Title: The Grand Vizier of Oz
Author: Sedri
Rating: PG-13 / T
Summary: "Please come back - you're my daughter, I'd do anything -!" She stopped, hand half-raised and ready to cast a spell. "Anything?" AU, Fiyero/Elphaba. Complete.

Disclaimer: Neither Wicked nor the world of Oz are mine in any way.

Author's Notes: The name "Teani" comes from Daughter of the Empire by Raymond E Feist and Janny Wurts.

Chapter Fifteen
In Theory and Practice

Year 23
Summer

Knock, knock... knock?

"Come in!"

The heavy wooden door squeaked open, almost as tentative as the boy who stood behind it. "Erm... Headmaster Dillamond sir?"

The Goat looked up from his papers, eyes drifting across the uncomfortably opulent office before finding the student who was acting as his secretary. "Yes, Rollin, what is it?" he asked.

"There's – there's someone here to see you, sir," stammered Rollin, quickly glancing over his shoulder. "A visitor."

"I have a lot of visitors," Dillamond said patiently. "Why don't you just let them in?"

"Well, sir... sir, it's not a normal vi–"

"Oh, get over it," snapped a familiar voice, and suddenly Dillamond broke into a wide smile.

"Miss Elphaba!" he cried, standing just as the green woman elbowed her way in. In spite of the minor battle, she looked very happy.

"Doctor Dillamond," she said, smiling as he hurried around the desk to greet her properly. Warmly shaking his offered hooves, she asked, "Or should I call you 'Headmaster' now?"

"I would rather you didn't," he said fondly. "It's not a title I'm fond of – Lady Vizier," he added lightly, teasing. Rollin backed out, closing the door, and Elphaba shrugged.

"I'm used to it. There are other names around for me that aren't nearly as nice."

"Fame and power will do that to anyone, my dear, particularly one who makes lives as difficult as you do. But please, come in, come in."

Still smiling, she followed him. "In that case, it's a surprise that they haven't come up with anything worse than 'Green Lady'. Or maybe Glinda's just not telling me."

"I wouldn't be surprised. Your friend cares for you very much," said Dillamond. "Do sit down," he urged, gesturing away from the desk and to a pair of comfortable-looking chairs near a large window. "Would you like some tea?"

"Please," said Elphaba, taking off her pointed hat and shaking out her hair. Outside, students were chatting as they ate lunch and laughed in the sunlight, their faint voices and blurry shapes filtering through the window, and Elphaba smiled, feeling curiously at home. Her host poured generously from a still-hot teapot that Rollin had delivered not long ago, carefully handing over her cup before filling his own.

"So," he said, tucking his tail and sitting down opposite her, "what brings you back to Shiz, Miss Elphaba? That master's thesis we discussed, perhaps?" he asked hopefully. "Or is this just a sentimental visit to your old professor?"

"Actually, I need your help," she said, "as a scholar of Ozian history. If you have time, of course."

"My dear girl," said Dillamond, "for you, there is always time. What can I do?"

Smiling, she opened her satchel and pulled out a thick sheaf of papers – mostly letters, by the look of them, with other bits and pieces covered in her sprawling, messy handwriting. "I'm guessing you know about the trouble we've been having with employers turning down Animal applicants, especially for hospitality and care-giving positions."

He nodded solemnly. "Unfortunately. My niece, Teani, has been refused a position by three primary schools in spite of her teaching certificate. 'Too emotionally distant from the children', one said." He snorted.

Elphaba frowned. "Didn't she graduate with honours?"

"Indeed. Special commendation for 'innovative self-motivation techniques'."

"Hmph. Well, Saint Ellion's Middle School has been pestering us to let them expand into the lower levels; give me Teani's application and I'll see that they get it."

Dillamond's brow raised in surprise. "That's very generous," he said, "but... well, I wouldn't want you to be accused of favouritism."

"I'll ask Glinda to convince them that it's a show of good faith, or good for their image, or something like that – she can talk anyone around. But anyway, that's a perfect example of the problem. For months now I've been trying to find a common thread in the cases. There are more than two hundred petitions, letters of complaint and court transcripts, and the only thing that's the same every time is that humans aren't willing to accept Animals as their equals."

"A sad truth," sighed Dillamond. "What can I do?"

She laced her fingers together. "I'm trying to put together a new legislation that would require all employers to sign an anti-discrimination agreement before they can hire anyone, Animal or human. It won't solve everything, but it would give us more room to prosecute unfair dismissals and offer tax benefits to anyone who does employ Animals. Theoretically, I can pass it into law without having the approval of the cabinet or anyone else – except the Wizard, of course," she added quickly, as though she'd completely forgotten, "but he agrees anyway. What we're worried about is that it might spark a big protest unless we can prove that this prejudice really is new."

The Doctor scoffed indignantly. "They're actually pretending things have always been this way?"

"Some are. They claim that Oz has always been led by humans because Animals are somehow incapable, rather than because the Ozma Dynasties were hereditary. I think it's mostly ministers and earls who don't want competition in government, but they've convinced a lot of people, and it's a good excuse for anyone who's biased. We just don't have any hard evidence to prove otherwise. That's why I'm here," she said. "We want to put together a document that can show, in no uncertain terms, that there's absolutely no historical precedent for this racism and that Ozian society has had mixed species in power, just not at the royal level. Glinda and Fiyero and I have been organising the evidence we have from today–" she gestured to the letters and transcripts on the table "–but we haven't been able to find much at all about pre-bias times. There doesn't seem to be anything published about it, and we're not really sure where else to look."

