The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Text copyright © 2013 by John Joseph Adams and Douglas Cohen

“Introduction: There’s No Place Like Oz” by John Joseph Adams & Douglas Cohen. © 2013 by John Joseph Adams & Douglas Cohen.
“Emeralds to Emeralds, Dust to Dust” by Seanan McGuire. © 2013 by Seanan McGuire.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by 47North
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E-ISBN: 9781477855119

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Introduction: There’s No Place Like Oz by John Joseph Adams & Douglas Cohen

Emeralds to Emeralds, Dust to Dust by Seanan McGuire

INTRODUCTION: THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE OZ

BY JOHN JOSEPH ADAMS & DOUGLAS COHEN

There’s no place like home.

The phrase has become one of the most famous in the English language, if not all of Western culture. Although first popularized by John Howard Payne (as a lyric in the song “Home! Sweet Home!” for his opera Clari, Maid of Milan), it’s safe to say that when most people hear it, they think not of the opera or the song but of L. Frank Baum’s most magical creation: Oz. It is to Dorothy Gale that most of us unconsciously attribute these words—perhaps because her innocent longing for her farm while being surrounded by such wondrous magic makes the words all the more poignant. Whatever the reason, there is no denying the resonance of the message. Yet while the words may indeed evoke thoughts of home for some, it is somewhat ironic that those words now transport most of us to that magical Land of Oz.

But if this unassuming phrase should take our thoughts someplace vastly different than Baum intended, it’s hardly surprising, because while there’s no place like home, it’s equally true that there’s no place like Oz. It has not only transcended the ranks of fantasy readers; thanks to the beloved MGM film classic, The Wizard of Oz, it has also transcended the ranks of readers, period. Indeed, Oz has woven itself into the very fabric of our culture.

While the Land of Oz has achieved a level of fame that few fantasies ever manage, and while various political allegorical meanings have been attributed to these works, at its heart Oz remains a series of fairy tales—tales written by a man who continued writing them long after he expected to because he received letters from so many children imploring him to write more Oz adventures. For many of those children—and for many of us even now—Oz became another home.

Of course, sometimes the home you remember can change. You’ll find that is the case with the story that follows—and also in the rest of the anthology the story is a part of, Oz Reimagined: New Tales from the Emerald City and Beyond.

The anthology contains fifteen original stories written by some of today’s most popular fantasy authors, including Orson Scott Card, Jane Yolen, Jonathan Maberry, Seanan McGuire, and others. All fifteen stories in the book are available for purchase as standalone ebooks, but, like purchasing an album as a whole instead of buying all the individual tracks, purchasing the entire anthology will be a bit more affordable than buying all of the individual stories—and also provides you with access to the foreword written by Gregory Maguire, bestselling author of Wicked. So if you enjoy this story, you can either buy the anthology as a whole to read the other stories, or else you can look for the other individual stories from Oz Reimagined.

When we set out to do this anthology, we asked our authors to not only revisit Oz—we asked them to reimagine it.

And the results were everything we could have hoped for. Some authors chose to fill in the cracks of the existing mythology with their own unique vision. Others revised the original story, making it branch out in wildly unexpected directions. Still others took the bones of Oz and rebuilt it from the ground up, one magical limb at a time.

Characters you know and love might look different. They might act different. Their choices might shock you. They may make you laugh. They may make you cry. They may guide you down a gaily colored road to see a great and powerful wizard, but then again you might not even find yourself in Oz. (Though in spirit, all these stories take place in Oz, regardless of their actual location.)

If it seems like we’re being vague regarding how our authors have reimagined Oz…guilty as charged. We want you to experience that same delight we did the first time we read these stories, discovering what is familiar versus what is different, seeing how it all fits together. We want you to wander into old, warm dreams only to find they’ve taken a delightful right turn.

Even so, we do want to mention one important bit of information before you begin your trip to Oz. If you’re only familiar with the classic movie, you might notice certain details in some of the stories are different from what you remember. The reason for this is simple: our authors were tasked with reimagining L. Frank Baum’s books rather than the famous film based on them. (Though quite faithful, the movie version does take some liberties with the source material.) As a result, some of the little details you remember may be slightly different here—and not just because the stories have been reimagined. For example, in the movie version, Dorothy famously comes to possess a pair of magical ruby slippers; in the book, the shoes are silver instead. Another difference: thanks to the film, the Wicked Witch’s soldiers have come to be known as Flying Monkeys rather than Winged Monkeys as they were originally. And in the book Glinda is the Witch of the South rather than the North, and so on. So when you encounter these details in the anthology—things that may seem to be changed for no particular reason—rest assured there is a method to our madness. But if the movie is all you know, have no fear: the movie and the book are similar enough that you’ll have no trouble following the stories and falling into these new versions of Oz.

