She watched. The munchkins smuggled them into carts with merchandise to be born to the Emerald City. They didn't have much of a plan, she knew from their conversation. Get inside the city and get close enough to kill her. But she couldn't watch all of them at once; the glass only showed one scene at a time.

The tin man, Dorothy, and the human man were in the cart while the munchkin and the ape walked alongside. They blended in well; there were plenty of freaks in Oz.

"What do they expect they will do? Kill me with their bare hands?" She laughed her to her attendant. Her voice fell flatly and she looked back at the glass. Dorothy. The trickle of fear that had been seeping through her veins for a hundred years turned to a steady pulse. She had killed the witch of the West, a feat Glinda had never succeeded at. With the witch of the West gone – her rival, her superior, she grudged – it was easy to take Oz. But Dorothy had killed the witch, and Glinda did not know how. The Ozians whispered in their sleep of a witch more powerful than had ever ruled Oz. Powerful enough to overthrow Glinda.

She closed her eyes, breathed. For now it was Dorothy hiding in a cart of stinking vegetables. If she did possess such fabled powers, she had chosen not to reveal them. If they wished to come to the Emerald City, let them come. This was her realm, her loyal court. She would make this place their hell.

She whispered a breath against the glass and the image changed. Darkness blurred the edges. She could barely make out the shapes of a room.

"Raabe!" she spoke into the glass. The darkness shifted, a thick shadow rising from its depths. The creature was huge, like a horse, and shapeless. "They come." The shapeless thing growled and swelled. "We will let them come. Bring them as visitors into our fair city."

Her lips twisted up. Raabe hissed his approval and the darkness swirled. Then he was gone. The glass was white again, reflecting. She sat back, staring into herself. Let them come.

It was dark, hot, and stuffy. They'd been riding for nearly a week, stowed away in a munchkin cart. She knew they were not hiding from Glinda, but Ray didn't know, and the darkness made her feel almost safe. Burlap tarps scratched above and below them and vegetables weighed down above and below the tarps.

Some part of Tin Man, warm and moist like a canteen of water left in the sun, brushed occasionally against her arm. On the other side was Ray, perfectly still except for the sound of his breathing when claustrophobia got to him. Sometimes it got to her too; the feeling that they would never be out. She wanted to talk to him. But she knew she had to stay silent. Besides, she could feel he was asleep, not tense like usual.

She drifted down into the rocking of the road beneath them and the incessant sound of the wood creaking around them. She was almost gone.

Crack! All three of them sprawled into a tangle of limbs as the cart lurched to the side, a desperate attempt to turn around on a narrow and rutted road. She heard the muffled sounds of shouting, the screech of a monkey. Ray shoved up against the immobile weight above them. He was breathing too fast. She knew he couldn't stand being trapped.

"Ray!" she hissed, her hand wiggling out to find his slick with sweat. The cart lurched again. It was hard to breathe, even with the ventilation burrowed through the walls. She could feel her own heart starting to drum madly.

"What is – " A scream rent the air and the front end of the cart dropped, cracking against the ground. Tin Man crashed into her. Ray swore.

She could hear the sound of digging above them and an instant later the tarp flung off, letting in blinding light. What a stupid plan. The witchmongers looked like grotesque crossbreeds between munchkins and amphibians. She gasped at the cold sliming moistness of their hands on her. They dragged her out, cackling at her shrieking and her struggling.

There were dead munchkins on the ground. Lida was being forced to the ground by three witchmongers. They could barely hold her. A strange silver light, like the sharp edges of fireworks, seemed to spit out occasionally from her hands. Some witchmonger devilry, she thought as they creatures shrieked at the sparks. Sing. A black patch rapidly disappearing against the blue sky.

Then her vision flipped as the witchmonger slung her to the ground. Her head slammed against the hard-packed road, sending ragged spots over her eyes. She twisted away but the witchmonger was too heavy. Cold iron clamped onto her wrists, ankles, and neck, and jerked her to her feet again. It seemed amazing they could move so quickly for such large creatures. Lida, Ray, and Tin Man stood strung out behind like slaves on a chain gang. The Emerald City glistened on the horizon.

Raabe and his mongers brought them in shackled neck to neck, lined up in a row before her. All except the ape. The cursed ape. But her drakks would soon find him.

They were a pitiful group. She felt her confidence broaden at the sight of Dorothy's limp body; this was no great witch. And to defend her? A rusting tin man, a garden munchkin, and the pathetic thing she assumed was Dorothy's mate. They were all bruised and bloodied from her Raabe's whips. Her hunters did get so excited on a chase. Why had she ever worried?

