Note: Okay wow! I am terrible. It seems the only problem with my need to plan out a story in excruciating detail before writing it is that I end up with the entire story already existing in my head from start to finish, and actually writing it down so that other people can see it just feels like an unnecessary hassle. :P Hopefully this isn't too mind-bogglingly awful, considering how long it's been. Feel free to point out any mistakes, as always.


Boq dreaded waking up, not just this morning but on every morning for a long time now. He was tired. Any moment now the bell would ring for him and he would have to force himself to face the day, hurry out to see what Nessa wanted –

But that wasn't right, because not far away he heard the bleating of a goat, and wondered how he might have gotten home –

But that wasn't right either, because his father hadn't kept goats for many years, not since Boq was a child. And there were other sounds further off, people passing in the hallway, calling to one another in businesslike tones – it would have been just like the usual background noise of Colwen Grounds if the voices hadn't all had clipped Gillikinese accents. Where was he?

It wasn't until he had drifted in and out of sleep several times that he realized he had been dreaming. Or half-dreaming, anyway. Some cloth rustled near him and when he opened his eyes he was squinting blearily at a clean white ceiling. He was dressed in a blue robe, like a hospital gown, lying in a bed – a fine one with ornate bedposts and expensive-looking sheets – and a man he didn't recognize was standing beside it, holding a glass of water.

"Hello there," the man said. "Don't be alarmed. I'm a doctor and I'm here to see how you're holding up. Don't try to move yet, please."

Boq felt miserably sluggish, heavy and lightheaded all at once, and not much inclined to try to move. The glass of water was held up to his lips, and he drank from it when coaxed to, because he was thirsty and his throat was dry as sand. The man who wore a black coat and held a silk hat to his chest solemnly while he checked Boq's pulse and listened to his breathing, and looked so much like Boq's idea of a typical city doctor that he wondered if he were dreaming again.

"All right," said the doctor, pulling up a chair beside the bed. "My name is Pentaleon. And I've been told you are Master Boq. You won't want to move much, I'll warn you first of all, because you have a few broken ribs and a set of wounds that the morphium may be hiding from you yet. And now, if you don't mind, how much do you remember about what happened?"

The mention of his injuries had jarred his memory. The moment the doctor stopped speaking, Boq gasped "Glinda!" and then regretted it as the sharp, sudden breath sent a convulsion of pain through his chest and nearly made him pass out again. His vision blurred and he heard himself make a pathetic noise, but he hardly cared, it hurt that much.

"Yes, you see," Pentaleon said, quite calmly, while Boq was preoccupied with trying not to cry, "sudden movements may be uncomfortable for you, as I mentioned. What else do you remember?"

Too slowly, the pain faded into a persistent, throbbing ache that filled his ribcage like sand. "The Bear," Boq managed, his eyes closed. He really wished he didn't have to breathe. "And… the fire."

"Yes, yes. Good. Can you explain to me what happened that night, exactly?"

Boq described the events as best he could, somewhat haltingly, both because everything had happened so fast he wasn't entirely sure of it, and because his mind was struggling to work through the effects of the morphium. But his memory seemed to be accurate enough for Pentaleon, who nodded his way through the interview and, when Boq had finished explaining how he had seen Glinda just before losing consciousness, began writing something down on a notepad.

"What happened next?" Boq asked him.

"Hm?" Pentaleon paused in his scribbling for only a second before answering, his eyes never leaving the paper. "Well, I didn't see it myself, but by all accounts Glinda was at her most impressive. Of course she arrested the rebel Animals, and – and she saw to it that all those injured in the fire were transported safely to hospitals. The rest of the displaced people were temporarily housed in hotels, by Glinda's order. They say that she summoned a snowstorm to help snuff out the fire. As I said, I wasn't there to see it."

Boq tried to take all this in. "So this is a hospital?"

"No…" the doctor drew out, reluctantly. He put away his notepad and settled back in the chair, pulling at his graying beard. "You were brought to the Emerald Palace."

