Once upon a time, in a faraway kingdom, a little girl came into the world with skin as green as emeralds. The very moment she was born, she was deemed wicked by her father, a wealthy merchant, who feared that the child's unnatural looks bespoke a curse placed on his family in punishment for his own greed and corruption. As his beloved beautiful wife was expecting a second child, the fearful merchant fed her soft and fragrant milk flowers; and soon – much too soon – she bore a beautiful girl, whose little legs were tangled and limp. Despite the efforts of the kingdom's most renowned medics, the baby was deemed irreversibly crippled, and the mother never woke up.
The baby, whose perfectly pale skin was as soft and pink as the petals of a delicate flower, was given the name Nessarose, and the merchant loved her very dearly. His affection for her could only be matched by the disdain he had for her older sister. The emerald girl, who answered to the name Elphaba, grew up under a shadow of shame and guilt, believing the family's misfortunes to be her own fault. Terrified of the unnaturally green child tainting his reputation, her father had forbidden her from stepping foot outside their mansion's gates, and forced her instead to attend to her younger sister, humoring her every wish.
Not long after the loss of his wife, the merchant fell gravely ill. Determined for his children to have someone to take care of them, he wed a once-wealthy noblewoman known as Madame Morrible; and, after mere months of marriage, succumbed to the illness, leaving his new wife to look after his daughters, the younger of whom would inherit his remaining fortune upon reaching maturity. And although the sisters were brought up in the same home, they could not have been more different. The tragically beautiful Nessarose had a good heart, but the constant praise and adoration had turned her self-centered and fussy. Meanwhile, Elphaba, though openly despised and treated as a servant more than a family member, grew up to be caring, compassionate and kind. She learned very early to keep her thoughts to herself and seek solace in books rather than other people; still, the longer she lived deprived of love and affection, the more she craved it. One would, however, be mistaken in assuming her to be meek or timid. Behind the wall of quiet dutifulness she hid a bright mind, a strong will and a passionate heart.
As the sisters grew into their teenage years, Madame Morrible realized she needed a way to prevent Elphaba from going out into the world; and the cunning stepmother knew just the way to do it. All she needed was to give the girl something she would be afraid to lose.
"Elphaba," she said, looking sternly at her sixteen-year-old stepdaughter. "I know that you miss your late mother and I cannot deprive you of your chance to repent for the misery you have caused her. As long as you tend to your sister's needs and take care of the household as you should, you will be allowed to leave the house every night after sundown and visit your mother's grave in the woods. But remember – if you are seen by so much as a single soul, you will never see the outside world again!"
And so, the young girl would spend her days obediently fulfilling all of her numerous duties; dreaming of the moment after the sun has set, when she would finish her work, carefully draw a hood over her face and quietly stroll into the forest, to the small clearing where wild poppies overgrew her mother's grave. For five long years she would visit there every night, unless she was held at home by illness or obligation. For five years, she would light the tiniest little candle, lay down a flower and whisper endless apologies to her mother, her sister and her father. For five years, nothing disturbed this routine of hers – until, one night, something did.