Reimagining a creation as enduring and seminal as Oz is no small feat—we all have our memories of it, and for many these memories are dearly cherished. Perhaps this explains why our authors embraced this project with so much enthusiasm. Oz is as special to them as it is to you; it is a land of deep imagination, part of that dreaming landscape they delve into each time they create a new work of fantasy. Most of them discovered Oz in one form or another before they even realized they wanted to write fantasy stories of their own, and so it could be said that L. Frank Baum planted some of the earliest seeds that brought them to where they find themselves today. For those of whom this is true, perhaps this anthology is their chance to say thank you…a chance to celebrate one of the great fantasies of our time…a chance to go back to Oz.

We all change as we pass out of childhood and become adults. Our perceptions of Oz may change as well. So follow the road of yellow brick when you’re ready, but prepare for a detour or two along the way. And remember: whatever version of Oz you find yourself in, there’s no place like it.

EMERALDS TO EMERALDS, DUST TO DUST

BY SEANAN MCGUIRE

The pillows were cool when I woke up, but they still smelled of Polychrome—fresh ozone and petrichor, sweeter than a thousand flowers. I swore softly as I got out of bed and crossed to the window, opening the curtains to reveal a sky the sunny fuck-you color of a Munchkin swaddling cloth. There was no good reason for the sky to be that violently blue this time of year—no good reason but Ozma, who was clearly getting her pissy bitch on again.

Sometimes I miss the days when all I had to deal with were wicked witches and natural disasters and ravenous beasts who didn’t mean anything personal when they devoured you whole. Embittered fairy princesses are a hell of a lot more complicated.

I showed the sky my middle finger, just in case Ozma was watching—and Ozma’s always watching—before closing the curtains again. I was up, and my girlfriend was once again banished from the Land of Oz by unseasonably good weather, courtesy of my ex. Time to get ready to face whatever stupidity was going to define my day.

As long as it didn’t involve any Ozites, I’d be fine.

The hot water in the shower held out long enough for me to shampoo my hair. That was a rare treat this time of year, and one I could attribute purely to Ozma’s maliciousness: lose a girlfriend, get enough sun to fill the batteries on the solar heater. It was a trade I wouldn’t have needed to make if I’d had any magic of my own, but magical powers aren’t standard issue for little girls from Kansas, and none of the things I’ve managed to pick up since arriving in Oz are designed for something as basic as boiling water. That would be too easy.

I was toweling off when someone banged on the bathroom door—never the safest of prospects, since the hinges, like everything else in the apartment, were threatening to give up the ghost at any moment. “Dot! You done in there? We’ve got trouble!”

“What kind of trouble, Jack?” I kept toweling. My roommate can be a little excitable sometimes. It’s a natural side effect of having a giant pumpkin for a head.

“I don’t know, but Ozma’s here! In person!”

My head snapped up, and I met my own startled eyes in the mirror. The silver kiss the Witch of the North left on my forehead the day I arrived in Oz gleamed dully in the sunlight filtering through the bathroom skylight. “I’ll be right there. Just keep her happy while I get dressed.”

“I’ll try,” he said glumly. His footsteps moved away down the hall. My surprise faded into annoyance, and I glared at my reflection for a moment before I turned and headed for the door to my room. Ozma—fucking Ozma—in my apartment. She hadn’t been to see me in person since the day she told me we couldn’t be together anymore, that I had become a political liability thanks to my unavoidable association with the crossovers.

I would always be a Princess of Oz. Nothing could change that, not even the undying will of Her Fairy Highness. But I was no longer beloved of the Empress, and if I wanted to see her, I had to come to the palace like everybody else. So what the hell could have brought her to the crossover slums at all, let alone to my door?

I wrenched drawers open and grabbed for clothing, only vaguely aware that I was dressing myself for battle: khaki pants, combat boots, and a white tank top—none of which would have been anything special outside of Oz. Here the tank top was a statement of who and what I was, and why I would be listened to even if I were a crossover and not a natural-born citizen. Only one type of person is allowed to wear white in the Land of Oz; it’s the color of witches, and I, Dorothy Gale, Princess of Oz, exile from Kansas, am the Wicked Witch of the West.

Putting in my earrings took a little more care. I would have skipped it if Ozma had sent a representative instead of coming herself, but it was the very fact of her presence that both made me hurry and take my time. Ozma needed to see that I was taking her seriously. So in they went until my ears were a chiming line of dangling silver charms: slippers and umbrellas and field mice and crows. I checked my hair quickly, swiping a finger’s-worth of gel through it with one hand. The tips were dyed blue, purple, red, and green—four of the five colors of Oz. I’m a natural blonde. I didn’t need dye to display the colors of the Winkie Country.

Clapping the diamond bracelet that represented the favor of the Winkies around my left wrist, I gave myself one last look in the mirror and left the room. I could hear voices drifting through the thin curtain that separated the apartment’s narrow back hallway from the main room: Jack, a high tenor, almost genderless and perpetually a little bit confused; a low tenor that had to belong to one of Ozma’s guards; and Ozma herself, a sweet, piping soprano that I used to find alluring back when it whispered endearments instead of excuses. I stopped at the curtain, taking a breath to bolster myself, and then swept it aside.

“I’m flattered, Ozma,” I said. “I didn’t know you remembered where I lived.”

