Dorothy Must Die
Page 104

Meanwhile, Dorothy danced, hopping and shimmying and twirling. Some of the bolder guests—a fine-featured Winkie dignitary, a dashing-looking pirate with a wooden leg—attempted to dance with her, but she warded them off with wild glares, never breaking her motion. She was like a tornado, clearing her own space on the dance floor. It was manic and, in a way I didn’t care to think about, sort of sad.
But then the Lion slunk through my field of vision—licking his chops and eyeing me, because apparently patrolling the outskirts and creeping people out was his preferred party activity—and I realized I’d been standing still for too long. I wished more than anything that Gert had managed to kill him that night in the woods.
I made another circuit of the room and ended up near where the Tin Woodman leaned. He’d stretched a tuxedo over his metallic frame, though it bulged at odd angles and didn’t quite fit him. He wore a red corsage on the lapel, which had already begun to droop.
He looked miserable, staring at Dorothy with a combination of longing and self-pity. He turned something shiny over in his hands nervously and I inched a little closer to get a better look. It was a tin rose, delicately crafted, and shined to perfection. The way the Tin Woodman’s fingers worried at it, clenching and twisting the fragile stem, I figured it would break at any moment.
As I watched, he seemed to come to some huge internal decision. He nodded and thrust his hands up and down, like he was giving a speech to himself, psyching himself up. Then, still clutching his rose, he marched across the dance floor toward Dorothy.
Someone plucked a tumbler of whiskey off my drink tray. I moved to keep circulating, but a hand grasped my elbow.
“It won’t be long now.”
Nox. His hair had changed back to its original color and was slicked back. He was wearing a sharply tailored suit with skinny-legged pants. Otherwise, he was entirely himself, like he wasn’t afraid to be spotted.
“This should be good,” he said to me.
Together, we watched as the Tin Woodman stood before Dorothy, presenting himself with a stiff bow. Dorothy stopped doing the twist to stare at him. He offered her the tin flower and, after a brief moment of consideration, Dorothy took it. Then, after barely looking at it, she placed it on a servant’s passing drink tray.
“Ouch,” I said. Next to me, Nox smirked.
Dorothy spun away from the Tin Woodman, returning to her feverish dancing. For a second, it looked like he would just skulk away. But then he reached out, attempting to pull Dorothy into an awkward embrace or maybe initiate a tango. He was so uncoordinated, it was hard to tell.
What he ended up doing was slicing the strap on Dorothy’s dress.
“You lummox!” she shrieked, loud enough that the entire party stopped. “You rusty, empty-headed beast!”
This was an opportunity.
“Hold this,” I said, my heart pounding, and shoved my drink tray at Nox. He took it, confused, and I pushed my way through the crush of gawking Munchkins, Nomes, talking animals, and other assorted Oz weirdos. I knew what I was doing was risky, but another opening as perfect as this one might not come along. I put myself right at Dorothy’s side as she berated the Tin Woodman. Sindra was two steps behind me, her eyes narrowing into a glare as I spoke directly to Dorothy.
“Princess,” I said, keeping my voice as servile as possible. “Isn’t it time for a wardrobe change?”
Dorothy held up the front of her dress with one hand, the other jabbing a ruby-studded finger at the Tin Woodman, her glare like a death ray leveled on him. Slowly, with an almost physical effort on her part, she turned that gaze to me and forced a smile.
“Yes, Astrid,” Dorothy said. “Wonderful idea.”
So, she did know my name. The fact that it came out in the heat of anger made me realize that when she’d called me random A names in her chamber she had just been screwing with me.
Dorothy reached out and grasped my shoulder, effortlessly casting a travel spell. The swirling lights and thumping music of the party melted away, replaced by the relative serenity of the deserted hallway outside her quarters.
“Huh,” Dorothy said to herself, looking down at her hands. “Must’ve had too much to drink.”
She’d tried to teleport us directly into her chambers, I realized, but had failed. The witches’ spell was working—they had cut off the palace’s magic supply, just when I needed it. The magic must be leaking out of her. I felt it, too, a strange ebbing sensation; it was like lying in the sun, only to have a huge cloud pass slowly by overhead.
Dorothy flung open the door to her rooms and strode inside, already pulling her dress off. “Hurry up,” she snapped over her shoulder. “I won’t have buffoonery steal any more of this night.”
I followed her, pulling my knife out.
I felt that same stretching and contorting I’d experienced when I was back in the Order’s caves. I was Amy again now, I knew. I hadn’t thought about the fact that the magical barriers the witches had cast would break my disguise. It didn’t matter—there was no time to worry about that now.
And anyway, good. I wanted to be Amy when I did this. I wanted Dorothy to know.
She was still a few paces ahead of me, crossing toward her sprawling closet. I closed the distance.
“Something with sequins,” Dorothy said. “Fancy, sequined, short—that’s what I want, Astrid. Find it. The lower cut, the better.”
“That’s what you want to be buried in?”