She smiled. "Welcome. To Oz. Back to Oz. What a pleasure to see you again, Dorothy. And this must be – " She looked at the man. No answer was forthcoming. She flicked her wand and fire splattered at his feet. He jumped, yelping. Dorothy uttered a cry of alarm.

"Ray! Ray Stratford," he gasped.

"Hmmm. You amuse me Ray Stratford." She laughed coldly. "But perhaps some other time. Raabe, why don't you take our guests to their quarters? I haven't had time to plan our reception dinner. I'm sure you'll all be quite comfortable."

Raabe cackled and Glinda watched as he jerked his prisoners forward. They made not a sound. It was almost infuriating, how little they protested. But as the last passed, the munchkin, she felt her skin crawl. Her eyes, smoldering, flashed across Glinda's. There was something beyond even the purist hate in that gaze. She would have to be the first to go. Even as the thought crossed her mind Glinda forced it from her presence. She had defeated Oz's last hope without even exerting herself. She would not fear a garden munchkin.

Sing shook the rain off his wings and crawled out from his hiding place in the hollow of a dead tree. Thick dark clouds swirled in the sky above him. He wondered if this was a trick of the witch's, or just bad weather. If it was a witch trick, it had backfired. The drakks had lost sight of him in the grayness; he blended well. But they would not dare return without their quarry, so he stayed cautiously hidden. He could only hope that the witch was not too worried about him, and was not hunting him with her magic. He was a good hider, but he couldn't hide from magic.

He looked about his hiding place. The dead tree lay on the edge of the forest just beyond the Emerald City. He could see the city's towers in the distance, the usually scintillating green a murky grayish shade. Somewhere in its depths were his only friends in the world. For all he knew they were dead by now. But if they were dead, then it was up to him. He knew he couldn't give up. It would be better to die a martyr with the people he loved than to live a coward in hiding. But how? What could he do? How could he even get into the city?

He was small, he was quick, he was smart, and he was practically a witchmonger already. His great-great-grandfather had served the witch of the West. His own mother had fallen to Glinda's trickery, and had served as a scout in her army until she was killed. Perhaps he could walk straight into the city. But no, they were on the lookout for him. But the city was large and the streets complex. Maybe he could just slip in over the walls. He looked down on the road into the city. Every so often a cart or a group of Ozians would pass through the gates, and every so often others would pass out. The city may have been ruined, but it was still the center and capital of Oz. Maybe he could hide in one of these. But surely they were checked before they entered. What he needed was a diversion.

Suddenly he knew. But where was he going to get a balloon? He crept along the forest floor toward the road. There he crouched in the thick weeds and brush that tangled on the roadside, and waited. Day turned into night, not that there was much change in the level of light. Still he waited, slept restlessly. Another day came. Today had to be the day. He couldn't wait any longer. If Lida and Tin Man, even Dorothy and Ray, were still alive, then every second took them only closer to their end.

Then, at last, the carriage passed by. He could see the fabrics spilling over the sides. Silks and cottons and muslins of all different colors. This was valuable cargo. The munchkin who guarded it was bigger than most and his cart pony was swift. The cart swayed and rumbled down the road with a sense of urgency. But for now, they were alone; there was no one to watch. He scanned the sky, and then leapt into it.

At the sight of his flurrying wings the munchkin jumped, startled. But he was not quick enough to anticipate the blow that followed. Sing swung the branch he held and felt it land solidly against the munchkin's head. He slumped over and Sing landed next to him and pulled the pony to a stop. Fearfully he checked the munchkin's throat. He didn't want to kill him; he prayed he hadn't killed him. A pulse throbbed steadily beneath Sing's leathery fingers. The munchkin was out cold, but he would wake in a few hours no worse off than a nasty headache and a fuzzy memory of his winged attacker.

Sing steered the pony and cart off the road and into the woods. Desperately he rummaged through the fabrics, pulled out yard after yard of colorful cloth. All day he worked, roughly stitching the pieces together with the sturdy thread and needle he had found in the tailor's pack, and fitting them around a frame of branches. When he had his balloon he roped it to one of the baskets the munchkin had carried his wares in. Now for fire, the trickiest part.

He wrenched the metal caps from the wagon wheels and strung them from the top edge of the basket. Then he packed the platform with cloth and doused it with the contents of the munchkin's whiskey bottle. It was finished. A sorry excuse for a hot air balloon, the best he could manage. It stood about as tall as a human, lopsided and precarious. His heart sank. It would never fly. It had taken months to build the balloon that had taken them to Kansas. Still he had to try. It was this or practically throw himself into the witch's hands.