The main room served as both our living space and as the reception area for my duties as the Crossover Ambassador. It was shabby, as befitted both those roles. Ozma stood out against the mended draperies and twice-repaired furniture like an emerald in gravel.

Her back was to me, facing Jack and a guardsman in royal livery. If we could have conducted the entire meeting that way, I would have been thrilled. Sadly it was not to be. Her shoulders tensed, and then the Undying Empress, Princess Ozma, turned to face me.

She was beautiful. I had to give her that, even if I never wanted to give her anything again. Her hair was as black as the midnight sky, and like the midnight sky, it was spangled with countless shining stars, diamonds woven into every curl. Red poppies were tucked behind her ears, their poisonous pollen sacs carefully clipped by the royal florists. It all served to frame a face that couldn’t have been more perfect, from her red cupid’s-bow mouth to her pale brown eyes, the same shade as the sands of the Deadly Desert. Her floor-length green silk dress was more simply cut than her court gowns; I recognized it from garden walks and picnics back in the days when I was in favor. She wore it to throw me off balance. I knew that; I rejected it…and it was working all the same.

“I granted you this space,” she said sweetly. “Of course I remember. How are you, my dear Dorothy?”

“Peachy,” I snapped. “What are you doing here, Ozma?”

“It’s such a beautiful day outside, I thought you might need some company.” A trickle of poison crept into her words. That was all it ever took with Ozma. Just a trace, to remind you how badly she could hurt you if she wanted to. “Don’t you love the sunshine?”

For a moment I just gaped at her, inwardly fumbling for some reply—any reply, as long as it didn’t involve hurling something at her head.

Finally I settled for, “Not really. What do you want, Ozma? Because I don’t want you here.”

“Ah. It’s to be like that, is it?” The sweetness vanished from her face in an instant as she straightened, looking coldly down her nose at me. “There’s been a murder. I expect you to deal with it.”

“Uh, maybe you’re confused. I’m not a detective, and I’m not a member of your royal guard. I’m the Crossover Ambassador and the Wicked Witch of the West. Neither of those jobs comes with a ‘solve murders’ requirement.”

“No, but both of those jobs come with a ‘control your people’ requirement, and Dorothy, one of your people is a murderer.” Ozma’s lips curved in a cruel smile. I balled my hands into fists, pushing them behind my back before I could surrender to the urge to slap that smile right off her smug, pretty little face. “The body was found Downtown, in the old Wizard’s Square. My guards are holding it for you. Find the killer, and deliver him to me.”

“Or what?” The challenge left my lips before I had a chance to think it through. I winced.

“Or I find a new ambassador to keep the crossovers in line. A proper Ozite, perhaps, one who will have the nation’s best interests at heart.” Ozma kept smiling. “And you, my dear Dorothy, can look forward to an endless string of cloudless days. Sunshine does keep spirits up in the winter, don’t you think? Rinn will stay here to show you to the body. Whenever you’re ready—but it had best be soon, for everyone’s sake.”

She turned, leaving me staring, and swept out of the room. Her guard remained behind, standing uncomfortably beside the door. Jack stepped up beside me, his big orange pumpkin-head tilted downward to show the unhappiness his carved grin wouldn’t let him express.

“Well, that wasn’t very nice,” he said.

“Get my pack,” I replied, snapping out of my fugue. “I’ve got a murder to solve.”

The Wizard was the first person to cross the shifting sands of the Deadly Desert with body and soul intact. He wasn’t the last, not by a long shot. We should have known something was wrong with the spells that protected Oz when I made the crossing over and over again, traveling by every natural disaster in the book, but what did I know? I was just a kid, and Oz was the country of my dreams. I would have done anything to get back there. When Ozma told me I could stay, that we could be best friends and playmates forever, I cried. I would have done anything she asked me, back then. I would have died for her.

The one thing I couldn’t do, not even when she asked, was stop the slow trickle of crossovers from appearing in Oz. They each found their own way across the sands, some intentionally, some by mistake…and since each method of crossing back to the “real world” seemed to be a one-shot, once they were in Oz, they were in Oz for keeps. At first Ozma left them to find their own way. It had worked well enough for the early arrivals, but fewer and fewer crossovers were coming from places like Kansas. The farmlands found themselves overrun with people who didn’t know which end of the plow was which. They threw the newcomers out, and one by one, the crossovers came to the only destination they had left.

The City of Emeralds. Which was now the Emerald City in nothing but name; only the oldest, richest denizens still wore their green-tinted glasses, updated with a special enchantment that made anyone who wasn’t born in Oz disappear completely. This led to a few collisions on the streets, but as far as they were concerned, it was worth it. For them, the Emerald City was still the pristine paradise it had been before the crossovers came. For the rest of us…

Jack and I left the apartment by the back door, with Ozma’s guard tagging along awkwardly behind us. He looked as unhappy about the situation as I felt. His look of unhappiness deepened as he realized that we were heading for the stairs. “Are we not taking the skyways?” he asked hesitantly.

