A/N: Aaaaaargh! I'm alive! Don't ask me how, but I'm alive! I'm really sorry for the delay, ladies and gents, but... well, I kind of lost my mind. I had a very bad couple of months, beginning with one of the worst anxiety attacks in my entire life; suffice it to say that it took a long while before I could trust myself with anything. Plus, my attempt at writing up the next few chapters of this story blew up in my face when my old and hopelessly dustclogged PC broke down with the drafts on it - the same damn thing that happened to "It Could Have Been Worse." For a while, I honestly couldn't bring myself to continue writing this story at all; then I started writing on other projects, recovering my love of writing with varied work, and I finally recovered the will to continue. Now, I have work to occupy my days, multiple fanfics to diversify my output, and a much healthier brain.

I can only beg forgiveness for the delay, and hope that you can continue reading, reviewing and enjoying. As always, feel free to leave nice long detailed reviews, critiques and criticisms - especially of the typoes that creep in at 4 in the morning and of the continuity errors that creep in after god only knows how months of lost progress.

So, without further ado, read, review and above all, enjoy!

Disclaimer: Wicked is not mine. The only thing that belongs to me are my many, many delays.

"…pupils still responding to light. She's conscious again, but only just. Elphaba, can you hear me? I know you're awake, and I need you to stay that way: keep your eyes open. We've only just managed to nudge you back into consciousness, and we can't afford to let you slip away before this operation is complete. Whatever attacked you inflicted serious psychic damage and if you pass out now, you might very well end up-"

"Dead," says Elphaba.

Glinda blinks in astonishment. "How? I thought he was being cared for by professionals!"

"He was. Unfortunately, he didn't die of natural causes: he committed suicide – tore his wrists open with a sharpened spoon and bled out before the doctors could save him. By all accounts, he was in a state of chronic depression over his imprisonment and the current state of his health; not exactly surprising, given how he acted on the way to the first trial."

"In other words, he didn't want to wait for a verdict of guilty."

"Execution wasn't a guaranteed sentence, Glin: under the circumstances, I'd have preferred to keep the Wizard imprisoned for the rest of his life… however long that life may have been. Truth be told, I have to wonder why he bothered slitting his wrists: with the old man's heart in such poor condition, a brisk jog around the exercise yard could have finished him off; even the doctors were advising him against exerting himself before they had a chance to operate."

For the second time in a row, Glinda's expression registers utter incredulity. "You'd have been willing to do that for him after everything he did? You'd give him a luxury prison cell and a perfect bill of health even after all the lies he told, all the atrocitifications he committed? Seriously, I'd have thought you'd at least take some delight in taking some revenge on the old bastard for letting the country go down the tubes."

Elphaba shrugs. "I stopped hating him a very long time ago, truth be told. Most of it transferred to Madam Morrible once she turned traitor, and in the last days before the revolution, I couldn't think of him as anything other than a sad old man who didn't even have it in him to run a country. In the end, he was just another problem to be solved… and frankly, his death in custody caused far more problems than it solved: if he'd stayed a prisoner, we could have held him accountable for literally everything he did over the course of his regime and brought down everyone complicit in the worst of his crimes." She pauses, and then eyes Glinda with a quizzical look. "Incidentally, you're the last person I'd expect to get bloodthirsty about the whole deal, Glinda. As I recall, I had to talk you into joining me in deposing him. What changed your mind?"

"Paperwork," Glinda sighs. "Now that I'm actually doing proper government work, I've finally noticed just how much corruption I've got to clear away before Oz starts working again. Three weeks of this crap and I'm just about ready to hit someone for talking too loud."

"Welcome to my life."

Much of the meeting so far has been a lie, of course: the Wizard is not dead, for his mind is still in command of Paragon and settling in quite nicely as it happens. However, the mechanically-animated corpse he left behind has had to be discarded after a very public breakdown; fortunately, thanks to his deliberately-cultivated reputation for poor mental and physical health, a suicide attempt does not appear out of character. Naturally, the body will have to be cleared of all clockwork mechanisms before burial, just in case any vengeful citizens decide to try desecrating his corpse. Likewise, the "death" of the Wizard is actually more desirable than Elphaba admitted: it allows them to conceal the number of conspicuous disappearances that have been occurring over the course of the Pottery's talent-hunting operations.