A thoughtful frown. "Just how far back in history are you trying to go, Miss Elphaba?"

"As far as we can," she replied. "Not just the early Ozma queen dynasties, but... well, back. Pre-civilisation, if there is anything. If Lurline ever made some divine pronouncement about an Animal being a good mayor, that's perfect. It needs to be as irrefutable as possible."

Dillamond's tufty eyebrows lifted almost to the roof. "That," he said, "is a tall order."

She winced, briefly looking like the awkward schoolgirl he remembered. "Really?"

"I'm afraid so," replied the Goat with a sigh, leaning back in his chair. "The evidence you need could be buried in any one of hundreds of original texts, some of which have never even been catalogued. You'd need to search law books, sociology texts, even scientific journals, and that's not counting all the primary sources we have in storage awaiting study. More to the point, even with all that, I'm not sure we could produce the sheer volume of data you'd need to ward off accusations of bias."

Elphaba gave an embarrassed smile, looking at her hands. "I was hoping," she confessed, "that you'd just... know."

He laughed kindly. "My dear, I wish I did! And while I appreciate your confidence in me, I'm afraid it's simply not that easy. Still," he added thoughtfully, sipping his tea, "it's not impossible."

She perked up, encouraged, and he smiled.

"I couldn't do it alone, of course, even without all this administrative fuss–" he waved one hoof towards the stacks of paperwork on his desk "–but it could work as a group project for the senior classes. I've been wanting to add another upper-level course to the curriculum anyway, and I could probably get Professor Kevrik to pull his political science students in as well. Thirty or so young minds would work much faster than two doddering old men."

They shared a smile at this, both perfectly aware that Dillamond was neither old nor as frail as he seemed despite the awful treatment he'd suffered during his brief incarceration; something about being called 'Headmaster' seemed to give people the wrong impression.

"If you could," said Elphaba, immensely grateful, "that would be wonderful."

"It would take time," he warned. "Thorough research can't be rushed, and there will be a lot of debate over the interpretations involved."

Elphaba shook her head. "As much as I hate to say it, I don't expect to pass this law in less than a year anyway. Take all the time you need, and thank you."

He smiled fondly at her. "You are most welcome. We may even manage it in six months, if luck holds. Shiz does have one of the best libraries in Oz, and as you know, many scholars come here for weeks on end just to use it. Hmm," he added, a thought striking him, "maybe I could convince them to help..."

"Well, the Royal Archives are always at your disposal," offered Elphaba, "as is the City Library. We could send the texts here, but if anyone wants to stay in the city for a while, they're more than welcome." She grinned impishly. "We could use some more intelligent people in the palace anyway."

Dillamond chuckled. "That will make my graduate students very happy. Of course," he added lightly, "then they'll all dash off to the city mid-semester and leave me to lecture to empty rooms."

She tilted her head slightly, pausing to swallow a sip of tea. "You still teach? Personally, I mean? I didn't think most headmasters did that."

"Teaching is my life, Miss Elphaba," he replied solemnly, "I could never give it up." With a tired sigh he sat back in the chair. "I was lucky, I think, to have found my passion so early. Many people spend their entire lives chasing idle fantasies and never really yearn for anything. It's rather sad, being so... empty."

"When you put it that way, I suppose I'm lucky, too," said Elphaba pensively, stirring her drink. "I could never have tried to get this job; it just happened, and so many things could have gone wrong since that didn't. For all the headaches, I'm glad to do what I do."

Dillamond nodded slowly, hard digits tapping against his teacup. "It must be strange for you," he mused, "living that sort of life. I can see you running law courts and lecturing on prejudice, but fancy galas and public ceremonies? I wouldn't think it suits you."

"It doesn't – it suits Glinda," she said, shrugging. "I only show my face when necessary. But I can't complain; there are so many people, humans and Animals, who want to change the world and can't just because they're stuck where they are, powerless. I'm quite willing to stand and smile at stupid ceremonies if it means I can actually get things done."

There was a silence then, a comfortable one in which Doctor Dillamond smiled thoughtfully at his young friend, horns rubbing against the headrest as he studied her. "You are my favourite kind of student, Miss Elphaba," he said suddenly. "You know exactly what you want to learn in life, and you go out there and use it."

She smiled, flattered, but puzzled also. Her head tilted. "I thought you always said that knowledge should be valued for its own sake, and never treated as a tool."

"Indeed, and I believe that, but it's not quite what I meant." Pausing a moment, he tried to phrase himself better. "I delight," he clarified, "in passing on knowledge, in provoking questions in the minds of my students, and in making them think, but there are times when all the study in the world seems useless."

"The day you were arrested," she said quietly. He nodded.

"There was nothing I could do but urge you and your classmates to think. I have never, in all my life, been more frightened than I was that day."

Silence. Heavy.

"But!" said Dillamond brightly, trying to break his own gloomy air, "that's all over now, and I have you to thank for it."

Elphaba shrugged modestly. "You've thanked me before."

"And I can never thank you enough," he replied. "You saved my life by alerting the Wizard, and since then you've done so much for me and my kin that we are forever in your debt." He leaned forward, quite serious, very kind. "Always remember, Miss Elphaba, that although some may choose to mock and blame you for their troubles, the rest of us never will."

She blushed, a patch of purple appearing on each cheek, and looked down into her teacup. "Well, I... I just wish there wasn't such a large percentage of humans in the world."

"For that, you can hardly blame yourself."

Elphaba nodded, but awkwardly, uncertain, and Dillamond had to remind himself how young she really was. "Well," he said, "while you're here, would you care to see the new Life Sciences building you funded last year? I have to say, it's quite impressive."