Even though he knew better now, Boq inhaled sharply in surprise and had to suffer through another wave of pain at the sudden shifting of his ribcage. "What?" he choked, when he could speak again. "Why?"

"I've been ordered not to discuss it with you."

"Glinda brought me here?"

"She is the one who ordered me not to discuss it," he said firmly. "And you shouldn't get so excited in this state, you'll do yourself harm."

"Why can't you discuss it?"

"I believe you really don't know," observed Pentaleon, uncomfortably. He shifted in his chair and stood up. "I do apologize, Master Boq, but as I value my job here, I really can't tell you. Perhaps I should leave until you've calmed down."

"Wait – is Glinda – will she see me? Can I speak with her?"

"I doubt that."

"Please, ask her. Tell her I'd like to speak with her. I'm sure – I'm sure she'll say yes. Please."

After a long, searching look, Pentaleon sighed. "I think you're mistaken, but if you'll promise not to ask me any more questions I can't answer, the next time I see her I will pass along your message."

Boq relented, as much out of exhaustion as anything, and kept quiet while Pentaleon changed his bandages. The wounds were sickening to look at – three deep uneven gashes at his right side that had been stitched up, two shallower cuts parallel to those that were healing on their own, and a ghastly bruise that spilled across the whole right side of his chest – but for now they only felt stiff and sore, numbed by the medication. He was thankful for that, even though it made him groggy and dizzy. He was thankful, too, that Pentaleon clearly knew what he was doing, because it meant Boq didn't need to worry. He replaced the bandages with minimal jostling, listened to Boq's lungs again, and showed him the makeshift bell-pull hanging just within reach of the bed. "If you need anything, ring the bell, and someone will send for me. I will be back in an hour or so to check on things, regardless," he said, and didn't seem to mind that Boq couldn't find the energy to thank him before he left.

Time passed that way until he lost track of it. Between the doctor's visits all he could do was sleep, plagued by uneasy dreams whenever he so much as closed his eyes, sometimes forgetting he had ever left home, sometimes imagining that Teneke was with him, curled up on his chest as she had so often done. Once he even thought he heard Elphaba's voice, although he couldn't make out what she was saying. As soon as he opened his eyes, the apparitions always vanished, and he was alone.

There was a knock at the door, eventually – he had no idea how long he had been here, now – and he stirred himself out of the drug-induced sleep enough to realize that the knock came from the window beyond the foot of his bed, just before it opened up and through it slipped a sleek-furred Monkey with a pair of leathery wings folded along his back.

At first, as with his initial sight of Pentaleon, Boq wondered if he might be dreaming. He recognized one of the fabled Flying Monkeys, despite never having seen any of them himself, and this one looked just as nightmarish as the stories claimed. But he watched as this nightmare nodded to him sedately and loped over to jump onto the chair beside the bed. Deciding that the embarrassment of talking to a hallucination would be preferable to being impolite to a guest, Boq gathered what remained of his wits and said, "Hello."

The Monkey, who had been poking through the pocket of his vest for something, looked up sharply. His wings were tattered and awkwardly healed in places. There were scars on his hairless face and hands, and probably elsewhere, hidden by fur. He hesitated, as if wanting to answer, but only nodded once more and handed Boq a folded slip of paper. It was a note, in handwriting he would have recognized even if it hadn't been signed by Glinda, that said I will be there in an hour. Please be prepared to ask your questions quickly, as my time is limited.

Relief flooded through him. He had that said he was, but really he hadn't been sure at all that Glinda would consent to see him in person. After all, the last time he had seen her, she had all but thrown him out of the room. Belatedly, he realized he had no way of preparing for her visit. There was no mirror in the room, but his hair would certainly be in need of being put in order at this point, and though his spectacles had survived the Bear attack, the wire frames were somewhat bent and rested crookedly on his nose now. He could barely manage to sit up on his own, and even with help he would exhaust himself within minutes, so he would have to remain in bed even in her presence. But then, it was pointless to worry about all that, wasn't it? All he had to do was ask her a question. She wouldn't care how he looked. Or she would, but he shouldn't.