He dragged the contraption out to the road. It was late in the afternoon and no one was on the road. The city loomed in the near distance. He could see a pair of drakks patrolling the skies above the city. Good, they would be watching.

He rummaged through the munchkin's bag once again and came up with a box of matches. Apparently the fellow had been on a journey long enough to call for a fire at some point. He glanced at the creature's still form. He was lucky the munchkin was still out, but his unconsciousness was becoming restless. He would have to hurry.

He struck a match against the wagon wheel hubs and a spark leapt onto the sodden cloth. Flame flared up, threatening to engulf the balloon. But it didn't. The fabric hissed billowed, expanded. The basket lifted. It was up! Sing gaped as the contraption rose, wavered, soared upward.

The drakks shrieked when they saw it, and Sing shook himself out of his wonder. Run. He tore back into the forest, watched from the trees as the city, as the witch herself, looked up. And in that moment he knew that all her eyes were focused on that one sight.

Then the drakks came, shooting out from the city like flares. Every eye in the entire city was trained on the balloon. Now. Now or never. In a matter of moments the drakks would reach the balloon, would discover that it was only a ruse, would realize his trickery. By then he would be in the city.

He shot out, flying low across the grey earth. The dark weather was still on his side. The drakks had passed him, about twenty of them, surging toward the balloon. Sing pushed harder, shooting up to the city walls. Up and over. His body pressed against he bricks. Pure emerald, smooth as glass. Now he was in the most danger. His black wings slid against the stone, up and up. From a distance he would look like a giant spider scaling the wall. But no one saw him. He was over, skimming down to the city streets.

The streets were dark, twisting, but he knew them. He had grown up in this city. His mother had become a witchmonger before he was born. She had died when he was young and he had been raised in one of the witch's "schools": training grounds for her future servants. He had hated it, and he had run. But a winged ape wasn't quickly accepted in Oz. He had lived in hiding, barely staying alive, for almost a year. Then Lida had found him. She had brought him to Tin Man and they had given him a home. But he still knew the city like the back of his hand.

He knew the dungeons were near the center. They were a labyrinth of cells and corridors, several stories beneath the earth. He had only been in once, a school tour to convince students of the imprudence of disobeying the Queen. The dungeons were well guarded, but they were also strung with a confusing maze of tunnels that served as ventilation. It was the only way in, and surely the only way out.

He raced through the streets, hugging close to the walls. Time was of the essence; by now the drakks had reached the empty basket. They would be furious, beginning their search of the woods, realizing that he might already be in the city. But now he was near the center of the city. He could see the enormous stone structure that was the upper stories of the dungeons. Dorothy, Ray, Tin Man, and Lida would be deep in its belly. From the street corner he could see a pair of guards before the thick wood doors into the prison. But they were distracted, excited, their eyes trailing the sky. He skirted down the street, searching for an orifice in the building. There, close to the ground, a round, grated tunnel, just broad enough him to slip through.

Inside was dark, cold, damp. His wings squeezed close to his body, his feet slid across the algae slick tunnel. He felt his pulse pounding in his temples, pressing against the back of his eyes. Panic closed in his throat. He shouldn't be down here, this wasn't right. Steady. Focus. He forced his way through. His body blocked all light and all sound from the outside, but the stuffy air in the tunnel was thick with smells.

To the right came the mingled scents of barley beer, vomit, and witchmonger. The prison barracks. Down and forward was the stomach churning scent of sweat, waste, and decay. Down he went. Sliding and wriggling deeper into the darkness, into the stench. But he was searching. He knew Lida and Tin Man's smells like his own.

He lost time. It seemed like eternity. Panic began rising again in his chest. He had no idea where they were, where he was. He could be trapped in here. The air became thicker the deeper he went, harder to breathe. Slowly the tunnel was slanting downward. Dozens of tunnels branched off from the one he was on, but something kept drawing him forward. Instinct. He had to believe it was something drawing him downward on this path.

Suddenly he felt a change in the air, an opening at his feet. He jerked to a stop, his fingers curled around the edge, he slipped forward. His wings pounded open against the walls, desperate. He felt the tunnel open beneath, braced himself against the three walls around him. The only way was straight down.

Down he went, bracing himself against the walls. Every few feet he would pass an opening, but he skipped over them. They were down. As far down as he could go. He could feel his wrists and ankles trembling from the strain. But he couldn't stop. If he stopped he knew he would die here, trapped in the underworld of the underworld. And Tin Man and Lida would die too. If he wasn't too late. He scrabbled downward.