"Please, I've been wondering about that," she replied, grateful, and put down the teacup. "You've made quite a few changes since I left, haven't you?" she asked, standing up with him and picking up her hat. "Two new buildings? Or was it three?"

"Three. Ambitious, I know, but we've needed them for years. Would you like to see them, too?" he offered, opening the office door and startling poor, nervous Rollin.

"A tour?" asked Elphaba, smiling. "I'd love one."

It was a beautiful day to wander Shiz grounds, and in spite of the expected stares she received, Elphaba quite enjoyed it. As they walked they talked, chatting first about the science building they wandered through, then letting the conversation drift to other topics. It was nice, in a way, to be the centre of attention in this place where she had once been an outcast. Most passing teachers and even a few of the braver students stopped to say hello, and Elphaba had a nice time greeting the lecturers who had taught her and meeting those who had not. Being Grand Vizier did have its benefits.

"This hall was quite a delight to commission," said Dillamond proudly as they strolled leisurely towards a cluster of dormitories. "It's not quite finished yet, but with so many Animals now enrolling on scholarship, some of whom would never be comfortable in rooms designed for humans... well, it was only natural."

They rounded the corner of Elphaba's old dorm, Crage Hall, to find themselves facing the skeleton of a brand-new building. The bricklayers were working hard, about two floors up, and a record player somewhere inside was churning out a loud, catchy song that was very rude if you actually listened to the lyrics. Little of the final result could be seen, but Doctor Dillamond spent about ten minutes gesturing and describing such little details as the extra-large door handles that would make things easier for hoofed persons like himself and the special lightweight window frames they were using so that Mice and the smaller Dogs wouldn't have to ask a friend to help every time they wanted some fresh air. They were all little things, mostly luxuries with only a few necessities, but all of it would be very much appreciated by their eventual inhabitants.

"Were there never dorms like this before?" asked Elphaba as they sat down on a bench near the greenery, and Doctor Dillamond absently picked up a few pesky weeds for a snack. "Before all this bias began, I mean. Shiz wasn't always so human-centric."

"Certainly not," said the Goat, "but there was a fire about twenty years ago that destroyed the old Geology wing and several dormitories. At that point, the financiers were lobbying fiercely for standardisation of design to ease up on the building budgets and there weren't enough Animal students to outweigh their argument."

Typical. And worse, thought Elphaba, even something as obvious as that wouldn't be proof enough for the closed-minded humans who were causing most of her problems right now. She sighed, leaning back on the bench and looking up at the half-finished grand arch that would be the formal entrance to the dorm. As with other such buildings, there was a large stone plaque embedded above it, grandly proclaiming its name and the full titles of whichever rich or influential person it had been dedicated to. This one, curiously, was blank.

"No name?" she asked, puzzled.

"It's still undecided," said Dillamond, shaking his head. With a wry smile he added, "The faculty won't stop arguing. I'm on the verge of putting it out to the students for a vote."

Elphaba, who spent more than enough of her own time listening to ministers squabble over similar things, chuckled. "What are the options?" she asked.

"Well, something after the Wizard, of course, but half the things in Oz are already named for him and we're not that creative. It's been suggested that we name it after you–" her eyes widened in horror, and she vehemently shook her head, no! "–but I assumed you wouldn't want that," finished Dillamond, smiling. "Then there are generic suggestions, like 'Red Sands' or 'Wicassa', but at the moment the preferred option is 'Morrible Hall'."

An old and very familiar streak of cold guilt dropped into Elphaba's belly. "After Madame Morrible," she said quietly, unnecessarily. Dillamond nodded.

"Apparently such an esteemed headmistress deserves a permanent memorial," he said, and in his voice there was a strange note of... something, which Elphaba just couldn't place.

"You don't agree?" she asked.

He shuffled in his seat. "I... withhold my opinion on the matter. The Madame and I were not the most friendly of colleagues."

An understatement; it seemed they'd avoided each other at all costs. Aside from the day he was dismissed, the only time Elphaba had really seen them interact was when that horrible graffiti had been found on his chalkboard, and the rush he'd been in to change the subject spoke of anything but friendship. Come to think of it, he'd never said a word about her since, except to console his horrified student, who had – and had only, as far as he knew – witnessed the woman's death. He himself was never really upset. "You didn't like her," Elphaba stated.

"I did not... trust her," said Dillamond. Then he sighed. "No, I didn't like her, either. Not to speak ill of the dead, but Madame Morrible was very... uncooperative. She frequently disregarded my warnings about growing discrimination, and she would say things – quite innocent things, on the surface, but they felt like warnings, even threats, and there were times..." He paused, looking at her, both aware that despite their friendship, Elphaba was now a government official and obliged to take accusations seriously. "I have no evidence," he disclaimed, "but there were times when she said or did things that made me sure she was actively campaigning for more Animal Bans."

"Such wingspan! Won't they make perfect spies?"

Elphaba shook her head, pushing away the sharp memory that suddenly wrapped her chest in knots. "Why would she do that?"

The question was whispered, and Doctor Dillamond leaned over to look at her, puzzled. "I can only speak from my own observation, of course," he replied carefully, "but it seemed to me that the Madame enjoyed wielding power over others. She was ambitious, and had a desire for control that was kept very well concealed."

"You planned all this?"

"For you too, dearie – you benefit, too!"

The cold knot in her chest tightened and Elphaba must have winced, for Dillamond gently touched her shoulder. "Are you all right?" he asked worriedly. "Surely you – you did know? You asked to see her student and teaching files last year."

