All of them are wearing glasses—some wire-rimmed spectacles, others masquerade masks with lenses over the eyes, and even a few with opera glasses attached to their heads by lock and key.
As soon as we enter the room, the gossiping and laughing, the clinking of glasses … it all comes to a stop. Everyone turns to look at me curiously through their green glasses, whispering behind raised hands, looking me up and down as if taking my mettle. They seem to pay special attention to the mark on my forehead and, when I lift my skirts to take the few steps that lead up to a raised dais and another door, the silver shoes.
Just then, a bell rings, and the serving girl turns to me. “That is the signal; you must go into the throne room alone.”
“Fine by me,” I murmur, hating the pressing crush of stares from the courtiers. “Come on, Taavi.”
We head for the double doors together, their surfaces carved with a large, balding head, its jeweled eyes glittering as I reach out and pull on one of the handles. There's a guard just inside the door, also dressed in green, with a green beard threaded through with gems and bits of ribbon. He closes it behind us as Taavi and I stride into a cavernous chamber with a high, arched roof, the walls and ceiling and floor covered with large emeralds. The skylight in the center of the roof lets in more than enough sunshine to light up the entire space, the gems and jewels sparkling beneath the golden light.
But what interests me most is the throne of green marble that stands in the middle of the room. Most importantly, it’s the winged girl sitting on it that draws my attention.
Her hair looks green, like everything else, but based on the shade of it, I'm guessing it's a mousy brown. Either way, it's pulled into two fat pigtails on either side of her face, the locks cascading down to the floor. She's got hair as long as Stryker's, I think as I pause near the end of a long carpet. It just seems like the right place to stop. I swallow a lump of fear as I study the girl’s crown, embedded with glittering emeralds, and the weighty earrings hanging from her lobes.
Taavi lets out a little growl, and I reach down, burying my fingers in his ebony fur.
Dorothy watches me carefully, lounging in that throne of hers like an insouciant princess, her gaze shrewd, a sardonic smile tainting her green lips. Those, at least, I think are actually painted green. Her lids, too, sparkling with tiny gemstones and glitter. She's wearing a gown that puts mine to shame, in a solid green silk that I think might actually be white. And she's the only person not wearing glasses.
From behind the throne, Tuala appears, the skeleton key hanging from her neck. She's completely nude, her green hair in pigtails to match her mistress'. She smiles at me, but it's a feral smile, all teeth and no mirth. The hair on the back of Taavi's neck lifts up as he curls his lips in a snarl.
“I am Dorothy, the Small and Meek,” the woman on the throne says, and there's absolutely nothing in her voice or composure that lends to the terms small and meek. One of her legs is tossed over the arm of the throne, head resting in the palm of her other hand. Looking at her now, I find it impossible to imagine this woman living in Kansas. She doesn't just look like she belongs in Oz. No, it's more like Oz belongs to her. “And you must be Oz, the Great and Terrible.”
“That's what I hear,” I quip back, wondering how prudent it is to act like a flippant asshole when I'm the powerless one in the scenario. I don't exactly have a lot to bargain with, now do I?
“How presumptuous, for your mother to name you after the land,” Dorothy muses, sitting up and dropping her feet to the floor. She's got on a pair of fabulous heels that wouldn't be out of place on an episode of RuPaul's Drag Race; they're just that fucking extra. “But unsurprising. Ozma, herself, was named after the land by her own mother.”
My attention piques at the mention of my mom, a woman who, apparently, I didn't actually know for shit. As close as we were, as much time as we spent together, that's a serious emotional blow. It's easier for me to rearrange my worldview to include the land of Oz than it is to admit that Mom was a stranger.
Dorothy looks down at me from pale green eyes that I suspect would be blue without the glasses, the slightest frown creasing her perfect mouth. She looks at me thoughtfully for a minute.
