III. Sour
But the sting, to Glinda, was real.
Elphaba seemed never to feel the cold, much to her roommate's envy, shlomping through the iciest of Shiz winters in little more than her customary dark shifts. Her parade of scarves, gloves and hats were shields more against stares than against the elements, though of course she never ventured out on wet days without the company of a hefty umbrella.
Even on those nights in room after fireless room, it was always Glinda who huddled closer, making the bedsprings sing and worming her toes slyly against an emerald calf.
Now she yearns for one of Elphie's heavy scarves, or even a bony green arm wrapped uneasily around her. The carriage jolts over another pothole and a crack spiders across the window. She winces at the gust of frigid air and shudders instinctively to the left, recoiling when the dwarf gives a sleepy snort, the yet untouched food tumbling out of her lap. Only then, with a helpful growl of her stomach, does she recall not having eaten today or indeed the day before.
The bread is hard enough to hammer nails with and the cheese reeks with surly repugnance. She wrenches off the thick rind of one of the oranges and takes a savage bite, resisting the urge to retch as the tart juices split her tongue like bile.