You know that interview for Killing Eve where Phoebe Waller-Bridge says that every moment exists to get Eve and Villanelle in a room together? This is that.
When Fiyero finds her she is the calm in the storm, the only figure standing still among the small group of people stumbling from the room behind her and the larger number of guards rushing in. Her dress is torn, her poor hair is in quite a state, and her ears are still ringing from the tiny homemade box tucked in the alcove beneath the Emerald City Charter that went boom.
"Hey, Captain of the Guard," she quips, voice a bit weaker than she intended as she slowly starts to make her way to him. "There was a bomb in the Hall of Records."
Then she stumbles a little, takes a few baby steps across the marble floor, and collapses into his outstretched arms.
He sets her down on the floor behind a pillar, where she won't be stepped on in the chaos—or discovered by one of the interns that always seems to need her attention regarding this event or that dinner. She leans against the obscured wall gratefully. Then he takes a step back to give her the space to breathe—he's incredibly thoughtful that way, and she appreciates it dearly.
So she breathes, and as she breathes, she thinks: There was a bomb in the Hall of Records.
She has to admit, she's wondered about bombs—hard not to, really, with all of the current events going on across the city. Maybe—in daydreams, perhaps—she'd even fancied herself capable of facing one down. But the reality turned out to be something else entirely, and from the way the room is still spinning and little spots are appearing at the corners of her vision, there are certain elements to personally experiencing close proximity with detonating explosives that she never really stopped to consider up until now.
"It was so loud," she whispers, and Fiyero crouches down so he can hear her more clearly. "I never thought about how loud it would be."
"Well, it's not your job to think about bombs, now is it?" he says softly. Then he blinks, guilty. He doesn't want to leave her. "Speaking of which—"
"Go," she tells him, mustering enough energy for a small grin. "I promise I'll be here when you get back."
There's soot in her eyelashes when she blinks, so she blinks again to shake it loose, and the papers still clenched in her fists are burned around the edges from the blast. She smooths them out. It's mundane stuff—lists of vendors from past years of an annual fair, hourly rates for entertainment, that sort of thing. The only reason they were in the Hall of Records at all was because the Master of Ceremonies wanted the clutter out of his office.
What a coincidence her presence was, that's what people will say. To think, almost getting killed over something as silly as a festival—she imagines this will do wonders for her image, the public perception of both her ditziness and her resilience. The traits don't necessarily go hand in hand, but they both serve her well—usually no one is too focused on her day-to-day happenings, which is how she likes it, but they still view her as formidable in her own right, and know she's capable of getting things done.
"Glinda?"
Oh. Fiyero is back already. But—from his position on the floor in front of her and the worried expression on his face, she imagines that he's been there for some time.
Did she hit her head, perhaps?
No. She's fine. She's always fine.
"Did you find out what happened?" she asks him, focusing her eyes on his face with no small effort. Fiyero sighs, passes a hand over his mouth.
"We found the body of an Animal close to where the the thing went off," he says. "Small, dark fur, probably some kind of Dog. Now, he's obviously not going to tell us any information, but with the way things are right now, he's a pretty solid suspect."
"I think I saw him," she murmurs. "He wore a cloak, carried a box—that must be how he got in. Everything suspicious was covered."
Fiyero nods. "It'll probably take some time to determine exactly where he entered the castle, but I'm sure somebody noticed something. We'll work it out soon enough."
"To think that I saw him," she whispers.
"Where were you?" he asks. She thinks back.
"The other side of the room. Around the corner, almost. I could barely make out what happened, and then—the smoke—"
She trails off, remembering the choking black cloud. She can smell it still—the foul odor hasn't entirely dissipated, even in this spacious hallway.
He squeezes her hand gently. "You were almost completely outside the range," he says softly. "We're so lucky the bomb was a small one." And Glinda finds that she desperately wants to laugh at that, but she holds it in, keeps her lips pressed together.
As if luck had anything to do with it.
"We should go," she says instead. "I think—I think I'd like to lie down for a while."
She stands stiffly, hand pressed to her stomach. "Are you hurt?" Fiyero asks quickly, applying a steadying fingertip at her elbow. "I never even—do you want me to take a look? Or walk you to the infirmary?"
She waves his touch away. "It's nothing, dear," she assures him with a light laugh. "When I tied my corset this morning, I just wasn't accounting for the smoke inhalation—that's all."
When they return to their chambers, their things on the desk and atop the dressers are just slightly out of place, and one of the youngest guards, Sebastian, is waiting for them with an apologetic smile. His shoes shine and his white gloves are clean; he didn't even report to the site of the explosion, but came straight here instead.