My status as Princess-cum-Ambassador-cum-Wicked Witch was confusing for some people—especially the kind of strapping young lad that Ozma liked to employ. “No, we’re not,” I said curtly and promptly regretted my tone. It wasn’t his fault. More kindly I explained, “We’re going Downtown, remember? Not every building in this area has connections to both the streets and the skyways. It’s better if we go down low as soon as we can. If we take the skyways, we’ll come out miles from Wizard’s Square.”

“I have a piece of the road of yellow brick attuned to my comrades in arms. It would lead us where we needed to go,” he said with the pride of a farm boy who’d never had his own magic before.

I remembered being that young, and that naive. I hated him a little in that moment for reminding me. “That’s just dandy, but I know where we’re going. This door lets out within half a mile of the Square, and I’d rather not walk any farther if I can avoid it. You don’t want to walk that far through Downtown either. It’s not safe.”

“I am in service to the Undying Empress,” he said proudly. “I fear nothing in this city.”

“Just keep telling yourself that.”

Jack snorted. It was an oddly musical sound thanks to the acoustics of his head.

Rinn frowned at us. “I am sorry. Is there something I am unaware of?”

“We’re going Downtown,” I said. “Have you ever been there before? Yes or no?”

“No,” he said sullenly.

“I didn’t think so. All right. First rule of Downtown: don’t act like your position means anything to the people who live there. Most of them were city folks before they crossed, and they’re still city folks. They don’t appreciate being reminded that things are different now. Second rule of Downtown: don’t mention Ozma.”

“But why not?” Rinn sounded honestly confused. “Surely they’re grateful.”

“Grateful? She herds them into slums. She coddles the ones who catch her eye and leaves the rest to fight for scraps. She lets them kill one another, steal from one another, and do whatever they want, as long as she doesn’t have to look at them. Downtown isn’t grateful. They hate her more than almost anyone or anything in Oz.”

Rinn’s eyes widened. To him I was speaking blasphemy. “What do they hate more?”

My smile was thin as a poppy’s petal. “Me.”

We’d been descending as we walked, moving out of the rarified air of the upper city and down, down, down where the lost things lived. Buildings like mine are rare these days. They’re technically considered Uptown since they’re connected to the skyways, but they also have doors leading Downtown, making them vulnerable to compromise no matter how many spells are layered on to keep them secure. Good Ozites refuse to live in places like mine.

Good thing I’m not a good Ozite anymore. My building is a liminal space, like me, neither part of Uptown nor Downtown…and like me, it’s never going to fit quite right anywhere again.

Jack pushed open the beaten copper door separating our stairwell from the street, and we stepped out into the humid, sour-smelling air of Oz’s undercity. The door slammed behind us as soon as we were through, its built-in enchantments forming a seal that couldn’t be broken without the appropriate countercharm. A dog barked in the distance. A baby wailed. And even though the sun was shining, so many walkways and structures blocked the light that it was suddenly twilight—a twilight that would never end.

I turned to Rinn, who was still looking staggered by my last word, and gave him my best Princess of Oz curtsey. “Welcome to Downtown.”

“Prince—Miss—Sorcer—” Rinn stopped, done in by the perils of nomenclature, and gave me a look so pitiful that I couldn’t help thawing a little. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m meant to call you.”

“Dot is fine,” I said and started walking along the cracked brick sidewalk toward the Square. This used to be one of the thoroughfares to the palace, back when you could get there at ground level; the yellow still showed through in patches, where the grime hadn’t managed to turn it as gray as everything else. That’s the sick joke of Downtown. I left Kansas for Oz because I was tired of the color gray. Now I’m the Ambassador to the Gray Country of Oz, built in the basement of the City of Emeralds. “If that’s too informal, you can call me Dorothy.”

“Miss Dorothy, why is the Empress…what I mean to say is…”

“He wants to know why Her Royal Bitchness is threatening you with sunshine,” said Jack. Rinn cast him a shocked look. The pumpkin-headed man was walking with more assurance now that we were Downtown. Maybe it was the fact that his shoulders were straight for the first time, showing just how tall he really was. “Weather isn’t usually a good incentive.”

“You mustn’t speak of the Empress like that,” said Rinn, sounding stunned. “What would even make you think such a thing?”

“My father and I go way, way back,” said Jack. The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable. “I’m allowed to say anything about her that I feel like saying.”

I patted him on the arm as comfortingly as I could manage. Ozma was a boy named Tip when she created Jack. She’d never liked to talk about that period in her life, and I knew better than to go into it in detail around one of her men. Rinn had probably been trained to regard all mentions of Ozma’s boyhood as treason. Instead I said to him, “I’m dating a girl named Polychrome. She’s the daughter of the Rainbow. No clouds, no rain. No rain, no rainbows. No rainbows, no girlfriend. She needs clouds if she wants to be here, and that means she’ll be gone for as long as the sun stays out. So when Ozma wants me to dance to her song, she threatens me with the weather.” I shook my head. “Now get moving. We’ve got a dead body to see.”

Rinn held his official-issue lance at the ready as we progressed through Downtown, waiting for a brigand or a hungry Kalidah to spring out of the shadows. I slouched along next to Jack, eyeing the various speakeasies we passed with an undisguised longing. Jack followed my gaze and sighed.