Even Glinda has been lying, if only mildly: Elphaba can tell that the delay on the marriage is clearly aggravating her; she wants to have her family well and truly established before her baby is born, and all the roadblocks are clearly starting to gnaw at her. Work plays a part in her temper, but nowhere near as much as she claims. But she needn't worry: Fiyero and Glinda will be married soon – and they'll have to be if they're ever to recoup the loss of morale that's occurred over the last few months. They'll have to be, because Elphaba is about to announce something unprecedented – something that will change everything…

"Are you ready to declariate your role in the new government?"

"Oh, more than ready. It'll be announced tomorrow at nine sharp."

"Come on! Is that it? You haven't got even the tiniest of sneak previews for me? Everyone's been asking questions, Elphie, and everyone's got theories: some people are saying you're staying put in Animal Affairs, some are saying you're going to be in charge of the new magical education program, and a few people are saying you're actually going to replace the administrative committee! Give me just a hint – pleeeease?"

And Elphaba can only smile. "You'll hear everything tomorrow morning at nine," she says with a wink. "Believe me, it'll be well worth the wait… but I'd brace yourself for the worst as well. It's going to be a bit of a shock-"

"-to her system! It might be the only way we can resuscitate her now. Applying voltage again in three, two, and one-"

Elphaba juddered wildly, suddenly aware of electricity surging through her being, suddenly wide awake for the first time in what felt like eons. Eyes wild and unfocussed, she frantically surveyed the scene, trying to recognize where she was and what was attacking her: the most she could discern was the presence of a high, shadow-crowded roof somewhere over her head and a small crowd of instinct shapes were gathered around her, but that was about all she could recognize; even if her vision wasn't blurred almost beyond comprehension, a heavy plastic breathing mask had been fastened over her face, leaving a permanently-clouded barrier between her and the outside world.

In the end, she was forced to resort to her other senses: she was dimly aware that she was lying on a rough wooden table, held down by heavy leather straps (or possibly human arms, it was hard to tell). Someone was holding her hand, evidently trying to reassure her… and somewhere just above her head, someone was talking. With her head in its current condition, she couldn't recognize the speaker's identity but despite the fog enveloping her brain, she could just about discern a woman's voice murmuring the words –

"She's breathing again, thank gods. You're going to have to seal up that internal damage before it gets any worse, and make sure the witch-crystal hasn't started eating into her vital organs while you're at it; I'll get to work on the cranial injuries. Elphaba, if you can hear me, just stay calm: I can guarantee you that your consciousness will fluctuate between dream state and reality over the course of this treatment, but it's absolutely nothing to worry about: it's just the spell starting to interface with your mind, so just stay calm, breathe normally, and everything will be okay…"

But Elphaba was already slipping away again, her grip on reality going slack and her mind tumbling backwards into some vast, illimitable void of swirling dreams. And somehow she knew long before she reached them that all those lurid dreams and memories waiting for her were of Oz and-

"My fellow Ozians," Elphaba solemnly begins.

The crowds have filled the city square to bursting point, thousands upon thousands of anxious citizens crammed shoulder to shoulder from the plaza gates to the palace steps. Hundreds more are gathering on every surface with enough space to support them: children jostle for a glimpse of the stage whilst clinging to the fenceposts and dangling from the gates; thrillseekers congregate on rooftops, risking a two-story drop for the sake of observing the speech; a few have even tracked down the homeowners closest to the palace and paid exorbitant fees to take a seat by the window and watch. All over the city, news-hungry townsfolk have insisted that the magical projector screens be brought back just for this speech, but after the panic that resulted from the last public use of these devices, planning committees are hesitant about allowing them back on the streets so soon. So now the citizens of the Emerald City have gathered in person to witness a speech that will change Oz forever.

