The second we're outside, my first instinct is to bombard you with questions, and pick up where we left off, but one look at your face tells me to wait.

And i do, although i have to practically bite my tongue off.

Instead, all i say is "do you want to go back?"

The clear skies of early this morning have already started clouding over, and the dark centers of the clouds warn of rain, but i can't tell how soon.

"Do you want to go back?"

I HATE it when you do that! I take a gamble and shake my head.

"Not really." Then i suddenly remember: "Damn, I've got an appointment at the hairdressers this morning!"

"Do you have to go right away?"

"No, it's not for a couple of hours. Do you want to come?"

Horror flickers across your face before you can disguise it, and i laugh. "I'll take that as a no then..."

"I'm sorry. I don't think i'd fit in very well at one of those places"

"Since when have you cared about fitting in?"

We've started walking, absently; i'm following you, you're following me, and although i asked the question lightly, i can see you considering it carefully, out of the corner of my eye.

"I can't care about fitting in"

"Why?" I wasn't expecting that.

Your smile is small and cryptic. "Because if i let myself care, REALLY care, i mean....then i'd go my entire life being terribly dissapointed-"

I'm not sure how to reply; it's one of your painfully truthful statements that leaves no room for anything superficial, and we pass a noisy crowd of Vinkus tourists in silence.

"Glinda-"

"Yeah?"

We've left the more conventional part of town for winding streets with large, uneven cobblestones, and smaller, invidual stalls and stands. Everything here seems a hundred times brighter, makeshift shelves and tables spilling from alcoves, crowded with a hundred different goods, all jostling for space in a too-small space.

It's not much quieter than everywhere else; many shops have windchimes swaying in the breeze, and smouldering dishes of incense curl musky clouds up and out into the road.

I've never been here before in my life.

"Do you mind if we go in here? I want to show you something"

The shop directly in front of where we're standing is a little bigger than all the others, plainer and darker. Through the dusty panes, i can make out shelf upon shelf of slightly batterd leather bound books, and i'm not even surprised.

The bells above the door jingle as we step inside. It's a lot darker than outside, but from the way you move, its obvious you've been here before.

"Are we the only people here?" I can't see a clerk or anything, and you shrug. "Probably not, the owner should be somewhere around here. He doesn't like to bother people, though....Come on, it's over here...."

I follow you through the alleys in between the ceiling-high shelves.

"Do you come here often?"

"Once a week, usually, sometimes more... it's one of my favourite things about coming to Shiz. I found it my second day here" There's a light, a pride in your face when you say that, and it strikes me suddenly how no one else i know would equal finding a dusty old bookshop with achievment.

"I've never brought anyone else here. I don't think anyone else at Shiz even knows its here" We've come to a dead-end in the maze. A purple velvet chair, with curved wooden feet rests in the corner. "This is my favourite section..."

I slide a book from the shelf nearest to me, and open it at random.

"Poetry?"

"Yes"

"I never thought you'd be into poetry somehow..."

"No, neither did i. Until i read it, REALLY read it"

I feel slightly embarassed when i speak: "I'm not really a fan of poetry either" Saying it here feels like sacrilige, like denouncing the Unnamed God in church.

"Have you ever read it outside of school?"

"No." I'm uncomfortable saying it. "Going through it, saying what every bit of it meant, and why it was there, and everything....it was kind of, well, boring...."

"I know"

"Then why do you-"

"We never had many poetry books in the house. Once i found one, and started flicking through it, and then i found THIS poem-" You slide another book from another shelf, and open it where a page is folded over. "And when i read it, it was like someone had written it for me, it was like my life in verse..."

You smile, completly devoid of self-pity, and start to read.

"From childhood's hour I have not been/ As others were; I have not seen/ As others saw; I could not bring/ My passions from a common spring./ From the same source I have not taken/ My sorrow; I could not awaken/ My heart to joy at the same tone;/ And all I loved, I loved alone."

You finish reading and snap the book shut. "Everything you've ever felt has been written about somewhere. You just have to find it."

I'm silent, silent with the fact that you are obviously happier about finding the pom than you are miserable about experiencing the content to the poem. For now, at least.

"Now you find one."

"What?"

"Pick a book, and open it."

Dust rising from the pages makes me sneeze before i can read the words, and when i can, i hold the book out to her. "What does it mean? It's so confusing..." What i'm actually thinking is "who would read this for pleasure?"

You scan the page and hand me the book back. "Read it aloud"

"Do i have to?"

"Yes. Its different when you read it aloud"

"How?"

"I don't know. But it sounds better"

"Okay..." I clear my throat and begin. "Oh where are you going/ said rider to reader/ that valley is fatal when furnaces burn/ younders the midden/ whose odours will madden/ that gap is the grave/ where the tall return"

Somehow...she's right. It does sound better aloud.

"I still don't understand it, though"

"That doesn't matter. Don't tear a poem apart searching for meaning. Just...enjoy it"

"Um, ok..."

"It is possible to enjoy poetry, i promise. But you have to find the right poem first... I found this one last year" You open another book and begin, and something about it is different, and i'm left surprised because i never knew poetry could be this way before...

"Lets put our faith elsewhere/ the new centuary is silverd with those girls and you/ lets paint our mouths with opal, splash irridesence on our thighs/ these is a potential in goodbyes/ this may not be freedom but it feels like wine..."

"I wanted to show you.... something new...." There's a sudden uncertainty in your voice, like you are doubting yourself now... but I'm interested now.

And when i pull another book, unbidden, from the shelf, i can see you smile...

XXXXXX

I hope this chapter was ok_ what did you think?

I'm not quite sure why i put in this chapter, except i like the poetry.

Disclaimer: I don't own wicked, camden market, edgar allen poe, auden or imtiaz dharker.

All reviewers will have fiyero visit their homes tonight.... (or any other character from wicked of your choice)

Please review!