"Thank you," he said to the waiting Monkey, trying to shake off his confused thoughts. "Should I – will you please tell Miss Glinda I'll be ready?"

The Monkey gave a shallow bow and bounded back to the window, glancing back once as he closed it behind him. There had been persistent rumors about Monkeys lurking in the Emerald City… But one of the Witch's own creatures in the service of the Ruler of Oz? Boq wondered if this one had perhaps defected from Elphaba's flock and gone back to the Wizard instead, or to Glinda. If that had happened, though, he would have expected to have heard about it. Perhaps he could ask Glinda about that, too.

In just a little more than an hour, Glinda strode into the room and sat down almost before he could catch his breath at the sight of her.

"Dr. Pentaleon says you're recovering well," she began straight off.

"I – I – yes," he managed, thrown off by the unexpected pleasantry.

"Is there anything you need?"

"No. Yes. I mean, I'd like – something to read?" He tried not to squirm at the way she stared persistently down at him. It made all of his prepared questions scatter uselessly to the back of his mind. "And – I don't know how long it's been – I need to write home. If I could have some paper and a pen and ink…"

"No, you can't," she said tersely.

He stopped babbling. "What?"

"I'll have some books sent in, but you're not to have any contact with the outside world until after your trial."

"What?"

"Dr. Pentaleon said you were demanding an explanation of why you're here. You have been accused of murder and have to stay under close watch until your trial. You're not allowed to write a letter because you're not to have any contact with the outside world until after the sentencing. Dr. Pentaleon advised that you would need some time to heal, so your trial is five weeks from today. Will there be anything else?"

He gaped at her. "I didn't… I didn't do anything…"

"My Councilors and I will decide that after the trial."

"Please," he said weakly. "I just want to write to let my parents know where I am or they'll worry, you can look at the letter before I send it, I don't care –"

"Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you? You're here under suspicion of murder. By all rights you should be in prison. I only had you placed here so that the doctor could keep an eye on you while you recovered."

"I haven't killed anyone."

"The trial is in five weeks," she repeated, all cool impatience, standing up in one smooth motion. "Stay here and stay quiet until then, if you can manage that. I don't need anything else to worry about."

Too tired and unnerved to protest further, he simply watched her go. As she slipped out, she turned just enough to allow him to get a glimpse of her face, her expression open and unguarded for only a brief moment before the door clicked shut behind her. He had never seen such helplessness in her before, and even through his shock he felt ashamed for having witnessed it. Somehow he doubted it was meant to be seen.

Later, as he lay awake with his mind racing, unable to rest despite his exhaustion, the thought surfaced again and he realized suddenly, pointlessly, what he hadn't been able to grasp yet since he had last seen her – what was different about her.

At Shiz, Galinda had always been breezily, supremely confident. There was no second-guessing; everything she did was right, or would end up that way, because she was the one doing it. He had loved that about her, or admired it – envied it, he supposed. In the space of time since she had made her mysterious transformation into Glinda, she had lost that self-assurance. She questioned herself, now. That was what made her seem so different to him – so much older, so uncertain. He remembered the way she had rescued him from the Bear when he thought he was going to die, but he still found it difficult not to be hurt that she hadn't believed him.


As the days passed and he began to recover, time dragged by more and more slowly. The room was as bare as it could be, and although the doctor checked up on him regularly, the visits never lasted more than a few minutes, and while he was willing to talk about nearly anything else, he hadn't wavered in his resolve to obey Glinda's order not to answer Boq's questions. He had been here for nearly two weeks now, he found out – the first four days of which he had spent unconscious and in danger of dying. But he had too many other questions that remained unanswered.

