“Over there!” Gert called. I dispatched my newest opponent with a hard punch and looked up. Pete and Ozma were huddled up against a rock, wide-eyed and clinging to each other, still in chains. Pink chains, I saw with disgust. After all of this is over, I’m never wearing the color pink again, I thought.

“Now’s your chance, Amy!” Gert shouted, clearing the way to the prisoners with a huge ball of fire. I raced through the gap in the melee to Ozma’s side. “Ozma! Are you all right?”

“The corn harvest will be ready soon,” she said politely.

“She’s fine,” Pete gasped. His face was bruised and bloodied, as if someone had beaten him up recently. I had a pretty good guess as to who that might be. And I wasn’t too sorry about it either. “You have to get us out of here,” he pleaded.

“So you can sell us out to Glinda again?” I snarled. “Worked out pretty well for you last time, huh?”

“I was desperate!” he cried. “Polychrome was going to kill me. You know that!”

“Well, she can’t kill you now, because she’s dead,” I said.

Pete’s eyes widened. “Behind you!”

Right. I was in the middle of a battle. I whipped around, knife at the ready, but Nox had already made short work of the girl soldier who’d been about to run me through like a shish kebab. “If it isn’t the little prince,” he said with disgust, breathing hard as he stared at Pete.

“We can’t just leave him here to die,” I said reluctantly. “We have to get them both out of here.”

“Are you sure?” Nox growled. His hands burned with magical fire as he pulled at Pete’s chains, but as soon as he touched them, the flame dissipated into smoke and the pink metal glowed white-hot. Pete yelped in pain, but the chains didn’t budge. “Hurts!” Pete gasped. “Please, stop!” Nox’s spell had no effect on Ozma’s bindings either, although she watched him work with detached interest.

“We’ll have tea in the west garden, don’t you think?” she offered.

Nox shook his head. “Glinda’s magic is too powerful. We have to get them back into the palace and hide them until we have more time to undo the spell.” Pete grabbed a rock off the ground and held it up, as if he was going to bludgeon the next girl soldier to death.

“Let me help!” I yelled.

“No!” Nox yelled back. “Amy, you can’t use magic!”

“I won’t be using any magic at all if I’m dead!” I retorted. He shook his head, but he knew I was right. And I had Dorothy’s shoes. I sent a tendril of power snaking down to my feet and felt an answering pulse from the shoes. Help me, I thought. Whatever you are. Please, just help me.

The boots twinkled as if in response. Suddenly, I was surrounded by a dazzling cloud of tiny fireflies winking and glittering like diamonds—because they were made of diamonds, I realized. All around me, the battlefield went silent as though I’d stepped into a sparkling silver bubble. I could still see it dimly, as if I was looking through a screen, but another image was superimposed over the carnage.

I was standing in an old farmhouse. Everything was worn and shabby but scrupulously clean. Once-bright yellow curtains, patched neatly in a dozen places, were pulled open to reveal windows that looked out on endless, undulating prairie. An old man and woman were sitting at a rough kitchen table that had been worn smooth by the years, and a rosy-cheeked young girl was serving them pie as they looked at her with obvious pride. Her face was sweet and pretty; her blue eyes sparkled, and her glossy auburn hair was pulled into two neat braids. “I know my crust will never be as good as Aunt Em’s,” she was saying, “but I tried so hard on this one to make it perfect!”

“I’m sure it’s delicious, Dorothy,” said the woman. A shock ran through me. This was Dorothy? But this girl bore no resemblance to the tarted-up villain I’d been trying to kill for what felt like forever. This person was just a child.

This was the Dorothy whose journal I’d found. Dorothy looked up, straight at me—and straight through me. She couldn’t see me. But then her eyes narrowed, and her face began to change. Her blue gaze took on that tint of menace that was so familiar, and her smiling mouth twisted into a sneer. “Amy Gumm,” she said. And then her gaze dropped to my feet and her eyes widened. “My shoes,” she whispered. “Where did you find them?” Her voice was tinged with wonder, and for a second she was that sweet little girl again.

“Dorothy? Who are you talking to?” Aunt Em asked, and Dorothy’s expression wavered. But then she flicked her fingers dismissively, and Aunt Em, Uncle Henry, and the farmhouse disappeared. We were standing on an open plain underneath a violent gray-green sea of clouds, like the sky just before a tornado. As I watched, Dorothy grew taller and her features sharpened, losing the gentle baby fat of the little girl in the farmhouse. Her dress wrapped around her, the shabby, mended gingham transforming to a sleek, tight, plated bodysuit like Glinda’s. “Don’t think you can use our connection to take me on a trip down memory lane,” she said coldly. “I’m coming for you, Amy Gumm, and I’m coming for my shoes. I’m going to find a way to make you die.” <