practiced at this), "I am ever at your service." West muffles a snort, and Glinda tamps down on a wash of anger. "My work in the North is important," she continues, "I know you would not call me away without cause."

"Cause enough," offers West languidly. "The return of the girl from Kansas." She studiously plucks an invisible piece of lint from her sleeve, and sashays down to where Glinda is standing, adding with a leer: "Your soldier was clearly very persuasive."

Glinda is too experienced to reveal the quicksilver shock of dismay that courses through her, but behind the calm façade her thoughts are spinning. This was not part of her plan. To begin with, she's surprised that the Wizard's tornado chamber had actually worked; she'd been certain it would tear its occupant to pieces, not deliver him safely into the arms of his lover. But more pressingly, if the two had them had returned then the girl had some level of control over the gauntlets, and that meant-

"You've called me here to help you fight the Beast again." She rounds on West, crackling with anger, her fingers itching to slap the smile from her face. "You little fool. Did you learn nothing from the last time? We sacrificed an entire generation of witches to the Beast Forever, and you think that two untrained humans are going to succeed where they failed?"

"The gauntl-" Ozma begins, but Glinda turns to her and snarls: "Be silent." She's white lipped with fury, and even West seems taken aback.

"It's taken a mortal form this time," says West feebly, "we'll never have a better chance to defeat it for good." She holds her hands out placatingly, "We have a responsibility to try."

Glinda wonders if West remembers the bloated corpses that washed up on the steps of the Emerald City, the scores of waterlogged witches whose spells were lost forever under the waves. So much power squandered, and for what? "Our only responsibility is to our sisters," she hisses. "The Beast's function is to cleanse this world of the weak, and it is not our battle, nor our place to interfere."

"Cleanse the weak?" Ozma cuts in, her voice cold. "You're talking about people. Children. Mothers and fathers." She rises to her feet, looking angry enough to strike at Glinda. "As their Queen, it is my duty to protect them. And as your Queen, I am telling you that you can either help me, or you can find a new role as Mistress of the Prison of the Abject."

Glinda's eyes narrow. The girl is young - barely more than a child - and headstrong. She had hoped the new queen would be more malleable, but if she's anyone's puppet, she's West's. That thought sends an unnerving jolt of alarm through Glinda, and she wonders for the first time whether she's been out-maneuvered; whether her sister has been playing a game of her own all of these years. The panic feeds the rage, and she hisses, "You seek to rule Oz, and you don't even understand it."

North's anger is a palpable force and Ozma is suddenly concerned that she's pushed too hard; West had made it clear to her - they need Glinda and the coterie of young witches that she's training in the mountains. North is right to say that two untrained humans stand no chance against the Beast Forever. For them to succeed they'll have to work together. With an effort she reins in her temper, softens her voice: "For better or for worse, we share this world, and so I ask for your assistance… as my father asked for your mother's."

The mention of Mother South gives Glinda pause. She remembers the Witch's council that took place after King Pastorius came to them with his plea, the arguments that had raged well into the night. South was soft, and her affection for the people of Oz made her weak, but she had reminded the coven that the Beast was a danger to witches too. On some level Glinda knows that in time the Beast is likely to turn its attention from easy prey to hunt the greater power in Oz. Eliminating it now will remove the greatest potential threat to her rule later. And if Ozma and the girl from Kansas want to sacrifice themselves to the cause... well then, so much the better.

"I'll help you defeat the Beast Forever," she says finally, and watches Ozma's shoulders sag with relief. "But this is a world of magic, and it will be ruled by magic. Once the Beast is gone, the people of Oz will be safe, and you will return to whatever hovel you crawled out of." Ozma's head snaps up, and in her suddenly wide-open eyes Glinda thinks she detects a trace of something unexpected:

Hope.

"Tell me more about the Beast," says Dorothy, breaking a silence that has stretched for several miles.

The two of them have followed the rough road since dawn, the jagged peaks of a mountain range looming in the distance. By the time the sun was high in the sky they'd reached the shores of an inland sea and Dorothy realized that they were retracing the path they'd taken before, this time in reverse.

She's several paces ahead of Lucas, and for a moment she thinks he hasn't heard her question, then: "There's not much to tell," says Lucas. "Or not much that we know," he amends. "He barred the gates of Emerald City, and cloistered himself in the Wizard's keep."

She stops and waits a moment for him to catch up, looking over her shoulder as he comes up behind her, "That doesn't sound too bad."

"He only leaves the city at night," Lucas continues, "and only when the moons are low. The witches can track him sometimes, but often they'll lose him in the darkness. We always know where he's been though; every morning afterwards we start getting reports of villages abandoned, empty farmsteads. People just… disappear."

"Killed?" Dorothy quietly asks.

He shakes his head, "Gone. Ozma has sent her best scouts, but they've never found any trace of what happened to them. Except sometimes – " he pauses, "Do you remember what you told me Sylvie did to those people who were pretending to be her parents?"

She remembers the stink of sulfur, the frozen looks of pain and terror, and the waves of power that rolled off Sylvie's tiny figure. She'd flinched as she'd smashed the girl free, shards of what had once been living and breathing crumbling to the ground. "She turned them to stone," she says.

"He does something similar," Lucas tells her. "We'll find them left behind. The very young or the very old. Babies in the crib. The sick and infirm. The witches don't know how to reverse it." His eyes are distant, "To begin with we brought them back to Ev, but there were too many. Now we leave them where we find them."

Dorothy shudders, imagining deserted homes and the slow decay of their enthralled occupants. With a sudden thrill of apprehension she says, "Jane?" and almost stumbles with relief when Lucas shakes his head again.

"Your mother's alive." He's quiet for a moment, then reaches out and wraps long fingers around her wrist, pulling her to a halt, "Dorothy."

She registers a complex play of emotions on his face when she looks up at him, and then he says: "Your mother never meant for you to return to Oz," and the bottom drops out of her stomach.

"You told me she'd sent you," she says, disbelievingly, and sees a hot wave of shame sweep through him before turns his eyes away from hers and fastens his gaze on the ground at their feet.

"She did." He drops her hand and takes a step backwards, widening the space between them. "She agreed to help us recover the gauntlets. She didn't understand that it meant bringing you back too."

He'd fought vehemently for the right to tell Jane the truth. Had paced the council floor for hours, arguing that Dorothy's mother deserved to know that the weapon they so badly needed could not be separated from the daughter she'd sacrificed everything to keep safe. Ozma had been equally adamant that Jane would never agree. She'd wheedled, then threatened, then made it an order, but it wasn't until West had hauled him into the East wing where they'd interred the hundreds of ossified infants that he'd broken down and acquiesced.

"You let me believe that Jane sent you to bring me back to Oz," Dorothy says, and the disappointment in her voice cuts him to the core. "You didn't trust me enough to come back because it was the right thing to do, so you dangled my mother in front of me."

"I'm sorry." He sounds miserable, and when he lifts his head his eyes are filled with trepidation, "It was wrong of me not to tell you."

She should be angry, but discovers that she can't muster the outrage: she remembers too well what it feels like to carry a secret so close to a lie. When their positions had been reversed the bargain she'd made with the Wizard had sat like a hot coal in the pit of her belly. She could hardly bear to look at him when she'd admitted the truth, but he'd taken her face in his hands, had kissed the regret from her lips, and she'd felt the ground solidify under her feet again.

This time she settles for laying her palm over his heart. "You were right to bring me back," she tells him, and feels his chest rise on a sharp inhale. "I'm glad that you did."