He looked more like a machine that had been cobbled together out of spare parts, a hodgepodge of scrap metal and springs and machinery pieces all held together by screws and bolts. His long, spindly legs were a complex construction of rods and springs and joints, and bent backward at his ankles like a horse’s legs; his face was pinched and mean, with beady, flashing metal eyes and a thin, cylindrical nose that jutted out several inches from his face and ended in a nasty little point. His oversize jaw jutted out from the rest of his face in a nasty underbite, revealing a mess of little blades where his teeth should have been.

I half remembered the Tin Woodman’s story. He had been a flesh-and-blood man until a witch had enchanted his ax to make him chop off pieces of his body one by one, and one by one he had replaced them with metal parts until that was all that was left of him. From what it looked like, he had been making improvements ever since. The only thing that was really familiar about him was the funnel-shaped hat he wore. I guess some things never change.

Behind the Tin Woodman, four people in black suits materialized out of the shadows a moment after he did. They weren’t made of tin, but they weren’t exactly people either. Each of them was mostly flesh—with a few mechanical modifications.

One of them had a silver plate bolted to his face where his mouth should have been; another was round and squat with huge copper ears the size of his entire head. The third was a girl, probably about my age, with a glinting sword in place of an arm. But it was the last one who was the creepiest: He was just a disembodied head grafted to the body of a bicycle, with two robotic arms where the handlebars should have been, the knuckles of his mechanized hands scraping the bricks on the road.

“Run,” I said. It came out as more of a breath than a word. But no one moved. There was nowhere to run to, and anyway, I was so scared that my knees felt like they were made of jelly.

I tried to smile my widest, most ass-kissing smile—the one I usually used on Dr. Strachan at school. When I remembered that it had never worked with him, I made it even wider. If anyone noticed, they didn’t mention it.

“In the name of Ozma of Oz,” the Tin Woodman said grimly, his voice robotic and scratchy, “by order of Princess Dorothy, I—the Tin Woodman of Oz, Grand Inquisitor of the Emerald Police and commander of the Tin Soldiers—hereby arrest you for crimes of treason.”

He held out a piece of paper with a gold seal on it, and for the first time I got a look at his hands. A chill ran through my entire body.

He had fingers like knives and needles, each one of them twisted into a slightly different shape. Like dentist tools.

I had avoided cavities my entire life exactly because I’m not good with pain. My body tensed up, anticipating one of those sharp things pressing into my skin.

“Treason?” I squeaked.

At the Tin Woodman’s words, Ollie, who had been frozen at my side, suddenly came to his senses. He began to screech his ear-shaking monkey wail and he sprung into the air like he’d been shot from a slingshot. Hooking his tail onto the branch of the nearest apple tree, he used it to pull himself up into its leafy boughs.

It all happened in an instant. I got one last glimpse of his tail as he swung into the next tree and then disappeared into the orchard completely.

As he went, Bicycle-body reared on his hind wheel to chase after him but the Tin Woodman put up a calm hand. “Let him go,” he said. “The Lion knows the movements of all the beasts. He will take care of him. He won’t make it beyond the forest.”

Ollie had gotten away. He had abandoned us, if you wanted to be technical about it, but I didn’t blame him. For a second, I almost wanted to cheer. I hoped he made it far, far away.

I was happy about it, but Indigo and I didn’t have that option. And we were in big, big trouble.

She had been right all along. There were consequences in Oz. Supersized consequences that didn’t fit the crime. If Ollie had been tied to a post for “sass,” then what would our punishment be?

I wanted to tell her I was sorry. She had warned me—begged me, even—and I had ignored her. But was I sorry? Should I not have freed him? I didn’t think so. What else could I have done?

It had been right to free Ollie. But was that what we were really being punished for? Her frozen face broke, and she collapsed to her knees, sobbing.

“P-p-please,” she sputtered through her tears. “I was trying to help Dorothy. I was bringing the traitor to be interrogated! I swear! I just wanted to help! I can give you information!”

She was betraying me. She had to, of course, and I didn’t blame her. This was on me, and if her pleading helped her then at least one of us would get out of this.

I knew that, but still, it stung to listen to her selling me out.

“Is that so, little one?” the Tin Woodman asked coldly. “You were delivering the outlander to your princess?”

“Of course!” Indigo pleaded. “I love Dorothy more than words. Why would I ever betray her when she’s made me so happy?”

I had to help her. Since I wasn’t from Oz and didn’t know all of Dorothy’s rules, maybe they’d be more lenient on me. I stepped forward. “She’s right. She had nothing to do with any of this.”

Indigo glanced at me now. I think she seemed grateful, but it was hard to tell.

The Tin Woodman looked her up and down for a second and then nodded to the man with the plate over his mouth. The plate slid open to reveal a spigot-like device that telescoped outward in Indigo’s direction.