“No, Dot.”

“But—”

“No. Poly doesn’t want you drinking, and neither do I.”

“I just want a little pick-me-up, that’s all.”

“Dot, the stuff you can buy here stands a good chance of being a put-you-down one of these days. Poppy juice isn’t safe for crossovers.”

“Yeah, well.” I shook my head, the charms on my ears chiming against one another. “What is?”

“We’ll take care of this. Poly will be back by tomorrow night. You’ll see.”

I sighed. “Stop being optimistic. Or did Ozma remember your name this time?”

Jack didn’t answer me.

I wasn’t Ozma’s first castoff, and I won’t be her last. Jack was part of the group responsible for helping her claim her throne, back when she first came out of exile. He was also unpredictable—thanks to the slow decay of the pumpkins he used for heads—and he didn’t clean up well for her court. She tolerated him for a long time, first out of love and later out of loyalty, but the day came when Jack was more of a liability than a friend, and he’d found himself banished to the City of Emeralds to sink or swim on his own. I’d chased him down before he could leave the palace, pressing the key to my then-unused apartment into his hand.

It was an impulsive gesture that I didn’t think anything of until years later, when the growing unease over the number of crossovers made it politically unwise for Ozma to keep one as a pet and boon companion. When I’d found myself in Jack’s position, I’d staggered to my apartment on instinct, unsure what was going to happen when I got there. I was half-afraid he’d claim squatter’s rights and leave me alone in the dark.

Instead he’d proudly shown me the furniture he’d built for my eventual arrival and tucked me safe and warm into my very own bedroom that I didn’t have to share and that no one could ever turn me out of. He’d been waiting for me. I guess once you’re thrown away you come to recognize the impending signs of someone else being discarded.

Jack was never really my friend when we both lived in the palace. These days, there’s no one I trust more. My first companions in Oz have long since found their place in the political structure. So have I, I suppose. It’s just that the place I’ve found isn’t one they can afford to associate with.

This deep into Downtown, things were a curious combination of Ozite tech and crossover ingenuity. Shacks built from every material imaginable squatted on corners and clustered in the bands of watery sunlight that pool between the distant skyways, their solar heaters out and soaking up every drop of energy they could collect. Half the shacks were on wheels, allowing them to move with the sun. The other half belonged to the light-farmers, who jealously guarded their turf against all comers. It would have been enough to make me feel bad about my longing for rain if it wasn’t for the fact that rain was actually better for Downtown. It was harder to catch and control, for one thing. It washed everything clean, and it filled the water batteries, which worked just as well as the solar kind. Rain was the most precious commodity Downtown had.

Ozma probably wouldn’t have thought to threaten them with a lack of rain if it hadn’t been for my relationship with Polychrome. That, if nothing else, I was willing to feel bad about.

People appeared from alleys and shacks, watching us walk by. We made a curious parade, to be sure: a man in Ozma’s colors; another with a pumpkin for a head; and me, their hated Ambassador, in my witchy white. Even if they didn’t know my face, they knew what the color meant. There were three witches left in Oz, and I was the only one who ever came anywhere near Downtown.

“Miss Dorothy, I’m not sure the people here are very glad to see us,” said Rinn, falling back to walk beside us. He was trying to keep his voice low. I appreciated the gesture, useless as it was. “Are we in danger?”

“If we’re Downtown we’re in danger. Did you miss where I said they hated me here?”

“But you’re their Ambassador.”

“Yeah, and they’re living in hovels while I’m living Uptown. I’m the Empress’s former lover, but I can’t get them half the things they need, or change the laws so they’re starting on an equal playing field, or find a way to send them home. Why would they like me, exactly? I’m failure walking to these people, and they don’t understand how much worse it would be without me here. No one does.” No one who hadn’t been in those council meetings, playing wallflower, while Ozma—not yet broken on the subject of the crossovers, not yet embittered and cruel, although the seeds were already sown—fought with her advisors to keep them from driving the crossovers out into the Deadly Desert to die. I’d seen how bad it could be. How bad it would be, if we let certain people take over.

If Ozma wanted this murder solved, I’d solve it. And then I’d get back to the important business of finding a way to send these people home while they still had the option.

I knew we’d reached the Square when we turned a corner and found ourselves facing a crowd. Crowds were rare in Downtown; they left you vulnerable to pickpockets and to surprise raids by the royal guards. If people were gathering, it was because there was something too interesting to be ignored. Dead bodies usually qualified.

Rinn continued marching straight ahead, shouting, “Make way for the Princess!” Guess he’d decided which of my titles he liked best. He might have been surprised to realize that I was already gone, ducking to the side and working my way around the rim of the crowd until I found an opening. I dived in, worming my way between bodies until I broke free into the circle of open space maintained by Ozma’s guards. A few people scowled and pointed, but they were sensible enough not to say what they were thinking out loud. They knew that you should never insult a witch to her face.

Jack’s round orange head bobbed above the crowd about midway through, marking Rinn’s progress. He nodded when he saw me. I nodded back and turned to see what we were dealing with.

