Page 29

I shut the door on the armory and then strip out of my torn and bloody dress. When I toss it aside, it thunks heavily against the stone. The book. I forgot about the pocketbook I’d found in the Hollow, abandoned in the house at the wall. It’s a book about the gods. Why did I grab it? I felt compelled to have it, though I’ve yet to read it.

I could leave it behind. It’s just more weight to carry, though it is rather small and unobtrusive.

Deciding it may be useful, I find an inner pocket in the base layer that is meant to go beneath the armor and slip it inside.

I dress as quickly as I can, but the armor is complicated and foreign to me.

Frustrated with all the straps and buckles, I give up and carry the breastplate with me.

With the castle abandoned, any noise carries easily, and somewhere in the distance, I can hear what sounds like pans clattering together. The place is so big, it’s hard to pinpoint where it’s coming from, so I take my best guess and head up the stairs, then up another set of stairs. On the third floor, it’s obvious I took a wrong turn, because the sound has faded behind me, but something at the end of the hall catches my attention.

There’s a set of double doors, rounded and hand-carved, adorned with black steel filigree. The doors are slightly ajar and it’s clear they lead somewhere important because the other doors in the hallway don’t match the grandeur of this set.

My heart kicks up as I take a step closer. I’m suddenly hungry to know more about the Witch of the West. She’s the only real connection I have to my life before the farmhouse and now I want to know everything.

This must be her room, filled with her things. My steps quicken and I shove the doors open, stumbling into the room. They knock against the wall, bouncing back.

I find a massive four-poster bed on the far wall to the right. It’s draped in a thick red curtain that hangs open on either side. A red quilt is pulled up on the mattress and tucked beneath a row of fluffed pillows.

Matching end tables flank the bed with globe lanterns hanging from hooks above them.

Books are stacked up on the left-side table, next to trinkets and a vase of flowers. But the flowers are dead.

I step farther inside and set the leather breastplate on a bench at the end of the bed.

There’s a door to what looks like a closet opposite me. A dresser next to a standing mirror and a row of tall windows that overlook the mountains beyond the castle. Even with the dark cloud blotting out most light, the view of the mountains is still breathtaking, almost unreal in its beauty.

I make a turn and come to a sudden stop.

Tucked into the corner behind the entrance is a reading nook with a red wingback chair, a table, and a lamp. There’s a small bookcase up against the wall, the shelves stocked full. But it’s the framed painting hanging above the table that sends a spear of ice down my spine.

It’s the Witch of the West and five-year-old me.

“Did you get lost?”

I lurch at the sound of the Tinman’s voice. He’s right beside me. I didn’t even hear him come in and when I blink, turning away from the painting to greet him, a tear runs down my cheek.

I’m crying?

Dammit.

“What—” he starts to ask, frowning at me, and then he spots the painting.

We both turn to face it, studying the subjects.

The similarities between me and the little girl are striking, despite the decades that stretch between us. She has the same dark brown hair, thick and braided. She has the same wide brown eyes and the same soft, rounded face.

“Did the West have a daughter?” I ask.

“Yes,” he answers.

“What happened to her?”

“She disappeared right before the war broke out. Everyone assumed she was dead.”

The tears burn in my sinuses.

This can’t be happening.