She wanted to please the witch. After all, she was meant to be a gift (wasn’t she?) and gifts shouldn’t annoy, irritate, or infuriate.
Stay quiet, Cleo told herself. She had to learn this rule on her own, by instinct.
Delphine, the Witch of the East, liked the sound of her own voice, so because of this, Cleo’s voice should be silent.
And now, unsurprisingly, words are failing her.
She is not here by accident, just south of the Yellow Brick Road in the middle of the snowdrop field.
But accident or not, the instructions were vague, the details murky.
“There,” Cleo says and points at some random spot to Delphine’s left.
Delphine grumbles and stomps off.
The wind shifts and the old oaks surrounding the field creak in despair.
Cleo scans the woods, waiting.
Some nights, when she was finally alone after the witch was fast asleep, high on Oil, drunk on ozrum, Cleo read aloud to herself in the dim quiet just to remind herself shehada voice.
It was easy to forget the shape of words, the melody of what seemed like random letters strung together to formhopeandfriendshipandpower.
Hope seemed like a fairy tale.
Friendship like a lie.
Power a drug.
Most days, Cleo would wake at dawn to ready the witch’s bath, then her tea. She needed the tea to clear her head to drive away the hangover. She needed the salt bath to help ease the ache in her bones.
As soon as the witch was finished with breakfast, Cleo was cleaning up to prepare for lunch, then dinner, another bath, more drugs.
Would it ever be enough?
Cleo wasn’t sure.
And anyway, did it matter? She was cursed. Perhaps it wasn’t a Great and Terrible one, but a curse was a curse.
She just needed to survive.
She didn’t think there was another option.
At least not until the Witch of the West presented her with one.
It is a well-known fact that the witches of the Ends are oftenat odds with one another and from the inside, Cleo is privy to the truth of it—Delphine is afraid of the West.
The West is more powerful than the East. It means Delphine, deep down inside, knows that she does not deserve to rule. She is a Cardinal Witch only because she is pliable. A placeholder.
What has Delphine accomplished in the years since the Great and Terrible War?
Nothing.
Absent of ambition, Delphine can only spend her days aimlessly searching for gratification. And the only thing she knows how to do well is gorge herself on the fruits of her position. Money, drugs, power, bread and sweets. The East End is known as the breadbasket of Oz and there is no shortage of indulgences.
And now the Witch of the West is ready to move against her.
Cleo wasn’t meant to speculate on the business of Cardinal Witches, but she couldn’t help but wonder why the West had chosen her.
