“My brains almost never fail me,” the Scarecrow said. “And I truly think Ozma had something to do with Glinda’s disappearance. She’s never showed more than the most cursory concern for the Sorceress’s whereabouts. Dorothy, you’re back here for a reason. You have to find our friend. But keep your wits about you. Ozma may seem sweet. But everything I know tells me she’s dangerous.”

“I have to agree,” the Tin Woodman said. “I can feel it in the bottom of my heart.”

The Lion just growled softly.

I knew they were all right. But . . .

I wasn’t afraid of her. Suddenly I wasn’t afraid of anything. There was real power in my shoes. I could feel it. Every time I used them to cast a spell, I could feel myself getting better, stronger. And I wanted more.

Why should I be afraid? She was the one who should be afraid of me.

Fifteen

We spent hours sitting around the breakfast table. Long after the plates had cleared themselves and the morning had passed into afternoon, we’d laughed and commiserated, retelling stories of our old adventures and some new stories, too.

The Lion told me all about his adventures in the Northern lands—exotic by even Oz standards—and the Tin Woodman told me all about his experiences governing the unruly Winkie folk.

I told the story of my sixteenth birthday party, and I saw that it had moved my tin friend so greatly that a tear was trickling down his metal face.

“Oh dear,” he said, when he saw that I had caught him in his tenderheartedness. He dabbed at his face with a napkin. “This heart of mine is a wonderful gift, but it does make rust a significant concern.”

Soon after, he and the Scarecrow decided it was time to go tidy themselves up. The Lion ventured off to the forest just outside the city for his afternoon jog. I was still trying to decide what I was going to do with what was left of my day when Jellia Jamb, Ozma’s handmaid, appeared, summoning me to meet the princess in the garden.

The day was sunny and warm, and I found her sitting on a wrought-iron bench next to a tinkling fountain. She was looking fondly at a tiny little Pixie who was perched on her extended finger. They seemed to be deep in conversation.

“Oh!” Ozma exclaimed when she saw me approaching. The Pixie went fluttering away. “The little thing was just telling me the silliest joke. Everyone else thinks these Pixies are so irritating, but I think they’re amusing. Anyway, they’re part of Oz, aren’t they? And everything here has its place in the order of things.”

Is she kidding? I wondered. This Little Miss Sunshine act would make Shirley Temple herself want to tap-dance right off a cliff.

“Anyway,” she said brightly. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

I folded my arms and prepared myself for the haughty lecture she was about to give me. About how I’d lied to her about the shoes, about how she had warned me not to do magic, and how I’d had the nerve to disobey her. About how reckless she thought I was being.

Maybe she didn’t know it, but even if I was in Oz, I was still a citizen of the United States, and where I came from we didn’t put much stock in self-appointed monarchs—no matter whether their blood was blue or purple or sprinkled with fairy dust.

Sometimes even a princess can surprise you, though. “I think I’d like to throw you a big party,” Ozma said. “What do you think about that?”

She had caught me off guard. “What kind of party?” I asked, suspicious. A party? I was sure she’d seen what I’d done at the breakfast table. Even if she hadn’t felt me magicking her, she had to have noticed me casting a spell on Henry. I’d seen the expression on her face. Now she wanted to throw me a party? There had to be some sort of catch.

Ozma stood up and did a playful little pirouette across the grass, and I remembered suddenly that, fairy princess or not, she was really just a girl. A girl who was lonely—a girl who had been waiting and waiting for someone like me to keep her company. She needed me. Maybe she was willing to let a spell here and there slide. What’s a little magic between girlfriends, right?

“Oh, a wonderful party,” she said dreamily. “I don’t suppose you’re sick of your birthday already, are you?”

“Sixteen is a big one,” I allowed hesitantly.

“Perfect!” she exclaimed. “It’s been too long since I threw a ball. We so rarely have an occasion. I don’t even know when my own birthday is—isn’t that terrible? But all of Oz loves a party, and the whole city’s already abuzz with your return. A celebration is in order!”

I had to admit I liked the sound of it. “The party Aunt Em threw for me was . . . well, it wasn’t quite what either of us hoped,” I said. “Maybe this can be a do-over. I’m sure it would make her happy, too, to get it right this time.”

Ozma clapped her hands. “Of course! A do-over!” She said the word as if she had never heard it before, as if she was savoring each syllable as it rolled off her tongue. “We’ll invite everyone,” she said. “The Munchkins, the Winkies, even the Nomes and the Pixies and the Winged Monkeys and all of Oz’s most important personalities. Polychrome will come from the Rainbow Falls; and I hope the Wogglebug can tear himself away from his classes at the university. We’ll even invite General Jinjur—though I’m sure she won’t make it. She’s not much for dances.” Ozma rolled her eyes. “I have to tell you about Jinjur and her all-girl army sometime.”