"Madame Morrible wants to see you," he says to Glinda. His tone is soft, and his eyes shift nervously to Fiyero, but the request is firm. It's fine, though—from the moment she saw the state of things here, she was never really under the impression that she'd have much of a choice.
Fiyero opens his mouth angrily, but Glinda squeezes his forearm and his protests die on his lips. "Of course," she says with a smile—not too bright, given what just happened, but bubbly enough to convince him she's acting like herself.
She walks stiffly down the hall after Sebastian, forcing her tired muscles into keeping up with his hurried pace. He turns back to look after her once, but not again—she's not surprised, though, as he obviously fears Morrible far more than herself. No one has been afraid of her in a long, long time. Morrible, on the other hand—there are rumors that some of the kitchen ladies worked themselves into seizures at the thought that she might pay them a visit after a burned cake found its way into a state dinner.
The Press Secretary is sitting behind her desk when Sebastian shows Glinda inside, stacks of paperwork spread out across a map in front of her. Glinda's been working on her geography lately, in a rather unofficial capacity, and when she glances at the map she can see markings over the sites of the last five attacks—two migrant camps just outside the city, the local courthouse, a rundown tavern in Munchkinland, and a small chapel on the border of Quadling Country. They're all places where Animals have been ambushed or held in over the past month.
She's not sure if Morrible is too idiotic or too stubborn to work out this rather obvious pattern, but based on the scribbles she's left in the margins, the woman is currently working a theory involving Ley lines and lightning strikes. If Glinda was so inclined, she could point out the next four likely targets in a heartbeat. Instead, she allows herself a small smile.
Glinda coughs lightly, and Morrible raises an eyebrow when she lifts her eyes to greet her. For a second she's almost offended by the disdain—but, admittedly, she is likely still in complete disarray. In fact, if the smoky smell rising off her poor dress is any indication, she must look positively ghastly.
"Why, Miss Glinda," Morrible simpers. "I didn't realize you were present during the attack."
"I was, Madame." And what of it?
Morrible taps the desk with one long, sharp fingernail. "Perhaps you can be even more helpful than anticipated, then."
Glinda smiles tiredly at her.
"I certainly hope so."
Morrible pushes herself to her feet and walks around her desk to stand before her. Glinda isn't in the habit of feeling small—she may be short in stature, but her high spirits and even higher heels always seem to make up for that somehow. Still, she feels positively dwarfed now. Morrible looks down at her, and she thinks nervously of how a spider might study a fly caught in its web.
"Our current theory is that some old spells were taken from their secure place in the Hall. Very dangerous spells, ones that are banned from even being read." Morrible pauses to stare Glinda down, giving her a once-over that turns her blood to cold lead. "What exactly were you doing there?"
"Festival planning, Madame." Luckily, Glinda still has her papers in hand, and she passes the crumbling things to Morrible with an apologetic wince. "I wanted to start reaching out to contacts before they all commit to the regional fairs. It's an anniversary year, after all."
"But of course." Morrible spares a quick glance through the papers, then sets them behind her among her many stacks. Her pale eyes don't waver in their stare, not even to blink. "Well, I thought—if you saw something, or perhaps picked a scrap of paper up off the ground in the aftermath—"
It's an unseasonably warm day for early spring, enough that Glinda's dress features the latest short-sleeved fashion, but in that moment goosebumps dance up and down her bare arms. She glances toward the window, almost certain she'll see frost curling across the pane in the sudden burst of cold.
If I admit to having even caught a glimpse of those spells you'll just have an excuse to lock me up, Glinda thinks suddenly, although she has to admit she's not entirely sure this wild assumption is true. Still, for weeks now—as the Animal forces move in, as strategic points around the city are hit—Morrible has been getting shorter and shorter with her, keeping her less and less informed and watching her more closely. She's not sure what the old bat is looking for exactly—letters to the Resistance in elegant pink hand, perhaps, or a secret tunnel she's carpeted in silk to funnel Animals from the dungeon to the river? There has never been any evidence that Glinda Upland has done a single thing wrong, and if her life carries on the way she wants it to, there never will be.
Either way, though, the path ahead is simple—smile, nod, play the game. The most wonderful thing about being entirely superficial is that it's all too easy for others to see that you have absolutely nothing to hide.
"I did see something, actually," Glinda says seriously, leaning in as much as she dares. "I think—I'm not positive, but I think I saw the bomber."
She pauses for dramatic effect, but Morrible only seems mildly intrigued. If things weren't so somber these days, and today especially, Glinda would probably pout. She restrains herself, and yet still imagines that the air cools perhaps another degree.
