Most days, Cleo was loyal to Delphine, almost to a fault. Delphine might have been a terrible mother, but she was the only maternal figure Cleo knew and betraying her had never crossed Cleo’s mind.
But like most coups, it took just the right whisper at the right time.
The older Cleo got, the less she wanted to obey. It started as a pressure in her chest one night when Delphine decided Cleo had looked at her wrong and so should stay up all night scrubbing the stone floors on her hands and knees.
Then again, later, the pressure followed by a grit of herteeth when Delphine demanded Cleo remake breakfast because it wasn’t hot enough.
Then, anexplosion.
Delphine had ordered Cleo to hand-wash every single one of her twenty-seven silk robes by sunrise. A task that would have taken Cleo several days.
Cleo lost it.
She screamed at Delphine.
The words didn’t come out right, and only half of them made sense, but she was on a roll and she couldn’t stop.
The only thing that stopped her was a slap across the face.
The hit surprised Delphine as much as it did Cleo.
For all her cruelty, for all the terrible things she’d done to the East End and the people who inhabited it in her endless pursuit of power and relevance, Delphine had never raised a hand to Cleo.
Cleo rubbed at the sting, silent.
And Delphine, nostrils flaring, turned and stormed off.
Perhaps that was the beginning of the end.
The pressure returned and did not leave.
Cleo wasn’t sure how she would escape Delphine, but she was determined to figure it out.
She never would have guessed that the Witch of the West would drop a solution straight into her hand.
And the solution? A long, narrow feather that gleamed like an oil slick.
The feather belonged to a winged monkey. The Witch of the West had given it to Cleo and told her simply to show it to Delphine.
Seeing the feather, Delphine had likely felt her tenuous grip on power slipping. If the winged monkeys, who belonged tothe West, were flying over the East, they were encroaching, breaking the rules, and who would order them to do such a thing?
That no-good, narcissistic, vainglorious Witch of the West.
Delphine had gritted her teeth and said, “Show me where.”
Now they are here, south of the Yellow Brick Road in the middle of the snowdrop field. As instructed. The Witch of the West said she’d take care of the rest.
“Here?” Delphine asks now and drops her skirt, spreading out her arms.
“I think so,” Cleo answers, because what else is she to do? How long is she to stall?
Then…
A thundering from above. A shrill whistle that follows.
Cleo and Delphine look up at the same time.
The rest, it would seem, is a house falling from the sky.