"The past few months have been a time of trials for us all," Elphaba continues. "The Plague of Transformations; Madame Morrible's treachery and the political upheaval that ensued; the revelation of the Wizard's fraudulence; his escape from justice by suicide... and now, the lingering side-effects of the Plague that still haunt us. The hospitals are still overflowing with patients infected on the night of the Plague Witch's funeral, and the researchers at work at the Asylum have confirmed that not all the symptoms can be purged from the victims – and it is my sad duty to inform you that new offshoots of the Plague itself are now running rampant throughout Oz. These infections do not induce transformation, my fellow Ozians, for that would be too simple for one of Madame Morrible's creations: they disfigure, they torment… and sometimes they kill. This pestilence, this ugliness that has descended upon us, has proved almost impossible to cure; furthermore, the sufferers spread this disease wherever they go, leaving agony and death in their wake. According to the researchers of the Asylum, these contagions may grow even subtler over time, in some cases embedding themselves in entire bloodlines, undetectable in families until the symptoms become terminal. If this monstrosity is to be cured, it requires more than science and magic: it requires legislation."

Another necessary falsehood, but not without some grounding in truth: the final strain of the Plague has left disappointingly permanent symptoms in many sufferers, as the researchers have discovered. However, as anyone who works in the Pottery knows by now, the Plague is not contagious, nor is the final strain directly lethal. Of course, that hasn't stopped Elphaba and the rest of the Pottery's experts from discreetly planting a few magically-disfigured corpses around Oz – enough to provide all the proof that her audience could possibly need. More to this point, the presence of these deformities and lingering transformations now gives Elphaba the perfect excuse to expand her efforts from mere societal reconstruction to redesigning life itself.

In the horrified silence that follows her explanation, Elphaba takes the opportunity to shift the topic onwards: "And it is with this new epidemic in mind that I must address the matter of leadership: ever since the Wizard was successfully deposed, this country has relied upon the administration of a committee that – by its own admission – is ill-equipped to deal with the role that Oz demands of it. Democratic leeway has left it divided on how to approach the growing crisis, and without a strong leader to guide it, the committee cannot accomplish anything. Over the past three weeks, countless thousands of concerned citizens, members of regional assemblies, governors, noblemen and several members of the committee itself have humbly requested that I take charge of the situation, citing my experience in dealing with the Plague and in reducing the violence on the night of the most recent outbreak. Time and again, I have refused these requests, arguing that my role lies in serving the people rather than commanding them, and have attempted to find a suitable replacement among this proud nation's many elected officials. But after three weeks of patient searching, my search has been in vain, and I must conclude that if I am to serve Oz, then I must be willing to bow to the will of its people."

There is a rumble of approval from the depths of the crowd: there is excitement now where once there was only fear. These people desperately want reassurance in troubled times; they want a figurehead to adore; they want leadership to guide them in the darkness, a shining beacon to follow and worship. They know Elphaba can give it to them; they have been convinced that Elphaba is the only one who can save them – a fact she has done her level best to spread to the furthers corners of Oz. Granted, most of them believed it already, but pumping up the numbers through shills and puppets ensured that the hysteria reached just the right proportions to grant her total unwavering support. She is more than just their champion, now: she is their saviour.

"My fellow Ozians," she continues briskly, "on the night of the Wizard's deposal, I knelt before you all and gave you the opportunity to decide my future, and on that night, all I asked was that I be allowed to help you. Now I must accept your wishes and take the reins of power as is your decision. From this day forward, I claim the office, powers and duties of Oz's first High Overseer, and will devote all my energies to confronting the nightmares that have beset this country. And I promise you this: I will not rest until the last vestiges of the Wizard's corruption and Madame Morrible's Plague have been eradicated."

There is a storm of applause from the crowd. No great surprise: the people of Oz are so desperate for guidance and comfort that the mildest pat on the shoulder would have elicited an immediate standing ovation; Elphaba's speech has left quite a few of them almost teary-eyed with relief.