Elphaba shook her head, dropping it into both hands. "Not for the reasons you think," she said. "I... I'd stumbled across a few things, in old records. Odd things, about her. I was hoping they weren't true."

"What kinds of things?"

His tone was patient, kind, and she appreciated that. "Little things," said Elphaba. "Her name was on a petition that could have banned Animals from using trains twenty years ago. She funded campaigns by two anti-Animal legislators. Her husband was the first to submit a Ban proposal to the cabinet and he died suspiciously after it was rejected. But all that could have been coincidence, with an innocent explanation. I thought her Shiz records might prove her character."

Dillamond was quiet. They both knew otherwise: During Malia Morrible's five years of study, two Animal professors had been fired – one for unspecified reasons, the other for supposed misconduct toward an anonymous female student. As a teacher she'd given evidence against a Wildebeest, who also lost his job, and as Headmistress she'd changed many rules – little, subtle things that most people paid no attention to – soon after which the percentage of Animal students had dropped to nearly nothing.

And then she'd died. There was a painful sort of justice in that, but Elphaba wanted no part of it – no matter what kind of person she'd been, the fact remained that she was dead and Elphaba had been the one who killed her. Yes, it was an accident, but it was still her fault, and the same part of her that was so fair when judging others was immeasurably harder on herself. She thought she deserved her guilt.

Since moving into the city, Elphaba had visited the memorial garden outside the palace at least once a week, a sort of penance that she strictly adhered to no matter what was happening around her. Once it had been clear what those records were saying, she'd slammed the books shut and shoved them aside, trying to silence the little voice that suggested that maybe the Madame was not so innocent, and that maybe – just maybe – she'd deserved what she got.

Maybe Elphaba didn't have to feel so terrible.

A swirl of lime-green silk.

The painted face, frozen in shock.

The bloodstain, spreading, spreading–

No. That blood was on her hands, and she would not reason it away with talk of "deserving" or "justice". She wouldn't spend her life wallowing in guilt, either – that was worse than useless – but she would not let anything try to make her feel better about it.

"Ah," said Dillamond, completely unaware of her conflict. "I'm sorry. I didn't realise you liked her so much."

If only that had been the problem. "It's all right," said Elphaba, trying to shake off her mood. "She did a lot for me, but we weren't close. I didn't dislike her – not the way Glinda did – but we weren't friends, either."

The Doctor's brow furrowed. "Miss Glinda didn't like her?" he asked – then, catching himself, hurriedly added, "Or would you rather not–?"

"It's fine," she assured him, straightening up and habitually taking on the 'unconcerned' posture Glinda had drilled into her years ago in etiquette lessons. "It was nothing terrible, just that the Madame never believed she could make it as a sorceress. She didn't want her in our seminar. Glinda took it personally."

"I see," said Dillamond, nodding. Elphaba shrugged and sighed.

"It's over now," she said. "I try not to think about it. The dead should rest in peace." Leaning back, she looked up at the half-finished building and tilted her head. "You know, I think 'Wicassa Hall' would be a good name. After the town in eastern Gillikin, right?"

"After its founder, actually," said Dillamond. "Don't you know the story?"

She shook her head.

"It's really quite fascinating," he said, easily slipping into what his students fondly called 'storyteller mode'. "Wicassa was a Horse born in Munchkinland during the reign of Ozma the Harmonious, and when he was about three, he stumbled across something rather odd in the Applerue river..."

Elphaba stayed at Shiz for another two days, the journey having been too long to be justified by a single afternoon of talk. She met with the postgraduate history students, explained her project and its goals, and watched their eyes light up with obsessed-researcher joy when she offered them use of the entire Royal Archives for their study. She looked up a few things of her own in Shiz Library's rare collections and discussed some more serious issues with the university staff, as that was her official reason for coming in the first place. Mostly, though, she spent her time with Doctor Dillamond, sipping tea and chatting in the Headmaster's office.

On her last morning, the two of them were in the middle of a lengthy discussion about historical interpretations of the Oziad when the student secretary, Rollin, knocked and peeked in, looking more distressed than usual. "Sir, I'm sorry, but there's a visitor for Lady Elphaba and he just won't–"

"Miss Elba!"

"Chistery?" Blinking, Elphaba rose from her seat, turning to the door. To Rollin, who was blocking the way, she said, "Well, let him in."

Rollin stepped aside and was nearly trampled by the winged Monkey whose memory regarding manners often got lost when he was excited. "Miss Elba, a letter!" he called, hurrying in and offering a wrinkled envelope. "From Miss Nessrose!"

Elphaba's eyes widened and she snatched it immediately, tearing it open and starting to read. Ever tactful, Doctor Dillamond turned to greet Chistery, whom he hadn't seen since the rest of the Monkey clan left Shiz several months ago. At the sight of Chistery's sweat-soaked clothes and drooping wings, he stopped short and exclaimed, "You're exhausted! Here, sit down, have some water," he offered, gesturing to his own chair and frowning at the crumpled map shoved roughly into one pocket. "Did you... fly here?"

That caught Elphaba's attention, and she looked up just in time to see Chistery nod. "Wanted to try," he explained, gulping the liquid. "Miss Nessrose's letter arrived one days after you left, and I know it being important to you, Miss Elba."

Aw. Smiling, grateful, Elphaba reached across the armrests to her friend and squeezed his hand. "Thank you," she said. "But Chistery, you didn't have to."

"That what Miss Glinda said," he replied lightly. "I wanted to. Is the letter good news?"

