Chapter Forty-Two. Cleo
FORTY-TWO
Cleo
Cleo is running.
She isn’t sure what she’s running to, but she knows what she’s running from.
Something isn’t right.
She has a duty to warn them, doesn’t she?
The trees thin. Wind kicks up and the tall grass rustles. In the distance, the Westerly Mountains stretch toward the dark sky, the tallest peak disappearing in the stretch of bruised clouds.
Cleo comes to a stop when the Yellow Brick Road forks in every direction.
The Crossroads.
She hunches over, sucking in air. Her chest is tight, her legs cramping up. She hasn’t run that much in … well, ever.
But it feels good.
It feels better than good.
Never in her life has she had a reason to run.
Never in her life did she have the freedom to run.
When her breathing levels out, she straightens.
There’s a wrought-iron post in the very center of the Crossroads with four golden signs fastened to it.
One, an arrow that points to the left. The Emerald City.
Another, pointing to the right. North Country.
A third that points straight on. West End.
The fourth, pointing in the direction she’s just come. The East End.
She sucks in a deep breath and looks to the left, toward the Emerald City, straight on to the wizard.
She’s never seen the Wizard of Oz but she’s heard a lot of stories.
Delphine had a weird fascination with the man.
Everyone called him all-powerful and anything all-powerful was worth obsessing over as far as Delphine was concerned.
She had several books in her library covering the Great and Powerful Wizard of Oz.
When Cleo asked her if she’d ever met the man, Delphine had rolled her eyes and said, “He’s practically a god. Hardly anyone has met the man.”
She had so many follow-up questions, but none of the courage to ask them.
If he were as powerful as a god, then why didn’t he fix Oz? Why couldn’t he destroy the dark cloud that hung over the land? And why did he never leave the Emerald City?
She takes a step toward the south and then shakes her head, turning back for the west. She’s never been to the Emerald City and today is not the day for a visit.
She passes the directional post in the center of the Crossroads and heads west.
But she only makes it a few steps.
The air pops and shimmers.
Cleo staggers back and bumps into the post.
The air rips open and Glinda, the Witch of the South, steps out.
Letters tumble out of Cleo’s mouth, but none of them make words. She sinks to her knees on the Yellow Brick Road and bows her head. She says nothing more. What else can she say?
“Cleo, isn’t it?” Glinda says.
Cleo frowns at the ground. Did Glinda, the Witch of the South, just say her name?
How would she know?
“Little one?”
Cleo lifts her head.
Glinda is radiant against the ominous clouds.
She wears a long, flowing gown of pink with yards and yards of shimmering tulle.
The sleeves are puffy and rounded like bells, the bodice studded with crystals.
And on her head is a crown with three pointed tines and more diamonds than Cleo has ever seen in one place, let alone on one head accessory.
“Um … yes?”
Glinda smiles and it’s so full of warmth, Cleo shivers beneath it. “Where were you running off to?”
Cleo remains on her knees. “The West, Your Eminence.”
“Oh? Whatever for?”
Pain radiates up her thighs. Her legs are cramping again. She shifts her weight, trying to find a better position. Glinda doesn’t seem to notice.
“I … well…”
“I have a different idea.”
Cleo frowns and waits.
“Tell me, did Delphine ever share the details of how she came to be your warden?”
Cleo knows bits and pieces, but never the whole story. “Not really.”
Glinda reaches across the Yellow Brick Road, her hand extended. “Why don’t you come with me and I will tell you.”
In all the years she was with Delphine, Cleo had wondered why her mother gave her up.
Cursed, is what Delphine said, and Cleo would lie in bed wondering when the curse would manifest. Not all curses were bad, as far as she was concerned.
She had heard of East Enders who could turn wheat into corn.
Some who could read minds. Others who could turn into cats.
If Cleo were a cat, she could explore the wilderness without anyone knowing who she was.
But no curse came.
Only the silence.
Does she want to know her past? Does she want to know why the woman who gave birth to her gave her up?
And is it more important than telling the Tinman the man he killed is gone?
She doesn’t owe him anything. Not really. He dragged her out of Dorothy’s farmhouse and demanded her help.
Maybe it’s time Cleo decides her own destiny.
Climbing to her feet, she straightens her jacket and slips her hand into Glinda’s.