The dead man lay in the center of the Square, arms spread like he had been trying to make snow angels on the pavement before he died. His expression was one of profound confusion, a final perplexity that would never be resolved. I paced a slow circle around him, ignoring the glares from Ozma’s guards. Something wasn’t right here. I just couldn’t quite see what that something was.

He was dressed in Quadling red, six different shades of it: garnet, ruby, crimson, carnelian, scarlet, and macaw. That sort of motley marked him as a member of the upper class, since getting those specific distinctions out of their dyes was difficult and expensive. His boots were wine-red leather, counter-stitched with gold in honor of the road of yellow brick that brought the wastrel sons of rich families marching into the Emerald City. Those boots…

I stopped, crouching down and frowning at the soles of his boots. A brief ruckus behind me marked the arrival of Jack and Rinn. “Jack, look at this,” I said, indicating the dead man’s feet. “Does this look wrong to you?”

“How did you—” demanded Rinn.

I ignored him. So did Jack, who stooped down next to me, the branches in his back creaking, and said, “They’re awfully new boots. Probably expensive, too.”

“Not just new. They’re pristine. The streets are rough and filthy down here, so how did he wind up in the square without any scuffs or smears on his boots?” I reached out and grabbed his right foot, lifting it away from the pavement. “Look at his heel. Someone dragged him.”

“He’s still here, Dot. Even if he wasn’t killed Downtown, he wound up here.”

And that made him my problem. I dropped the dead man’s foot, frowning. “Something else isn’t right here.” Something about the cut of the clothes just wasn’t jibing with the man in front of me. I straightened enough to move up to his midsection and began undoing his belt.

Jeers and catcalls rose from the crowd, and from more than a few of the guards. I flipped them off and kept working, first unbuckling his belt and then untying his trousers. The jeers turned disappointed when I left his trousers on and used the slack I’d created to haul his shirt up over his belly. He had the beginnings of a paunch. Not a Quadling trait—Quadlings tend to be tall and skeletally thin—but city living can create anomalies in just about anyone.

The jeers finally turned to disgust and faded into muttering when I stuck my pinky in the dead man’s navel and began rooting around. Behind me Rinn asked in a horrified tone, “What is she doing?”

“Shut up and grow a pair,” I snapped, pulling my finger out of the corpse and turning it so I could study what was caught under my nail. Then I smiled thinly. “Jack, get this man’s boots off. I think you’re going to find that they don’t actually fit his feet. He’s too short for them.”

“What?” demanded one of the other guards.

I looked up and smiled. “Nice of you to say hello. Hello. I’m Dorothy Gale, and this man is a Munchkin.” I picked the lint from under my pinky nail and held it up. “Blue. They changed his clothes, but they didn’t give him a shower first.”

The guard blinked at me, looking nonplussed. He didn’t say anything as I straightened again, this time moving to squat next to the dead man’s head. That confused look on his face was bothering me. I just couldn’t put my finger on exactly why…

“He died overdosing on the drugs your people make,” said the guard, recovering his voice. “There’s no parlor trick for you to play here.”

“I learned humbugging from the best,” I said and leaned closer, carefully prying his lips open. The charms in my ears jingled again as I peered into the dry cavern of his mouth. It smelled strange, like the dustbowl fields of Kansas. My eyes widened, and I sat up straight, turning to stare at my companions. “Dust. This isn’t a poppy juice overdose. This is Dust.”

Everyone—even the parts of the crowd close enough to hear me—went silent. The only sounds were footsteps scuffing against the pavement, and the distant trill of birdsong from the lacy trellises of Uptown far above us.

Poppy juice predated the crossovers. It was a natural intoxicant, refined by the people of Oz when they needed something stronger than absinthe, but still weaker than pure poppy pollen. The crossovers just refined it a little. Dust, on the other hand…that didn’t happen until the crossovers were well established and trying to find new ways of supporting themselves.

Because every crossover had to cross the shifting sands, one way or another, many of them arrived in Oz with a few grains of the Deadly Desert stuck to their clothes or hair. I don’t know who first got the brilliant idea of grinding the stuff up and snorting it, but if I ever find out, I am going to kick their ass from one end of Oz to the other. Dust was addictive to Ozites and crossovers alike…and if people weren’t careful, it could also be deadly, just like the sands it was derived from.

The only thing I didn’t understand was where it was all coming from. Crossovers arrived with sand in their shoes and hair but never more than a pinch. A few new people arrived every week. That should have been enough to provide a small cottage industry, not build an empire. And yet more Dust hit the streets of Downtown daily, and it was starting to appear Uptown as well.

Hatred of Dust was one of the pillars of the anti-crossover movement. We’d created Dust. Get rid of us and, clearly, Oz would go back to normal—or what passed for normal, anyway. What they hadn’t considered was that even if the Dust was suddenly gone, the addicts would still remember what they’d craved—and they would still want it. Getting rid of the crossovers wouldn’t get rid of the Deadly Desert. Dust would still find a way in.

