Chapter Thirty. Dorothy
THIRTY
Dorothy
I reach out with my hands, trying to orient myself in the shadows.
Why are the people of the Hollow going to so much trouble to hide from someone crossing over on the Yellow Brick Road?
My mind wants to fill in the blanks.
It’s a monster, the panic says.
Or a wicked witch.
Or worse … the Tinman.
Henrietta said he was close.
My heart rate climbs, knocking against the back of my teeth.
I try to summon Aunt Em’s voice. It’s going to be all right. The fear is worse than the reality. But is it? That’s what I’d say to her if she were here now.
You don’t know this strange land, Em. Maybe it’s far worse this time. The city has a siren, for god’s sake. Just like a tornado warning. And back on the farm, we know what follows a siren call.
We’ve lost too much to the ravenous jaws of Mother Nature to think that things will always be all right.
My fingers graze plaster walls and I breathe out a sigh of relief.
The smell of chicken broth is heavy on the air. We must be close to the inn’s kitchen.
I take another tentative step forward when a flame flickers to life in the front room.
Sharp vermilion light spills down the hallway.
Rook grabs me from behind, spins me around, and shoves me into a dry pantry.
“What—” His hand clamps down over my mouth and a breath huffs out around his fingers.
He places a finger over his lips.
Shhhh.
Then he’s gone, closing the door silently behind him.
What is he doing?
The flame light stretches along the wall as heavy footsteps tread over the stone floor.
I swallow. My nose itches from the sharp tang of onions in the closed space. But there’s earth too, like fresh-plucked carrots and potatoes.
I wiggle my nose, the cloying scent tickling my sinuses.
The footsteps grow closer and through one of the slats in the pantry door, I catch the first sight of … someone.
He’s large and muscular, with broad shoulders and thick biceps that strain against the knit fabric of his shirt.
Another step.
His forearms are covered in leather pads, as is his right shoulder, as if to protect his swinging arm.
The reticulated leather at his shoulder is held in place by several leather buckles that crisscross over his chest and around his back.
He raises the lantern and the golden light from the flame gilds him in the dark and burnishes each one of his metal fingers.
Is it a glove? Or is his hand literally made of metal?
The hair lifts on my forearms, almost charged.
I bite my lower lip, dare not breathe.
The man’s face is scruffy, the kind of facial hair that lies just on the other side of disregard.
There is a sheen of sweat on his forehead, as if he ran to get here, although his breathing is even.
There is something coarse about him. Like the weather-hardened stone on a cold mountain range. Like bare trees in a winter gale.
Like a hungry wolf in a dark forest, nipping at pale feet.
He takes another step forward, now just inches from my hiding spot. He shifts the lantern and the light catches the sharpened blade of an axe strapped to his back.
I know immediately who this is.
The Tin Woodman.
He’s here.
A breeze steals down the hallway, disturbing the lantern flame, and the fire gutters out.
He curses beneath his breath and retrieves something from his pocket. A lighter, I think. It has the familiar metallic ring of a metal lid opening up.
But before he can flick a new flame to life, a thump sounds in the kitchen and he turns toward it, listening.
The sudden stillness has goosebumps popping on my skin, and the way the man waits, assesses, tells me he feels it too.
Something is off.
Something is … different.
For his size, he moves quickly, pressing his back into the wall that separates the hallway from the kitchen. His chest rises with a breath. He pulls a dagger from a sheath at his hip and then lunges into the kitchen.
There’s a grunt. The lantern hits the stone, shattering.
Rook.
No.
I may not know Rook very well yet, but I know he doesn’t deserve to die.
A chair is knocked over.
Do something, Dorothy.
I squeeze my eyes shut and think. Try to quell the rising panic in the back of my throat.
I have no weapon. I’m in a massive ball gown. There’s nothing mighty or magical about me.
But I can’t hide in the closet while Rook saves me again.
Maybe I just need to create a distraction. Maybe the Tinman just needs reasoning.
Maybe …
Another grunt. A clatter of dishes.
I shove the pantry door open and stumble through the archway into the kitchen.
“Hey!” I yell.
The Tinman turns to me. A slant of light from the courtyard steals in through the kitchen window. His eyes narrow.
“Dorothy.” He says my name like a conjuring. Like a curse made of bleached bones.
And then—
Rook’s shadow appears behind him, with a weapon raised. He sinks the kitchen blade into the Tinman’s left shoulder and twists.
The Tinman roars and turns around swinging.
Rook ducks beneath the man’s arm and charges toward me.
“Run, Kansas!”
I don’t hesitate. I clatter down the hallway and burst into the inn’s main room just as barking sounds from upstairs.
“Toto!”
“There’s no time,” Rook says.
I’ll die for Toto. I’m not leaving him.
Skirt in hand, I hoist it up and run up the stairs. I shove my door in and Toto comes barreling out, my checkered dress caught in his teeth, the bulk of it trailing behind him.
“Smart dog,” I tell him and take the dress, then scoop him up. “We have to go.”
I make my way back down the stairs and spot Rook at the inn’s front door. He has it open, beckoning me out into the night.
I hit the main floor, make a sharp cut away from the stairwell and across the dining room.
I’m almost to the door when Rook’s eyes get big and he yells, “Down, Kansas!”
I drop.
An axe goes sailing by overhead. The blade thunks into the doorframe just inches from Rook’s side.
“On your feet, Kansas. Hurry.” Rook motions me forward. “Don’t look back.”
I climb to my feet, stumble on the skirt, right myself again, and race through the door.