Elphaba looked back down at the neat handwriting and nodded, smiling widely as she read the last of the one-page message. "It is. She... well, she's being all holier-than-thou and saying the Unnamed God has forgiven her, meaning I should too, but she's formally invited me to come home, and that's... more than I expected. She does miss me."

Doctor Dillamond didn't understand this, gathering only that there had been some sort of spat between the Thropp sisters, but could read Elphaba's face easily enough to guess her intentions. "I take it you'll be leaving now, then?" he asked.

She looked up, somewhat sheepishly, but nodded. "I need to be back in the City by the end of the week, and if I don't leave now I'll be pressed for time. I'm sorry."

"Don't be, my dear; you were leaving today anyway, and this has been a wonderful visit." He offered a hoofed hand to shake hers. "I look forward to seeing you again, Madame Vizier."

Elphaba smiled. "And you, Headmaster. Thanks again for helping with my research."

"A pleasure," he replied, then glanced at the worn-out Monkey on his armchair. "Will you be staying a while, Chistery?"

Chistery swallowed another large gulp of water, eyes darting between them. "Would like to go with Miss Elba..."

Realising what he was thinking, Elphaba quickly shook her head. "Don't worry, Chistery," she said. "We'll take the train."

A few days later, in the Emerald City, Press Secretary Lady Glinda Upland of the Arduenna Clan was enjoying one of her rare afternoons off, and she was not shopping. Nor was she socialising, or writing to her parents, or planning some upcoming ball with her tailor and caterer. Instead she was indulging in her other great love – magic.

Soon after moving into the palace, she and Elphie had commandeered a large out-of-the-way-room in the south wing and turned it into a workshop. Besides the Grimmerie itself, which was usually kept on Elphaba's person or hidden by spells in the bookshelves of her room, every practical or theoretical text ever published on the workings of magic had been gathered there for their use, along with a plethora of training wands, cauldrons, potion ingredients and test objects, which they used when working or experimenting with their powers. Demands of state and all the other things happening in life meant that neither sorceress could use the place as often as they liked, but when there was time, or need, the girls enjoyed locking themselves away and practicing their craft.

Really, it was a very nice room. Set on one rounded corner of the central green building, its windows faced south and west, allowing for a great deal of sunshine to brighten the smooth walls and clean, tiled floor. It was not green, thankfully, since the rest of the city really had quite enough of that, but rather a soft silvery-grey which, when combined with the white light and the well-polished wooden tables, made for a warm and very pleasant atmosphere.

The hundreds of unpoppable bubbles floating around didn't hurt, either.

Glinda was standing in the centre of the room, hands on her hips, sunlight glinting off the buckles on her shoes, and glaring. This was really getting quite out of hand; all she'd meant to do was test a little transport spell she and Elphie had translated out of the Grimmerie last week, and look what had happened!

Sighing, and trying not to swallow any of the tiny pink bubbles, Glinda turned back to the table and leaned over the text, re-reading every word and painstakingly checking them all until she was sure she'd found the only error. Then she re-wrote the entire thing, calculated the effects of the problematic word, flipped through her old notes, worked out the counter-spell, and chanted it.

Half of the bubbles disappeared. All the others turned green.

She very nearly stamped her foot. "I know that one was right," she told the world at large. "I know it. So either there's something wrong with fifty other spells too, or you're just being mean to me."

The world at large did not answer.

Frowning, Glinda sat down, perfect nails tapping lightly on the paper as she considered her problem. The translation itself couldn't be wrong – every word in both chants had been used before in other spells with perfect success. True, this ancient language baffled every linguist she'd spoken to, and none of them could find even the slightest connection to Modern Ozian, but Elphaba's odd instincts were enough to grapple with basic meanings and the rest could be worked out from there. They had asked other practicing sorcerers for opinions too, but there really wasn't much to offer: Magic was a mysterious force, and what little was known about harnessing it had come about mostly by accident or through trial and error.

Still, it couldn't be random. There had to be an explanation in there somewhere, if only she could find it.

"Adney prae, eleka abunae," she muttered, fingertips running over the dry ink. "Adney prae, eleka abunae. Why does that sound so familiar...?"

She leafed through her notebook, a collection of pages copied from the Grimmerie and heavily annotated, patiently reading through them one by one. It took quite a while – she didn't want to miss anything, after all – but eventually she found what she was looking for: a very similar-looking chant, which she faintly remembered having tried, and accomplished, last month. Not too surprisingly, it was a duplication spell.

Reading through the page, Glinda carefully compared the two. They were similar, but not remarkably so. The two short phrases appeared in different places and at different times, were separated by a fifth word in the duplication spell ("eleka abunae atum adney prae"), and had quite different rhythms and pacing – it shouldn't have been possible to mix them up.

But somehow, she must have.

Glinda rubbed her forehead. This wasn't making sense. As Madame Lunnor had explained in their second year at Shiz, spells worked, in essence, by channelling the caster's will into the object or situation they wanted to affect. Therefore, intention was an extremely powerful factor, and words were the modifiers that directed magic safely. Trying to force the right result with the wrong words could lead to disaster – the winged Monkeys were just one such example. On the other hand, long familiarity with any given spell made it easier to cast, just as a route would be easier to walk after many trips had already worn a footpath; eventually, no directions were needed at all. Absently, and certainly without any long or complex chant, Glinda waved her hand at the mass of floating bubbles, which obediently swept themselves up and, following her pointed finger, settled into the large glass bowl sitting on the table.

If Glinda had been familiar with the duplication spell the similar chants might have caused her to direct the magic down that path out of habit, but simply put, that wasn't the case; she'd only tried it twice, a mere month ago, and while there hadn't been trouble, it hadn't been easy either.