Suddenly he heard it. The distant sound of singing sent chills through his wings. It was Lida. His heart lurched forward and he plunged downward. Left, right, down and down. He could smell them now, thick with blood and despair. But Lida was singing. She was alive. Good Lida! He banged against the grill, hissing frantically.

Lida's fingers curled through the grill. "Sing," she whispered.

"Are you unguarded? Are their soldiers in the room?"

"No, they're outside the door."

"Sshhh! Sing?" It was Tin Man.

"Are you chained? How many guards?"

"No, just one. Sing – "

He wrenched at the grate. It rattled, shifted.

"He'll hear you!"

Sing gritted his teeth, the points digging into his gums. He threw his weight against the grill. Lida caught it before it could clatter against the stone floor. They froze, listening, but there was no sound from the other side of the cell door. Sing looked in. Four haggard faces turned to his, wide with shock and desperation. Sing's stomach churned. They'd been beaten, even Tin Man, his sides dented and scratched. They wouldn't make it. It had been hard enough for him, and he was still strong. But it was the only way out.

"Come on then, follow me. It's tight, but if I can fit with these things on my back, then so can you. It's straight up for about a hundred feet, but then it's pretty flat. That will be the hardest. Come on. Bigger ones last. Let's go!" He slid back into the tunnel and a moment later felt Lida behind him. Upward. Up was harder. They wouldn't make it. They had to. After a few yards he could feel that they were all in. But Tin Man. He clattered against the sides of the stone tunnels. He would be heard. There was no way they wouldn't hear him.

"Faster!" he hissed, and leapt upward.

But they had been heard, they had been missed. He could hear the muffled shouting of the witchmonger below. They were too high up for him, and he was too afraid to climb after them. They might make it yet. There were hundreds of tunnels, dozens of vents to the outside. They might even run into the city's sewage, and then they would have a straight shot to the outside. Why hadn't he thought of it before? But he didn't know if they needed to go up or down, left or right, to meet the main tunnel network that ran beneath the city. The whole place smelled like sewage.

Up and up. He could feel the change in the air though; they were nearing the bend in the tunnel. Only a few more yards. Suddenly he stopped. What was that? Dorothy let out a faint protest at the sudden stop. Someone grabbed his tail and he flinched. Silence again. There. A faint hissing. Then the sound of shouting below. There were more of them in the cell, waiting. Waiting for them to fall.

Something twitched inside his nose. What was it? The pain hit him before the scent did, driving like shards of glass in his mouth, his nose, his throat. He gasped, felt it sear through his lungs. They'd filled the tunnel with gas. His hands instinctively flew to his face, rubbing, scratching, desperate to remove the irritant. He slid down and felt Lida beneath him. She was coughing hard, her body wracking. They were sliding down, back to the witchmongers.

"Get out! Follow me! Follow me!" he cried, and dug his claws into the algae-slick walls. He twisted into a side tunnel, felt Lida scramble in behind him. He could hear Ray retching. But there was no stopping. The gas was seeping in after them, driving them forward.

Suddenly the tunnel buckled and cracked beneath them. Sing lurched forward. Tin Man shouted.

"It's magicked! She's found us!"

"Go! Go! Faster!" Sing sprang forward, felt the tunnel breaking open beneath him. He spread his wings just before he hit the ground, barely slowing his descent. He heard the others hitting the ground behind him, Tin Man's crash, Dorothy's sharp cry of pain. He scrambled to his feet.

They were in one of the dark prison corridors. This one was wide, the floor and walls stone, torchlight flickering on the walls. He heard shouting in the corridor, saw witchmongers gathering behind them and along the walls around them, their claws bared and weapons raised. Then he saw her. The Witch.

Lida lay gasping on the floor. Pain shot through her hips when she moved, but she forced herself upright. She could smell the hot, rotting breath of the witchmongers, feel the chill of the Witch's power. Desperately she looked to her companions. Sing crouched low, defensive, against the stone floor. Tin Man lay in a heap, staring up at the Witch. Ray clutched his arm, his face pale from the pain. Dorothy. She lay motionless.

"What is this!" The Witch's voice rose to a shriek. "How did they escape? No one escapes my dungeons! Who was their guard?" She spun, her eyes piercing through the crowd of cowering witchmongers, fixing on one huddled in the back. Her fingers twitched madly, her eyes grew black. The witchmonger began to melt, curdling and shrieking. Lida tore her eyes away, fixing them in terror on the Witch.