"It will be a long journey uphill, friends, I will not deny that. This will once again be a time of trials for us all; a time of rebuilding for Oz, as we purge the country of the last remnants of the Wizard's corrupt regime and build new edifices where once only rotten husks stood. But at the end of this road, a better world awaits us: a world of prosperity and hope, where honesty is rewarded and the ugliness of the past is but a distant memory." She offers a smile to the crowd, an amicably informal note in an otherwise grandiose monologue. "It sounds fantastical, I know... but Oz has always had the potential for greatness – not the façade of prosperity that the Wizard forced us to accept – but true greatness. Through our combined efforts, we can make this bright future possible.

"Together, my fellow Ozians, we will make Oz perfect."

And the crowd roars, almost beside itself with ecstatic relief at finally having focus and direction for the future; some of them scream her name in exaltation. From one end of the plaza to the next, the assembled hordes thunder their approval; even the officials gathered on the stage applaud, though most of them have already been given previews of the decision. And Glinda applauds loudest of them all, her face alight with admiration and pride…

…but mixed in with the respect is something else, something almost intangible – something almost like concern. For the first time in her life, Glinda is actually worried by her own ignorance: she wants to know what legislation will be planned to deal with the Plague… but she will know in-

"-time… just give it a few moments for the serum to finish working. What's the status on her eyes?"

Elphaba stirred somewhere amidst the murk of semiconscious dreaming, once again aware of the woman's voice echoing above her; her eyes were open and flooded with light, but with the mask still over her face, it was still impossible to tell who was tending to her wounds… and yet Elphaba couldn't quite shake the uncanny sense of familiarity to the voice.

"Corneal damage almost completely erased," said a new voice; this one was male, and if anything this one seemed even more familiar, but Elphaba couldn't quite match the sound of the voice to a face through the delirious fog that had enveloped her. "Hemolacria no longer in evidence and pupils responding to light normally," he continued. "Diagnostic spells confirm that her eyes are now fully functional again. I still think this would have been easier if we'd simply replaced her eyes altogether, but that's just me."

"She doesn't have time to adjust to new eyes, sweetie. As I recall, your Mentor wants Elphie up and about before Unbridled Radiance can press the advantage."

"True, but in my experience, removal and implantation's a much more reliable solution than manually repairing over a dozen potentially blinding flaws from a patient's eyes. I'd rather not take the chance that we missed something, if you take my meaning."

"Have a little faith in your abilities, Doctor Dearest."

There was a long-suffering sigh from the direction of the male voice. "Could you please not call me that?" he grumbled. "At least wait until we're not both up to our elbows in blood and guts."

The woman giggled coquettishly. "Oh, I'll stop calling you that when you stop getting annoyed, darling: there's nothing quite as cute as the look on your face when you get ticked off, believe me."

"As you've told me far too many times for my own good, and – hang on, she's regaining consciousness. We're going to have to reapply the anaesthesia."

Through the bewildering haze surrounding her skull, she was dimly aware of someone patting her hand, and the woman's voice whispering "It'll be over soon, Elphaba: you just sleep now, and when you wake up, you'll be well again."

Had she been somewhere approaching a conscious frame of mind, Elphaba would probably have started asking questions about what would be over soon, where she was, who the voices belonged to, and probably have added some snide remark over her chances of survival when sentences like "it'll be over soon" were in use. But at that point, everything was tumbling away from her all over again, and speech of any kind was the furthest possible thing from her thoughts, to say nothing of questions-

"-you might have about the operation."

Lizzelanti Lakefold takes a deep breath, clearly struggling with the effort of discussing a very unpleasant point in her life. "You're certain this will get rid of all the…" Her face contorts in mingled pain and embarrassment. "Lingering effects? Both the transformative fits and the porcine traits?"

"Both physically and mentally," Elphaba assures her. "This is only an experimental process at the moment, but we have already developed techniques that can completely purge the effects of the Plague. Mechanical alterations to the brain guarantee that all the mental deformities are purged from the system, while the amputation of afflicted tissues ensures that any future transformations have no means of taking root in the body. Blood treatments are still in development, unfortunately."