No, it had to be in the words themselves. Something in her chant was misdirecting the entire process, but it couldn't be the pronunciation – she compared her notes to original Grimmerie pages just to be sure, but the funny-looking faded runes matched her phonetic and alphabetic transcripts. That was not the problem.

With another heavy sigh, Glinda pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and began re-doing the most tedious part of spell-casting – translating ancient words into modern ones. It wasn't easy; the Grimmerie's grammar was odd, and its vocabulary very noun-heavy by most standards, but she was used to it, and some parts were simpler than others. "Eleka" and "abunae", for instance – they meant "create" and "same", respectfully, and the fifth word of the duplication chant, "atum", just meant "inanimate object".

The rest was harder – party because it was a dead language, partly because they had to rely on Elphaba's intuition for the phonetics, but mostly because many words just didn't have an exact match in Modern Ozian. "Transport", for instance, was a nice and simple concept when you had one clear-cut word for it, but the first time Elphie studied this page, she'd had to cobble together the meaning from several different words scattered through the explanatory text, including one, "adney", which was making trouble now. Glinda turned to another notebook, running her finger down their woefully incomplete vocabulary list. "Adney", like several words in this confusifying language, could have different meanings depending on its context: next to a verb-marker like "prae" it meant "movement", but in other circumstances it could mean "mountain" or, when next to a noun, the number eight.

...Well, "atum" was a noun. Unlike the original authors of the Grimmerie, who seemed to only say their spells once, as incantations, Glinda and Elphaba always had to repeat the words, since, unless they were angry, they had to build up power slowly. By doing so, they made one continuous flow of words, putting "atum" directly before "adney" when the cycle began again. So if this chant was structured so that its grammar forced "adney" to mean "eight"...

It would make eight times as many of the things she was trying to move!

Glinda's pen flew, scratching clear through a sheet of paper as she rushed to scribble down her thoughts. Most inconveniently, there was a knock behind her, which she ignored until it was repeated twice more and Fiyero called her name. With an irritable flick of her hand she gestured towards the door, unlocking it so he could come in, accidentally elbowing her bowl of bubbles in the process.

"Mail just arrived," he said, "I thought you'd–"

"Just a clock-tick, Fiyero; I'm busy being a genius."

His eyebrows lifted in amusement but he waited patiently, closing the door behind him and dumping an armful of things – including a large box – on an empty table, which he then sat on. Glinda was bouncing on the balls of her feet, writing so fast that her quill splattered ink all over the paper and parts of her hands. She didn't care; her smile was huge, her eyes bright, and she was thoroughly wrapped up in the strange spell-casting delight that could send both girls raving for hours, and which, despite their best efforts, no one else could ever really understand.

At last she finished, punctuating her finality with one last hard stab of inked nib on paper, then straightened up. She splayed her ink-dotted hands in the direction of the glass bowl (which was now slowly spilling bubbles onto the floor, thanks to the earlier jolt) and swiftly chanted an unintelligible series of words.

The green bubbles turned pink, then spun, merged, and wound up as two identical shiny spheres, both about the size of one's hand, floating up and down in identical patterns.

Glinda squealed. "LOOK! Look, Fiyero, look! I DID it, I did it, I did it!"

Fiyero, of course, had no idea what she'd been trying to do and wouldn't have understood anyway, but grinned with her and held out his arms to catch her excited hug.

"The counter-spell uses 'calda'!" she cried, squeezing as he gave her a little spin. "' Calda' can mean 'colour' if it comes before 'pes' and since 'quampe' translates to 'green' if it's adjacent to 'peren' it all makes perfect sense!"

Still grinning, Fiyero put her down, keeping one arm around her shoulders as he looked at the scribbled mess of spells with "DUPLICATION" written in big letters up top. "Does that mean you can make two of me now?" he teased.

"No no no no no no no!" she cried, shaking her head and too wrapped up in glee to realise it was a joke. She pointed to a page in the Grimmerie. "See? It clearly says 'atum' and that's only for inanimate objects – I don't want to see what would happen if you forced it on a living being. The verb tense would have to change just to recognise you as the target and... You have no idea what I'm talking about."

He shrugged. "I can follow it. Sort of."

Glinda smiled again and shook her head, smoothing the blotchy paper and watching the twin bubbles, which were still moving in perfect sync, one mimicking the other exactly. "Try grabbing one, will you?" she said. "I want to see what happens if they're forced to do different things."

He looked sceptical. "Grab one?"

"Oh, they're unpoppable. I worked that one out last week– Ooooo! I wonder if the spell for that might still be affecting– But no, it can't, not when it's finalised– Oh, this is so much fun!"

And really, it was, though Fiyero was determined to never admit how hard it was for him to catch a glittery pink bubble. The evil thing was slippery, too, and he could swear it hated him. Glinda caught her one easily, and tried using it to keep the twin still so Fiyero could grab it, but apparently the one she had was the copy, and it didn't command the original. She didn't want to try her familiar pointing spell in case it affected the bubble magic, so Fiyero found himself climbing two chairs, a table, and even balancing one foot on a cauldron in an attempt to get his hands around the smooth and fluttery thing.

When at last he had it, and they could pull in opposite directions to test Glinda's theory, the bubble obeyed for all of three seconds before shooting out of his grip, throwing him off-balance and spinning towards its creator's thin white hand. Fiyero flailed and grabbed a hanging lamp for balance, and Glinda frowned.

"I guess they're attracted to magical people," she mused. "Or just me, because I made it."