"You! I should have never trusted those worthless creatures! I should have come after you myself!" She turned her black gaze on Sing and he flattened against the floor, his wings twitching in agony.

"No!" Lida sprang forward, breaking the Witch's gaze for only a moment before she forced back. Sing lay still. The Witch's fury had risen beyond control. She lashed out again, this time at Tin Man. His body jerked into the air, his metal twisting, crushing. Lida lunged to his side as his body hit the ground. His chest gaped open, empty, his magicked soul slipping out. The world closed in around her, pressing her in, only in, to him.

"Tin Man." She clutched his mangled hand. From some muffled distance she heard Ray screaming for Dorothy. Tin Man. Her only father. She needed him. It was too much. Too much.

His fingers twitched against hers. His last voice whispered in her ear. "I love you." She choked, lay her forehead on his shoulder. "I have to believe you can get out, Lida. I've seen you practicing."

"I can't! I can't, I'm not strong enough, I'm not ready. Dorothy was our only hope."

"No, Lida. I lied to you. Dorothy never killed the wicked witch of the West. She was just a girl, younger than you. She wasn't the last hope. You are. Come on. Try your best." He pressed his cold lips to her temple in a gesture he could never master in life, but did in death.

"Ha! Cling to that wad of scrap metal. Cry, cry," the Witch mocked. "All your friends are dead, or will be. Crying is all you have left. And to think you trusted in such a puppet as her." Dorothy's body twitched like some morbid marionette, a low moan escaping her lips. Dread tightened in Lida's chest. So death really was terrifying. But no, there was something else blooming inside her like a tree too large for the pot it had been placed in. It seeped out, pushing, forcing. It would burst out and shatter the pot if it was not contained.

The Witch laughed, and wriggled her fingers at her. Pain shot through Lida's chest, tearing her apart. But the tree burst out, forcing away all else. The Witch stumbled back, shock spreading over her face. Lida towered to her feet, impossibly tall. The witchmongers shrank back, scattered. The Witch raised her hands and Lida pushed out. She felt a jolt as their magic met, intertwined, fought to overbalance each other. She had rarely used violent magic before, only on the occasional drakk or witchmonger, and never with much success. But never had she felt such murderous fury pulsing through her. Her magic flared, erupted, so hot she could see its pale red lines as it traced through the air. Slowly it inched forward, pushing back the Witch's line.

But suddenly the Witch pushed back. Lida slammed against the wall, felt the rocks crushing against her back. Her magic faltered, waned, flickered out. The torch light dimmed, snuffed out. Only the slowing rush of her blood in her ears. Death wasn't terrifying at all, once you got to it. It was like falling asleep, the place between consciousness and dreams, where reality blended with nonsense.

She could hear Tin Man talking to her, but couldn't quite make out what he was saying. Bright flashes of color, light, pictures, flashed past her. The silhouette of Sing flying across the sun. The hot air balloon flaring above her. The house – lifted by a twisting pillar of clouds – dropped down upon the Witch.

The world shook around her, the ceiling burst open. Just one cracked segment, dropped upon her head, was enough to kill the Witch, who had not been expecting the roof to fall in. Lida slid down the wall, exhausted but whole.

Ding Dong. The Witch was dead.

Oz was in mourning, but Oz was rejoicing. One of their greatest heroes had fallen, but they were free at last.

Tin Man was buried in the woods he had loved, with an axe and an apple in his hands. Sing's wings had been mended by Lida's magic, as well as Ray's arm. There was still much work to be done. The munchkins to be returned to their homes; the Emerald City to be purged of the evil that still fouled it; the witchmongers to be forgiven or driven beyond the deserts. A new balloon to be built for Dorothy and Ray to return to Kansas.

But Lida decided to surprise them. So while they slept she tried something she wasn't sure she could do. It was strange watching someone disappear. One moment they were there, and the next – had she blinked? – they were gone. She smiled at their empty bed. There was no place like home.

Dorothy blinked awake at the sunlight sliding through a crack in their bedroom curtains. What a strange dream. It was already becoming fuzzy. But she remembered Tin Man. She smiled softly. Good Tin Man. She stretched, pulling the blankets off Ray. He moaned, shifting, then sat up.

"I had the weirdest dream," he yawned.

"Really? Me too. You first."

He grinned. "It's weird. There was this man made of tin, and a flying monkey, and a midget, and – we went to some place and fought this evil Witch, and – "

They looked at each other. "Your watch," she whispered. He grabbed for it on the dresser, but it was already on his wrist. 11:13