Aunt Em’s eyes welled with tears and even Uncle Henry was speechless.

Ozma took me by the hand. “It’s been a long day for all of you,” she said. “We’ll talk about this again tomorrow. I’m sure we can work something out when our heads are cooler.”

Uncle Henry and Aunt Em stared as Ozma led me out of the parlor. Toto hesitated for a second like he was unsure whose side he was supposed to be on, but by the time Ozma and I were climbing the grand staircase toward her private chambers, he was nipping at my heels.

The princess looked at me in concern. “Dorothy,” she said. “What was that about?”

Although I was still surprised at how strong my reaction had been, it didn’t change what I had said. “I’m not going back there,” I said, summoning every bit of Kansas grit I had. “They can’t make me.”

“But I thought you loved Kansas,” she said, furrowing her brow in confusion. “You know, your story is famous here in Oz. We tell it all the time. And in the story we tell, the important part is that you wanted to go home. You could have stayed here, but you wanted to go back to Kansas. You would have done anything to get back there. Is that story wrong?”

My face flushed in shame. “It’s just . . . ,” I started. “No. The story isn’t wrong. I did want to go home. I missed it. But once I was there, nothing was the way I remembered it. Once you’ve seen a place like Oz, nowhere else is the same again. How could it be?”

“Your aunt and uncle will come around,” Ozma said with quiet confidence as we reached the top of the steps and turned down a long, dim hall that was carpeted in green velvet. She clasped my hand tightly in hers. “I’m sure of it. But for now, I think I have just the thing to cheer you up.”

The room was full of lights. Chandeliers sparkled from the ceiling, and little luminescent orbs drifted around the room. The space was stuffed with plush velvet pillows and chairs and brocade lounges, and, against the far wall, several floor-to-ceiling mirrors set in elaborate gilt frames. The air was fragrant with Ozma’s perfume—bergamot and sandalwood and something else I couldn’t place.

“Is this your bedroom?” I asked in awe, looking around the room in search of a bed. Did she sleep on a divan? Or maybe fairies didn’t need to sleep at all.

Ozma giggled. “No, silly,” she said. “It’s my closet.”

My closet back home could barely fit a coat hanger, much less all this furniture.

But if it was a closet, there was something strange about it. Even stranger than a bedroom with no bed. “Where are the clothes?”

Ozma smiled mischievously. Then she closed her eyes and moved her hands in the air like she was playing an invisible harp. The lights dimmed, and the air grew heavier, like we were standing in a pool of warm water. Goose bumps crept over my skin.

It was magic. Real magic.

As she moved her hands through the air, plucking unseen strings, I felt a rush of energy coursing through my body. A feeling that reminded me of the shoes. Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I saw that she was working magic on me. On us.

Our hair changed first: mine began weaving itself into a complex series of braids while hers whirled itself up into an elegantly messy chignon. Next, my clothes tingled against my skin. I felt buzzy all over as my dress became shorter and more fitted, glistening with silver embroidery across the chest. Sparkling bracelets appeared on my wrists, and a glittering necklace materialized around my neck.

I stared at myself in the mirror. “It’s beautiful,” I said, truly shocked. I’d never believed I could look this alive before. I didn’t think I ever could back in Kansas—the gray sky and gray plains washed out everything, eventually. “I look beautiful.”

“Something funny happened when I was doing the spell, though. I tried to give you new shoes. It didn’t work.”

I looked down at my feet. The red heels I’d gotten for my birthday were still there. They looked more beautiful than ever with the stunning dress. I shrugged. “I guess it’s because they’re already perfect,” I said guiltily, hoping Ozma would buy it.

She smiled. “They are beautiful,” she said. “Where did you get them?”

“Birthday present.” I twirled, admiring my reflection. I couldn’t believe it was even me. Was it really just yesterday morning that I had been hauling pig slop across the field? I felt like someone brand-new. Someone better than I had been before; someone who belonged here, not there.

Ozma was still looking at my shoes. “Who gave them to you?” she asked.

“My friend Mitzi,” I said quickly.

“I see,” Ozma said with a tight smile. “Well, your friend Mitzi has wonderful taste.”

She knew something in my story wasn’t right.

But I couldn’t tell exactly what she did know. Could she tell that the shoes had come from Glinda? What would happen if she figured out I was lying? And, finally, why had the Scarecrow asked me to hide the truth in the first place?

I thought about telling her everything right there. She had been so nice so far, and I found it hard to believe that she was anything other than what she was presenting herself as. But my shoes were burning on my feet and their heat spread through my whole body. No, they seemed to be saying. So I followed the Scarecrow’s advice and kept my mouth shut.

“Can you teach me?” I asked instead.

“Teach you?” Ozma asked.