What kind of trial was he going to have? There hadn't been any kind of real trials under the Wizard's rule, as far as he knew, and he couldn't imagine that Glinda would be waiting to pass judgment if she hadn't intended the trial to be fair… No, of course it would be a fair trial, why would he even worry about that? This was Glinda he was thinking of. And besides, she could have had him thrown in prison if she hadn't cared about the justice of the thing. She had mentioned some kind of Council. Was the Bear going to be there, too? And what would they do if they found him guilty? He was not at all sure he wanted to consider that possibility.

It still hurt to move, or breathe, or think, really, but while he appreciated having the chance to relax, Boq had never found staying still for too long relaxing at all. He needed to have something to keep him busy, or he would go stir-crazy.

When the Flying Monkey returned through the window as before, he was glad for the diversion. Boq sat up in bed with an effort and tried to look sociable. "Do you have another message for me?"

The Monkey stood on the chair beside the bed, gripping the back of it with nervous fingers. He shook his head. Something about the look in his eyes reminded Boq of the Coyote kit he had found – that mute understanding without any attempt to respond.

"Did you need something?" Boq asked, confused.

After seemingly struggling for a moment, the Monkey simply nodded.

Not knowing what to make of this, Boq tried to fill the awkward silence himself. "You can – it's all right if you sit down, you know. Feel free. My name is Boq, by the way."

The Monkey, who had somewhat reluctantly accepted the invitation to sit down, leapt up in the chair again to shake Boq's outstretched hand. "Chistery," he offered.

"I – oh. It's good to meet you, Master Chistery."

"Talk," blurted Chistery, as if just remembering what he had meant to say. Or just being able to give voice to it. He seemed to have trouble speaking.

"You're just here to talk to me?" Boq asked, smiling a little at the thought. "I'm afraid I'm not very interesting."

"Talk," Chistery said.

Well, he had been looking for something to keep him busy… "Are you – are you living here in the Palace, if you don't mind me asking?"

Chistery nodded and mimed pulling a note out of his vest pocket.

"You're a messenger. But – if you don't mind – how is it that you can stay here without anyone finding out about you? I've been in the City for months and I haven't heard anything about a Flying Monkey working for Glinda."

The Monkey opened his mouth to respond, but made no sound. He clenched his fists in frustration, bared his sharp teeth and growled. It was a fearsome sight, but he was clearly angry with himself and not Boq.

"Please, don't feel like you have to answer," said Boq uneasily. "I'll stop asking questions, if you would prefer. I don't want to be rude."

Chistery sighed and settled back down, covering his face with one hand. "Talk," he said quietly, a plea this time.

"You're…" Boq began, and then paused, weighing his words. The Flying Monkeys had supposedly been transformed by the Wicked Witch, but they had been set free by her, too, and helped her at the risk of their own lives. What was this one doing here? "You knew Elphaba."

Far from getting offended as Boq had feared he would, Chistery only gave him a nod and a shrewd look. "Elphaba," he repeated significantly, stretching his wings.

"I knew her, too," Boq said, relieved. "We went to school together."

Chistery bowed his head as if in respect for the deceased, and Boq found himself joining him, feeling strangely subversive. In the silence that followed, from the next room over, rasped the loud and unmistakable bleating of a goat.

"Did you… did you hear that?" Boq asked faintly. To his relief, Chistery nodded, apparently unsurprised. "I – I've been hearing it since I got here – I thought I was dreaming. What could it…?" He trailed off. Chistery was frowning at him intently. He gestured to the wall between the two rooms, then to Boq, then to the door. When he realized what the Monkey was trying to say, Boq shook his head. "You – no, I'm sorry, I can't. I'm not supposed to leave."

"Leave," Chistery insisted.

"Why? What's going on?"

The Monkey pointed to the wall. "Leave! Talk!"

"I'm sorry, I am, but Glinda told me I had to stay here."

"Please," Chistery blurted. He reached out to tug at Boq's sleeve, almost desperately.