On the upside, Lizzel doesn't look embarrassed anymore; on the downside, she looks downright frightened. "How much of my tissues are afflicted?" she asks nervously. "Just for the record, I mean."

"Enough to necessitate total replacement, ideally with something that the Plague can't readily infect. We have already developed a semi-organic flesh substitute, along with mechanical prosthetics to replace any limbs or internal organs that might be lost over the course of the operation."

"Might be?" Lizzel echoes.

"The operation varies from patient to patient. As I've said, this is still a work in progress. However, if its survival rates you're concerned about, none of our test subjects have died yet; however, they were subjected to past iterations of this process, and are still being outfitted with the latest upgrades. So, success rates for the current variation of the process are still not entirely guaranteed, not when being performed from scratch anyway."

Lizzel's brow wrinkles. "At the risk of sounding ungrateful, I just have to ask: if you already have test subjects then why do you need me? What makes me so important to you right now?"

"The people need reassurance, Miss Lakefold: the Ozian populace's attitude to the new laws and procedures is still somewhat hesitant, and we want to guarantee that the first recipients of this process make a good impression in the Emerald City on a regular basis. For that, we need someone with experience in addressing a crowd, someone with charisma and talent well-known to the public, and – most importantly of all – a fall from grace on their record. Plus, there is the matter of your rather… prominent place in the Plague's history."

"In other words, you want to make the first victim of the Plague the first to be cured by the new method," Lizzel sighs.

"Nicely symmetrical, wouldn't you say?"

"And if I wasn't going to be the poster child for your new experimental method, how much would it cost me if I were to sign up for the operation once it's been fully tested and perfected?"

"Nothing," says Elphaba simply, unable to keep the smile off her face.

"You're joking."

"Not at all. This operation will be provided for all who require it at no monetary cost barring the years of service they owe to the government. However, if you're wondering why you shouldn't just wait until we've moved this project past its experimental phase… well, I can guarantee you it won't result in quite the same resurgence for your career that volunteering for the experimental variant would offer. Believe me, Miss Lakefold, if you agree to work with us, I can ensure that you will be restored to your original position within the press department and recover all the popularity you lost over the course of your infection – minus the more unpleasant aspects of your life prior to the Plague."

Once again, Lizzel's face contorts as she slowly mulls over her options. But in the end, her choice is inevitable: after months of uncontrollable transformations, lingering deformities, "compassionate incarceration," nauseating chemical treatments and soul-rending psychiatric therapies, the fallen media darling will do anything to get out of the Asylum and back into the limelight. And thanks to all those frank and earnest discussions of Lizzel's many personality flaws held over the course of her time in the infirmary, she's also anxious for a clean slate.

"You're certain that I'll be back to normal?" she asks softly – almost pleadingly.

"As I said, all the porcine traits will be-"

"No, no, no, I… I'm really not making myself clear, am I?" Lizzel sighs deeply. "It's not just about having the Plague symptoms cured: it's about being able to feel normal, to feel as though I belong in my own skin. Ever since I fell ill, everything about my own body feels… wrong. It's like I've got dirt under my nails, under my flesh even, and no matter how hard I try I can never feel clean. Even when I'm in human form, I can barely look at myself in the mirror without wanting to vomit. And my memories… it's… I can't even remember what my life was like before the Asylum without feeling… just overwhelmed with disgust at everything that I was… and everything that I am in mind and body." She's visibly struggling not to cry, now: her eyes are shining with tears, her breath emerging in deep, shuddering gasps for air, her posture almost crushed under the weight of her self-loathing. "I'm repulsive," she whimpers. "I'm loathsome. I'm… ugly. And I don't know if I'll be able to live with it."

In other words, the therapy has been a complete success.

"I don't just want to be normal, Director," Lizzel says at last. "I want to be beautiful."

