She pulls her knees to her chest. If she isn't already mad, she will be by the end of this.
She feels like there isn't enough air in the little hiding place. She can hardly breathe. The walls are narrow and cold enough to make her numb. Her senses are all dull except for her hearing.
The world consists of only sound.
The little girl's protests, her yapping dog.
The cheers from the succesful Witch Hunters.
Glinda's crying for the best friend she would never be allowed to mourn.
Chistery's first words.
And then nothing but her own labored breathing.
She wants to cry but worries she will never stop. Surely, this is all maddness. She is not hiding in the crawlspace of a castle, waiting for her lover in the form of a Scarecrow to return to her, to save her from this maddness, to save her from herself. Surely she had not just faked her own death.
Surely she was truly good, not Wicked.
But then, a sound! Footsteps. She holds her breath. Two quick knocks.
It worked!