There are always guards stationed at the same locations. The same marble busts perched on marble columns. The same urns overflowing with dead plants.
I walk up the marble staircase, then across the mezzanine. Hung from thin wire are five oil paintings mounted in gilded frames. The first is a landscape. The second a lake. The third a depiction of a bloody battle in the Great and Terrible War. That one is my favorite.
It’s the fourth and fifth I always find sickeningly sentimental for a witch who helped overthrow the royal court.
The fourth portrait is an oil painting of the former queen of Oz. The fifth is a painting of Princess Ozma, all but twoyears old in a dress of blue and gold, a curl of dark hair at the crown of her head.
Sentimental, yes, but fodder to exploit? No. Just relics from the past.
I make my way to the gallery at the back of the castle. Despite the late hour, the cavernous room is awash in light. Three giant iron chandeliers hang from the pitched ceiling. Stuffed with a hundred candles each, the lights flicker in the drafty castle. There are more candles, more lanterns lit in every corner. The fireplace is cold though.
She may be the Witch of the West, one of the most powerful beings in all of Oz, but I think she may be afraid of the dark.
I spot her at the balcony surveying her vast territory.
“You called for me,” I say. “Here I am.” I come up beside her and lean against the railing where Faos’s claws have pitted the stone.
“I need help retrieving someone.”
I snort. “Isn’t that what Faos is for? He retrieved me, didn’t he?”
“This is different. I need a more delicate hand.”
“I am a Soldier of Fortune. There is nothing delicate about me.”
She turns to me, and the dancing torchlight skims the curves in her black dress. Her face is hidden behind the golden monkey mask. The expression is one of frozen menace, mouth wide, teeth sharp, cheekbones hollow.
All I can make out are her bright violet eyes through the oval cutouts in the mask.
“Faos is motivated by magical command and that’s not motivation enough. You, on the other hand, are motivated by blood.”
It takes considerable effort not to shiver beneath her stare. I’ve never seen her with the mask off and I’m not sure I want to.
“After three years, you’d release Gabriel in exchange for quarry?”
“I would.”
“Why? Who is this fugitive?”
“Not a fugitive.” She clasps her hands in front of her. “A girl.”
I clear my throat, try not to roll my eyes. “And what does the Witch of the West want with a girl?”
“That’s an answer you cannot have.”
I pace away to the opposite edge of the balcony, thinking. I do want my brother freed. I may lack the ability to love, but no one but Gabriel will put up with me and sometimes I miss that companionship. He keeps me balanced. Keeps me humble.
“Do you want the girl dead or alive?” I ask.
“Alive.” Her voice is unwavering, almost vehement.
“They travel better dead.”
Her golden mask tilts, regarding me. “If she’s harmed in any way, I will skin your brother alive, right in front of you, and then I will bury you in his tanned hide.”
“Well, don’t oversell it.”
She huffs and turns away. “To show my good faith, I’ve allowed you a visit to the dungeon. You have ten minutes. When you come out, I’ll have your answer.”