"It—it was an Animal," she continues, a little less confident now. "Rather short, dark fur, some kind of snout. I thought—perhaps a Dog? A Wolf? But I only really saw him from the back, and—"
"We are well aware of this." Morrible's voice is dry. "A body was recovered from the room—it perished in the blast."
Glinda nods, bites her lip. "Well, I didn't see him try to take anything. The only thing he carried was his box—with the explosives, I assume. There didn't seem to be anyone with him." She lets out a nervous giggle. "And I'm not in possession of any spells I wasn't yesterday—certainly not ancient, forbidden ones."
To prove it, she holds out her arms—empty, of course—and flourishes them before Morrible just a little dramatically. Morrible sighs and waves the display away, returning to her perch behind her desk. She places her fingertips on her temples and rubs lightly—suddenly, she seems much older than she had a moment before, and so very tired.
"You understand why I had to ask, of course? As my only pupil of magic in this entire city, I must perform my due diligence. It's what people expect from me."
That doesn't explain the search of her room, or the general inclination to treat her like a criminal, but Glinda smiles and nods anyway. "Of course, Madame."
Morrible looks her over one last time, then turns back to her maps with a pained grimace.
"That will be all, dear. But I am looking forward to our lesson Friday evening."
"I am as well," Glinda says, inclining her head slightly and turning to go. She's almost to the door before Morrible stops her.
"Glinda?"
She freezes. "Yes?"
Morrible waves something at her, and with a jolt, Glinda realizes she's left behind the papers for the festival. She reaches for them quickly, muttering excuses about frazzled wits and overwhelming responsibilities and gosh, what a day it's been.
When Glinda steps into the hallway, papers once more in hand, it's like walking through a blast of warm air. She rubs her arms as she walks, determined to put as much distance between herself and Morrible's office as possible.
"What do you think Elphaba is doing right now?"Glinda asks softly that night, when she and Fiyero lay beside each other in a bed far too big and soft for any real comfort. This is how it goes: one of them asks the question, and the other pretends to be shocked, intrigued, maybe a little offended. Tonight she'll take one for the team; all things considered, it might as well be her.
The corners of Fiyero's mouth tighten—almost imperceptibly, but they know each other well now. Elphaba is not just a polarizing subject these days, but a dangerous one.
"Hopefully, plotting an attack a little further from where you're likely to be," he says. His belief in her good luck from earlier seems to have run its course. He'd had no luck throughout the day in tracking the movements of the bomber through the castle, and though he might not be as opposed to Elphaba's overall goals as his position demands, the thought that his home can be breached so easily and with so little regard for innocent lives does not seem to be sitting well at this point in time.
Funnily enough, Glinda is experiencing many of the same feelings.
"So you think she's behind this?" The whispers throughout the day had suggested as much, but it would be inappropriate for the Captain of the Guard to jump to conclusions without evidence.
Now he's just Fiyero, though, and he can speculate to his heart's content. He shrugs dully. "Who else?"
"Oh, you know," Glinda says. But she can't really think of anyone.
Outside, the first birds of spring chirp in the night—they'd left a window open despite the chill on the horizon to celebrate the melting snow and brightening sun. But the wind blows loudly, too, howling through the turrets and rising like a scream into the sky. Glinda shivers.
"I hope she's doing well," Fiyero says after a while, because they do try to put good thoughts out into the world. "Hope she found somewhere dry to sleep."
"I hope she had a full meal," Glinda adds.
"Hope she still has all her limbs—" He breaks off when Glinda slaps at him, torn between laughing and choking out a sob. "Fine. But I do hope she's found people who respect her. I know she has followers—that's not what I mean. I mean people she can talk to. People who will tell her when she's wrong."
"Like you," Glinda says. Her voice softens. "Like me."
He nods.
"So tell me, then—" He pauses then, raising his head to look her in the eye. If she didn't know better, she might say there's a hint of apprehension there. "Do you know what Elphaba's doing right now?"
"Why would I know something you don't, silly?" she asks, lightly tapping a finger to his nose before rolling rolling away.
Beside her, she hears Fiyero flops back onto the mattress. Then he mumbles something into his pillow.
"What was that?"
He shakes his head. "Nothing." But she heard the words the first time, heard him say: Because you're the one who loves her most of all.
"I don't, though," she says softly. Then she clarifies: "I don't know what she's doing."
And—like always—Glinda isn't lying. She doesn't know what Elphaba is doing right this very second.
But she does know where she's going to be at midnight.