Ozma’s guards bundled up the dead Munchkin and carried him away, presumably bound for the Uptown morgue, where he could be kept preserved by stasis spells until the mystery of his identity could be unsnarled. The crowd dispersed as soon as the show was over. None of them stuck around to talk to us. In a matter of minutes, only Jack, Rinn, and I remained.

“Dust is a scourge,” said Rinn in a challenging tone.

“You won’t get any argument from me,” I said. “The closest I’ll come is this: if the crossovers had been treated better after they stopped being cute trinkets to show off at dinner parties, maybe they wouldn’t have needed to struggle to survive. Maybe they wouldn’t have chosen ways you don’t approve of. Dust is horrible. But the crossovers created it because they were starving. This is everyone’s fault.”

Rinn didn’t have an answer for that. He glared in stony silence as we walked back to my apartment, where the charms attached to my diamond bracelet—one spell per stone, thank you, Winkies, thank you—unlocked the door. I led the way up the stairs, past my apartment, and through a second locked door. This one was sealed with even more potent charms and led to the airy spires of Uptown. Here the air was fresh and sweet and tasted like the Oz of my childhood. The sun was neither too hot nor too bright, and the breeze that set my earrings jangling was just cool enough to make the day seem even lovelier.

Ozites strolled on the elevated walkways, many wearing the enchanted green goggles favored by the wealthy. They were all dressed in the latest fashions. I saw several pairs of boots like the ones we’d pulled off our dead Munchkin, done in all five of the citizenry colors. Only the yellow-clad Winkies acknowledged us as they passed, offering small nods or even bows in my direction. I replied with smiles and silence, not drawing attention to them. It was the only reward I could offer for them remembering that I was, after all, officially their Witch.

“Where are we going?” asked Rinn.

“The Munchkin Country embassy,” I said. “I’m sure they’ll be interested to hear that one of their citizens was found dressed as a Quadling in the middle of Downtown.”

“And dead,” said Jack. “Mustn’t forget dead. That seems to be one of the main selling points of this particular gentleman.”

I cast my pumpkin-headed friend a smile. “Oh, believe me, I won’t be forgetting that part.”

We walked on toward the embassy. It really was an unseasonably beautiful day.

The receptionist was a perfectly coiffed Munchkin woman who would have stood no taller than my chin in her high-heeled boots. She could never have passed for a Quadling. Lucky her. Maybe that would increase her chances of survival.

Although nothing was going to increase her chances of coming away without a bloody nose if she kept looking at me like something she’d just stepped in. “Ambassador Boq isn’t seeing visitors today,” she said for the third time.

“Well, since I’m an ambassador, too, maybe you could make a little exception.”

She smiled thinly. “I’m afraid the Munchkin Country does not recognize Downtown as a territory.”

“Fine, then. Tell Ambassador Boq that Dorothy Gale, Princess of Oz, wants a minute of his time. If that’s not good enough, tell him that Dorothy Gale, Wicked Witch of the West, will have a minute of his time. If he’s accommodating now, my minute won’t happen unexpectedly in the middle of the night.” I bared my teeth at her in what might charitably be called a smile.

Her own smile faded. “One moment, please,” she said and slid off her chair, vanishing into the back of the embassy.

“That wasn’t nice, Dot,” said Jack.

“Nope,” I agreed. “It wasn’t.”

Rinn didn’t say anything. I couldn’t tell whether that meant he was getting used to me or had simply been horrified into silence.

The receptionist returned only a few minutes later with the round, blue-clad form of Boq, Ambassador of the Munchkin Country and head of the anti-crossover political faction—not to mention one of my first friends in Oz back before everything changed—following close behind her. “Dorothy!” he bellowed in a tone that implied absolute delight at my presence. “You should have sent a card ahead. I would have met you at the door with cakes and lemonade.”

“I didn’t really have the opportunity, Ambassador Boq,” I said with a polite bow. “We’ve come on business for Ozma. May we retire to your chambers?”

Boq was a consummate politician, but even he couldn’t have faked the look of surprise on his face. It had been a long, long time since I went anywhere on business for Ozma. “Yes, absolutely, my dear. You and your friends, follow me.”

“Thanks.” I offered the receptionist a little wave as we followed Boq down the hall to his private chambers, which were larger than my entire apartment and appointed ten times as well. They still weren’t as nice as the quarters I’d shared with Ozma at the palace.

I waited until Boq was settled in the chair behind his desk, giving him a few moments to feel like I’d been stunned into silence by the opulence of my surroundings. Then, without preamble, I said, “A Munchkin man was found dead in the old Wizard’s Square today. He was dressed in Quadling colors. It’s pretty clear that we weren’t expected to figure out where he was from. Do you have any idea who he might have been? Ozma has tasked me with finding his killers.”

Boq’s face twisted into a mask of revulsion. “You’ve come here to talk about Downtown, with me? Dorothy. I thought better of you.”

“No, Boq, I came here to talk to you about a murder. A Munchkin is dead. Surely that’s more important than your hatred of the crossovers.”

“Spoken like a girl without a country to defend,” he spat. “You deserted your precious Kansas for us. How long before you desert us for something better? It was only a matter of time before the crossovers began killing.”