"You'll be more than beautiful, Miss Lakefold. The flesh substitute and prosthetics we have developed here at the Asylum have already been refined to the point that they have eclipsed even the most efficient of all human organs. As for aesthetics? You will be a thousand times more elegant and more attractive than you were as an ordinary human being, to say nothing of the increases in speed, strength and intellectual ability. Here at the Asylum, we have it in our power to make you so much more than what you once were: here, we can make you perfect."

For twelve seconds more, Lizzel considers things further – but the decision has already been made.

"I accept," she says at last.

"Wonderful. All I need you to do is sign the consent forms, and we'll reconvene in three days from now."

"Just one more question: what are we calling this process, exactly? You haven't outlined a name for it yet."

Once again, Elphaba can't hide the smile on her face. "Purification," she says. "We call it Purification."

Elphaba's return to consciousness was a languid one, drawn out for what felt like decades.

At first, she was only aware of the comforting warmth of blankets and duvets shrouding her body; then, as her eyes began to flutter open, she became aware of the gentle glow of candlelight from somewhere nearby, and the distinct shapes of furniture slowly began to creep into her disrupted view of the world around her. Gradually, she discerned the fact that she was lying in an enormous four-poster bed, in a room she'd never set foot in before today – whenever today was. But it wasn't until the first hazy memories of the past few days began trickling back to the forefront of her mind that the obvious question finally occurred to Elphaba: where am I?

Groaning, she sat up in bed, wearily surveying the room around her: her surroundings were clearly opulent, if still smothered in shadows for the most part; quite apart from the silk-curtained four-poster bed she'd awoken in, she could clearly recognize the faint shapes of oil paintings on the walls, thick hand-woven rugs on the floor, and finely-carved mahogany bookshelves and dressers all around her. Most prominent of all were the mirrors dotting the room, each one framed in gleaming silver and each one shining almost fluidly in the dark –like tiny pools of mercury. Sadly, there was no sign of her equipment, clothing and most disappointingly of all, her hat. At present, she was dressed only in a heavy black nightgown, which left her at something of a disadvantage if she was in hostile territory.

However, sitting to the right of the closed door was a magnificently-built chair adorned with satin cushions and gold filigree, a veritable throne of polished wood and gilt; but as Elphaba's eyes adjusted to the dark, she also saw that much of the upholstery was worn and threadbare, and the elegantly-carved armrests had only seen the hastiest of dustings in the last few hours. Moreover, there was something about this strange piece of furniture and its placement that seemed uncannily familiar, but she couldn't quite determine why or how.

But how had she gotten here? Elphaba's last clear memory had been of the abortive attempt to trap and kill the Hellion, and the monster that had ambushed them – the Hate-Creature, the nightmare that spoke with Frexspar Thropp's voice and acted on his pent-up rage. She remembered being attacked head-on and being hurt, probably very badly if the memory of the pain was any evidence.

If she had to guess, she'd been rescued and had been brought here (wherever here was) for medical attention, but by whom? From what little she recalled, the hunting fleet had been all but destroyed and reinforcements had been hours away; unless the survivors of the attack had somehow been able to dispatch the Hate-Creature and get her to safety before she'd bled to death, how could she have been retrieved alive. And more to the point, if her rescuers had been loyal to the Deviant Nations, then they probably would have brought her to a proper hospital and not to this sumptuous bedchamber. So, who could have saved her? Who apart from the Deviant Nations would have been able and willing to retrieve her alive and set her up in such a luxurious room?

And as if answering her question, the door suddenly swung open, revealing the shining figure of a man comprised entirely of mirrors: his head was a blank mask of mirrored shards sculpted into the mosaicked shape of a human face; his limbs were silvery glass moulded to the exact contours of human arms and legs; his torso was a warped breastplate of fused mirrors, complete with epaulettes made from burnished gold frames – and several dozen mangled reflections of Elphaba herself staring back in shock.

There was a long and awkward silence, as the mirror golem regarded her with an expressionless stare. Then, it murmured "The Mistress of Mirrors has requested an audience, Elphaba Thropp. This unit has been tasked with bringing you to her."

