“Lon,” she calls. “Show Dorothy to her cell.”
A monkey marches forward from an alcove and takes me in her grip.
“Wait,” I start. “This is a mistake. I don’t belong here.”
“We had a deal,” the Tinman says.
“Of course,” the witch answers. “But first, we need to talk.”
“Wait!” I shout as Lon pulls me toward a stone staircase that winds belowground.
“Best you go,” the monkey whispers from the corner of her mouth. “You don’t want to anger the witch.”
We hit the staircase and Lon lets me get my bearings before guiding me down.
“What do you mean?” I say back.
“How do you think we came under her command? It wasn’t by choice.”
We go deeper and deeper into the castle’s footings.
“Then how?”
“Magic,” Lon answers. “And unless you want to serve her too, you’d do well not to draw too much attention to yourself.”
I clamp my mouth shut.
This might be the best advice anyone has been willing to give me.
But I’m not surrendering.
Not even close.
I’m escorted into a cell surrounded on three sides by rough-cut stone and fronted by iron bars. Lon closes the gate behind me and turns the bolt, locking me inside. “I’m sorry,” she says and then hurries away.
Lon wasn’t as big as Faos and Tark, but in the narrow hall of the dungeon, she took up most of the open space. And now that she’s gone, I realize I’m across the hall from a second cell.
And there’s someone inside.
It’s a man. He’s pale, dirty, and unkempt, like he’s been down here a really long time.
“Hello,” he calls.
“Hi.”
“Who are you?”
“I… my friend called me Kansas.” Saying the nickname makes my voice catch. Rook didn’t deserve to die. I should have left him in Glimming Hollow where he would have been safe. It’s my fault he’s dead.
“What kind of name is Kansas?”
“A nickname.”
“Ahhh.” He presses his forehead into the bars. “Do you know why you’re here?”
“Not really. The Tinman dragged me here.”
“The Woodman?”