Fiyero, still clinging to the lampshade and balanced by his toes on the edge of a table, raised an eyebrow at her. "Maybe."

Finally noticing, she smothered a laugh and absently cast the two bubbles out of existence. "Oh, Fiyero, I'm sorry – here, I'll help you down. Sorry, sorry; I never even asked why you came up here."

He waved it off and jumped to the floor, landing in a crouch. "To be attacked by evil pink bubbles, of course," he replied lightly, dusting himself off. "Isn't that what everybody does?"

She chuckled, shaking her head as they made their way to the small couch that sat in a patch of sunlight by one window. "Not usually."

Fiyero chuckled. "The mail arrived," he answered, reaching across the table where he'd put everything; "there's a package for you. Your assistant was going to bring it up, but apparently you were casting something very noisy at the time and scared him off. Blue smoke?"

"Side-effect of a potion," she explained, looking at the large parcel. "Is that it?"

"'Lady Glinda of the Arduenna'," he read from the address line. "I think so. You might want to check with the census, though; could be another one living here."

"It's from Granny!" said Glinda happily as she noticed the return address. "Granny Arduenna, why would she be sending me–? ...Oh."

"What?"

Glinda gestured to the wide, round package. "It's a hatbox," she said, looking warily at the brown wrapping, "which means another hideodious hat. Last time I didn't wear her present in public she complained about it for a month. That's a lot of letters, Fiyero."

He looked sympathetic. "You can't pretend it was lost in the mail?"

"Granny would fire the servant who delivered it. She never sends anything by public post anymore." Glinda sighed. "Nothing to do but open it, I guess."

"Well, how bad could it be?" said Fiyero, reaching for a tool with which to cut the bindings. Glinda narrowed her eyes at him. Clearly she'd imagined more than enough 'how bad?' scenarios already.

"Bad. The one I gave Elphie was practically elegant compared to what she sent me on my last birthday."

"That bright orange one with the springy streamers?"

"No, that was Lurlinemas. I got the spotted mauve one on my birthday." The protective paper was off now, spreading in a little brown pool around the deceptively plain white hatbox. Glinda took a deep breath, and lifted the lid.

She winced.

Fiyero winced with her.

"That's... bad," he said.

"Yes," nodded Glinda, her lovely face pained. "It is."

Only because his hands were already soiled by pink bubbles was Fiyero brave enough to reach in and lift the horrible thing from its container.

Glinda waited, peeking between her fingers, then scrunched her eyes shut and groaned. "It's a crown," she moaned. "It's a shiny pink crown with fluttery spikes and a star on the forehead. Those things have been out of fashion for decades."

Fiyero considered that, turning the bead-edged thing around in his hands. "Are you sure it's a hat?" he asked. "It looks like a bottomless plant pot."

"It's a hat," sighed Glinda. "And you know, I don't think there's a single thing about this one that I could possibly compliment. At least last time I could say mauve was 'an unusual colour'."

"Puce comes close," offered Fiyero, putting the 'hat' down and letting it roll across the table. "Could you burn it?"

"Tried that last time."

"'Lose' it?"

"Done it twice. Granny was heartbroken."

"Donate to orphans?"

"She'd just buy me another."

"...Damn. I'm out of options."

Glinda shook her head and sighed. "I'll just take it along next time I visit her and Grandpop. My puffy pink ball gown should clash the least, but I'll need to get some sort of sparkly shawl..." She looked at Fiyero. "Any other horrors in the mailbox today?"

He shook his head, reaching for the envelopes left on the table. "All the official ones are on your desk, but I thought you should see these. One's from Elphaba."

"Oh good," exclaimed Glinda, pulling the folded sheets out of the open envelope. "I've been wondering what Nessa has to say for herself."

"Not much, apparently," said Fiyero, who had read it before coming up. "Elphaba's being much too understanding about it, as usual, but she does say Nessa went on and on about religion – about how the Unnamed God's messages are complicated and He works in mysterious ways, and how His servants must love and obey without question..."

"Ugh," groaned Glinda, who had just found the relevant paragraphs. "So basically–"

"Nessa's passing off the entire thing as though she were the victim and deserves apologies. She's got enough sense to know she can't win Boq back but won't admit that Elphaba was right."

"And now Elphie's back to that whole 'I ought to do more for her' spiel that she was stuck in for three months last year," said Glinda, still reading the letter. She came to a particularly self-deprecating line and sighed. "Oh, Elphie, why do you have to fall for that?"

"Sisters are funny things," replied Fiyero, shrugging. "Especially younger sisters. At least they're talking to each other again."

"At least Nessa seems to know she was wrong; it sounds like their father's told her off for it, too." She let out a grumpy breath, putting the paper down. "Well, what's that last letter? More good news?"

"Could be," said Fiyero, handing over an envelope with beautiful calligraphy and no postmark. "It's from Lord Duvot's son, Tevien–"

Glinda took the letter and immediately tossed it away, right into the middle of the cluttered table. At Fiyero's startled look, she shrugged and said, "He's probably just trying to ask me to dinner again."

"You're not even going to read it?"

"I already know what it says."

Her indifference was meant as just that – simple disinterest – but it came across as callousness. Fiyero knew, of course, that (like the rest of them) Glinda just didn't have time to read every letter she received, but it wasn't like her to be so blunt about it.

His eyes darted between his friend and the table, and after a long moment he said, "I really think you should read this one."

Her brow furrowed. "Why? They're all the same."

"How would you know if you don't open them?"

Glinda rolled her eyes but reached out to pick up the envelope. It really was very nice stationary, expensive without being too fancy or self-important, with her name and title written neatly on one side and Tevien Duvot of Settica on the other. She opened it.