Oh. Well, I suppose that clears up one mystery. At least I'm in the company of allies.

"Fair enough," Elphaba grumbled, and moved to get out of bed…

…whereupon she promptly slid down the side of the mattress and tumbled to the ground.

"The Mistress has informed me that you are still recovering from surgery and are likely to be experiencing some difficulty walking," said the mirror golem, as he helped her up. "Until such time as your legs have recovered, you are to be conveyed in a wheelchair."

As it turned out, the "throne" sitting by the door was none other than the wheelchair; once again, Elphaba felt herself almost overwhelmed by the uncanny familiarity of it all as she was slowly lowered into the cushioned depths of the chair, but once again, she couldn't place where she'd seen this before. Exhaustion and the aftereffects of her ordeal were still clouding her mind.

As soon as she was seated in the wheelchair, Elphaba found herself spirited out of the room at a brisk pace, the mirror golem swiftly ferrying her down the corridor and into the vast warren of passageways that made up the Mistress of Mirrors' home. With the lighting sparse and the shadows almost tangible, there honestly wasn't much to see apart from closed doors, semi-invisible portraits, and of course, mirrors – of all shapes and sizes, clustering the walls every three feet along the corridor.

Occasionally, there'd be a fleeting glimpse of an open doorway, but most of the rooms beyond them were completely lightless and all but inscrutable; once, Elphaba was certain she caught a glimpse of a roaring fire in the hearth and at least twelve shadowy figures gathering around it in an indistinct huddle. However, the mirror golem sped on before she could get a good look at them – but not before she caught a spine-jangling glimpse of some of the figures slowly turning around to watch her go, their eyes gleaming eerily in the firelight.

After many twists and turns, the golem finally came to a stop in the doorway to a richly-decorated office – dimly lit, but just bright enough for Elphaba to clearly recognize the distinct shape of a magnificent oaken desk and several sumptuous armchairs.

And standing just behind the desk, a slender, elegant figure stood in silence, just out of reach of the nearest candelabra.

"I have to say, I never pictured us meeting like this," she whispered.

Elphaba blinked. "You're the Mistress of Mirrors, I take it?" she replied hesitantly.

"One of the many names I've used over the years, yes."

"And you already know who I am. Question is, how did you bring me here?"

"I didn't: you were deposited on my doorstep yesterday with very little explanation, badly wounded and half-dead from blood loss. I had heard of the attack on the Hellion-hunters, but the lack of stable reflection and uninterrupted shadows made it impossible for me to intervene until it was too late; for a time I feared the worst… but then you arrived, just alive enough to be healed and rehabilitated. But disappointingly enough, you appear to be just as nonplussed as I am about the situation, so it seems we have a mystery to uncover as well."

"But why didn't you just send me back to Greenspectre? Why would you keep me here?"

"Because I have… singular interest in you, Elphaba. I've been watching you for quite some time."

"From what I've heard, you watch everyone."

"Professional obligations, yes. However, I admit I also had personal reasons for spying on you: I wanted to keep you safe; there, my interests happily coincided with those of the Mentor, hence our ongoing agreement… and shameful as it is to say, I wanted to know more about you before we met. I would have introduced myself to you sooner, but the life of a spymaster hasn't left me well-disposed to social niceties. Or social situations of any kind, to be brutally honest."

Why did that voice sound so familiar?

"What did you want from me?" Elphaba asked, unable to hide the suspicion in her voice.

"Many things: for one, your assistance in erasing the greatest mistake of my entire life; for another, your part in ending the war that's dominated this World of Ruination for so long. And of course, a family reunion."

And with that, she stepped into the light, finally revealing herself.

Elphaba's heart very nearly stopped as she took in the dark brown hair, the pale blue eyes, the startlingly pallid skin, the narrow, slender face.

"Nessa?" she whispered.

The Mistress of Mirrors nodded solemnly.

"Welcome home, Elphaba," said Nessarose Thropp. "It's been too long."