“The fact that they had access to Quadling clothes and knew to re-dress him, that doesn’t concern you at all?”

“Crossovers are as cunning as Winged Monkeys and about as trustworthy,” Boq countered. “Really, you started killing the day you arrived. No wonder you speak for the rest of them. You’re the first murderess of the lot.”

“Since it got me a crown and made me a witch, I guess murder is pretty lucrative,” I said. “You’re the only one who might tell us who the man was, Boq. And you’re the one who stands to benefit most from an Ozite dying Downtown. That makes me wonder why you’re so defensive. I might just have to tell Ozma about this.”

“You can’t threaten me with Ozma,” said Boq. “She heeds my counsel now, not yours.”

“She heeds whatever counsel keeps Oz safest,” I corrected gently. “Who was he, Boq? You know every Munchkin in the City of Emeralds. Who’s missing?”

Boq hesitated. Then he sighed and said, “Taf. He’s a junior clerk here at the embassy. He didn’t report for work this morning.”

“Why didn’t you tell the guards?” asked Rinn. “We would have helped you find him.”

“Munchkins police their own.” Boq looked at me coolly. “We don’t depend on outsiders to fix our problems.”

“Funny,” I said. “I seem to remember an outsider taking care of your little ‘witch’ issue a few years back.”

Boq reddened, but he didn’t look away.

“Thanks for letting us know who he was,” I said. “You can probably collect his remains from the morgue later today.”

“Dust is a scourge,” he said. “I blame you and your kind.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said and turned to go. Jack and Rinn followed me.

We were almost to the receptionist’s desk when I froze, my earrings chiming madly with the sudden motion.

“I’m an idiot,” I said.

“What?” said Jack.

“I never told him it was Dust.” I turned, running back to Boq’s office.

He was in the process of emptying his desk when I burst in—with Jack, Rinn, and the shouting receptionist all close behind me. I didn’t hesitate before launching myself across the room, grabbing Boq by the shoulders and pulling him away from what he’d been doing before he could destroy any more evidence. He shouted and threw a sachet of fine gray powder in my face, where it burst and filled the air around me in a choking cloud. I coughed and grabbed for him again. He shied away, stumbling right into Jack’s arms. Jack grabbed him and held fast. The pumpkin-head might be made of sticks, but he was stronger than a normal man. Magic can be funny that way.

Boq struggled against Jack’s grip for a moment before spitting in my direction and saying, “At least I get to see you die, crossover.”

“Uh-huh.” I coughed again before wiping the Dust out of my eyes. I was going to need another shower. “Funny thing, Boq. Crossovers can gather this stuff because they’re resistant. Crossing the shifting sands makes the Desert a little less potent for them. I’ve crossed the shifting sands more times than anyone.”

His eyes widened. Then he sagged, going limp in Jack’s arms. “You bitch.”

“It’s pronounced witch, but that was a good try.” I turned to Rinn. He was keeping his distance from me. Smart boy. At this point I probably qualified as a walking intoxicant. “Take him to Ozma. Tell her his clerk overdosed and Boq staged the murder to implicate the crossovers. Also tell her he tried to kill me.” I couldn’t keep myself from smiling. Ozma and I might not get along, but I was still her property, as far as she was concerned, to coddle or break at her whim and no one else’s. She wouldn’t take kindly to hearing that Boq had given me a face full of Dust.

Boq knew that too. He whimpered, and kept whimpering as Rinn handcuffed him and pulled him from Jack’s arms.

I coughed again. The room was starting to spin. My multiple crossings of the Deadly Desert made me resistant, not immune. Jack’s arms caught me before I could hit the carpet, and I let him bear me up and carry me home.

When I woke up, it was raining, and the whole room smelled like petrichor. My head was still spinning, and so I closed my eyes again, waiting for the world to be still.

“Ozma sends her thanks,” said a voice from beside me—female, alto, and more welcome than a thousand roads of yellow brick. “She says that Boq will be dealt with appropriately.”

“Meaning he’ll be out in less than a week.”

“He’d have been out in less than a day if he hadn’t thrown that Dust in your face.” Polychrome’s hand touched my forehead. Her skin was cool and faintly damp, like a fine mist. “How are you feeling?”

“Better now.” I reached up to catch her wrist without opening my eyes. “How long has it been raining?”

“About eight hours. You’ve been asleep for ten. We should tell Jack that you’re awake—”

“In a minute.” Oz was a land divided; the City of Emeralds was only the visual representation of a split that would tear us all apart, if we weren’t careful. Boq was my enemy now, if he hadn’t been already, and I was deeply afraid that if I started looking for the source of the Dust, all roads would lead me back to the Munchkin Country. Ozma was starting to use me again.

None of that mattered as I opened my eyes and looked up into the face of the woman I loved, wide-eyed and worried and haloed by the rainbow-streaked cloud of her hair. I leaned up as she leaned down, and her kiss was like the end of a yearlong drought. Outside the rain came down, and oh, the sweetness of that storm.

I was so glad to be home again.