A minute later, she closed it.

Fiyero waited. "Well?"

She sighed, leaning back in her seat. "He's invited me to go riding with him next week."

Another pause, this one filled by his hands wheeling in little circles, impatient for her to continue. "Are you going?"

"Why all the questions?" she asked, a bit irritable, furrowing her brow at him. "Fiyero, are you trying to play matchmaker?"

He snorted, amused, and shook his head. "Just trying to help a friend."

Glinda tilted her head, puzzled but now interested. "You know him?"

"I was talking about you, actually," replied Fiyero drolly. "You're the one who's been down ever since your cousin's wedding last autumn – and don't argue, Elphaba's noticed it too. But yeah, I know him. He asked if I'd deliver this for him, since all the others somehow kept getting lost in the mail."

"I did read the first ones," replied Glinda, a little defensive, "and I met him at the Spring Ball a few months ago, but he's just... He never said anything, Fiyero. He introduced himself and thanked me for some random thing I can't remember and then just stood there for ten minutes until someone took pity on me and pretended Elphie wanted a word. I tried to be nice! He's just..." she searched for a word, trying not to be rude, but failed; "...boring."

"He's shy, Glinda. It took him about two weeks of awkwardly trying to blend in at bars just to work up the courage to talk to me."

"Maybe you should go riding with him."

Caught off-guard, Fiyero burst out laughing, and Glinda smiled, glad of it. "Yes," he chuckled, shaking his head, "yes, I'm sure that's his real motive. After all, it's not like I've ever had a reputation for liking women. Oh no, not me..." He laughed again.

"I'm just glad not everyone believes what the press keeps saying about you and I," said Glinda lightly. "Really, it's not like we haven't told them often enough."

"Maybe it's a good thing – otherwise you'd have way too many suitors for us to handle." Fiyero picked up Tevien's envelope and pointed it at her. "Will you at least give him a chance? Please? It's really hard to have a good night out with my friends if he's always waiting nervously in a corner. We end up inviting him to play pool with us and, Glinda, he's terrible."

She let out a sharp, almost huffy breath. "I really don't want to."

"Why?"

There was a pause then, a rather sad one. Glinda's smile had slipped away entirely. "Do you remember my last date with a courtier?"

He frowned. "Viscount Brollon? Yeah, I remember. You came home early in a huff and refused to talk about it. The next day the papers were calling you an 'Ice Queen'."

"That was Brollon's doing. He pouted. I'm lucky it didn't last more than a week."

Fiyero frowned. "So what happened?"

"He lied to me, that's what. He spent two weeks being a perfect gentleman and then tried to charm me into excusing his tax evasion. I hate feeling used like that."

Without a word Fiyero moved over and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Glinda sighed and leaned against him, grateful. "I'm okay, Fiyero. It was just a nasty surprise."

"Want me to push him in a lake for you?" he offered. "I could talk him into touring the south bank of the Kellswater. No witnesses."

She gave a little laugh, cuddling closer. "You're a good friend, you know," she said. "I'm glad we didn't lose that when we broke up."

"Me too," he said, all teasing aside. "Me too."

Of course, this peaceful quiet Fiyero had something on his mind. "So that's why you won't date Tevien?"

Glinda sighed. "Partly. And I know you're going to say he's not like Brollon and he probably isn't, but I don't want to feel like I'm just taking anyone I can get. I'm not miserable, you know; I like my life. I don't need a boyfriend to be happy. Anymore," she conceded.

"But it would make you happier," replied Fiyero, who wasn't about to take that as an excuse. "Anything else?"

"...His age," admitted Glinda. "Isn't he about five years younger than me?"

"Three, and what difference does that make?"

She shrugged. "It's just... weird. I feel old."

It wasn't the kindest response, but Fiyero just had to laugh. "You're twenty-two."

"I know, but I feel old! I always thought I'd be married by now, or at least engaged. Instead I'm just watching everyone else pair off. Did you know Shenshen's going to have a baby soon? All my friends are moving on and I just sit here all by myself writing speeches."

Being sour was normal for Glinda when she was really upset. Fiyero tightened his hug. "You like writing speeches. Besides, you still have us."

"No offence, Fiyero, but romantically, I'm a third wheel to you and Elphie. Really, I am happy for you, but it's not the same."

He shifted a bit and looked at her, moving the glass bowl that was now reflecting sunlight straight into his eyes. "I don't get it. If you really want to fall in love with someone, why don't you give it a try?"

Glinda glanced down, a little embarrassed. "Well, I used to think... When I was little, I thought I'd just know who I was going to marry the moment I met him. Just know, like that!" She snapped her fingers, shaking her head in wry amusement, then shrugged. "I thought it was that way with you, but it wasn't, and I just..." She let out a long breath, and never finished the sentence. Fiyero, who was now getting out of his depth, just shrugged.

"I wouldn't know a thing about love at first sight," he said, "but I think you ought to at least give this guy a chance. He's been trying to talk to you for months."

She sighed, picking up the letter again. "I don't think it'll work out."

"So? At least you've tried, and if nothing else, you'll get him off my back. I haven't won a game of pool for weeks."

Glinda chuckled, shaking her head as she looked at the envelope. "I'm not sure..."

"You've never been scared before," he reminded her. "Just try."

Throwing up her hands, she sighed. "All right!" she said, smiling a bit. "All right, I'll try. Just remember, if it's a disaster, it's all your fault."

"I'm not worried," replied Fiyero, grinning and stretching in his seat: "The Kellswater's still out there."