What else could he do? Sighing, with one hand pressing his side gingerly as he did so, Boq said, "Quickly, then." He slid out of the high bed carefully – he had walked under Pentaleon's observation already, but still felt unsteady on his feet – and followed Chistery to the door. The hallway outside was smaller than he had expected, dingy and currently empty, not like the magnificent corridors of the public areas of the Palace. He leaned against the doorframe for a moment and fought off the sinking feeling that came with realizing that he had been housed – for the second time in his life – in the servant's quarters.

But Chistery was already opening the door of the next room, and Boq didn't want to risk being seen. As quickly as he could manage, he made it inside. Before his eyes had adjusted to the lack of light, he registered the smell of straw and – could he be dreaming this after all? – the sound of it crunching underfoot. Chistery led him to an armchair and brushed straw from it before holding his arm steady as he sat down to catch his breath.

"What is going on?" he muttered, half to himself. Chistery pointed, just as Boq caught sight of the creature emerging from under the table. It wasn't a goat at all. It – he – was a Goat, and Boq recognized him in spite of his disheveled appearance. He didn't look up at his visitors, browsing for food in the straw littering the floor, like a common farm animal. There was no spark of life in his eyes at all. But it was Dr. Dillamond, Boq was sure of it. "What happened to him?" Boq asked, horrified, even though he knew Chistery couldn't answer him.

"Talk," said the Monkey, with a shake of his head.

"Can't… He can't talk." Understanding began to dawn. Chistery was watching him intently, waiting. "You – forgive me for saying so – you have trouble speaking. But he can't speak at all. Is it some –" Some kind of illness, he thought, but stopped himself from saying so. He had a feeling that calling attention to an Animal's inability to speak was probably about as rude as comparing a grown Munchkin to a child, and he didn't want to offend Chistery if he could help it. "Is it – for the same reason?"

The Monkey sighed and glanced up at Boq wearily. He had known Dr. Dillamond was here beforehand. There was a window in this room, too, and the shutters were left open. Chistery could easily come and go without being noticed.

"Cage," rasped Chistery, quietly, without looking up again. He cupped his hands and slowly pressed them together, harder and harder, until his palms were flat against one another. Then he touched his fingertips to his throat. Quieted by force. Even without knowing what had happened, Boq had to shudder.

But Chistery shook himself and went to lead the indifferent Dr. Dillamond to Boq's chair. "Talk," the Monkey invited.

"Hello, Dr. Dillamond," Boq said hesitantly. He did not think that the Goat was in any shape to listen, but he felt he owed his former professor at least this courtesy, even if his mind had gone.

Dr. Dillamond bleated without comprehension and turned away to graze under the table again. It was awful to see him brought so low. Growing increasingly sore from exertion, Boq leaned back in the armchair – more straw fell from the back of it, onto his shoulders, into his hair – and tried to think.

"Why did you want to talk to me, Master Chistery?"

"Help." The Monkey jumped up to sit on the arm of the chair. He touched his throat a second time. "Help. Talk." He indicated himself, confidently, and then, in a gesture that looked much less certain, pointed to Dr. Dillamond.

"But why can't you talk to anyone else? I don't think you would be allowed to visit me if Glinda knew, and I'm not supposed to be here at all. Why can't you talk to Glinda?"

"Glinda!" With a snort of what seemed to be disgust, Chistery shook his head. He pushed Boq's shoulder gently and said, "Help."

Glinda was busy. She had reminded him of that more than once already. Perhaps she wasn't able to set aside enough time to have stilted conversations with the Animals under her roof, any more than she was able to speak civilly to the old acquaintance she had stowed away in a room meant for a servant. He was unaccustomed to the stirring of resentment against her, and not at all comfortable with it. But suddenly he did not care quite so much about disobeying her orders. This was only one room away from his, after all, and if he visited for short periods, during the evening, he could avoid being found out. It wouldn't interfere with his trial at all.

"I'll help you both however I can," Boq said.