Out of Oz: The Final Volume in the Wicked Years by Gregory Maguire

the turn toward tragedy that the episode had taken. Clever little dramaturg, thought Glinda, sneaking a glance at Mr. Boss and his associates as they dragged the Clock of the Time Dragon across the forecourt of Mockbeggar.
    Puggles had rushed ahead to light a few lanterns and arrange for a beverage. But Mr. Boss said, “There’s no time. We have to get out quickly before your General Mayhem arrives to put us under lock and key.”
    “But you’re my guests,” said Glinda.
    “Fat distance that’l get us, when you’re in durance vile yourself.” He turned to the Lion. “Brrr, guard the gateway, wil you? If you can manage to look menacing, you might hold off the law for a valuable few moments.”
    “Menacing isn’t my strong suit,” said the Lion. “How about vexed? Or inconvenienced.”
    Glinda recognized the voice, dimly. Not the famous Cowardly Lion? Doing menial labor for a bunch of—shudder—theater people? She had made him a Namory once, hadn’t she? “Sir Brrr?” she ventured.
    “The same,” he replied, “though I drop the honorific when I’m touring.” He seemed pleased to be recognized. “Lady Glinda. A pleasure.”
    “To your station, ’fraidycat,” snapped the dwarf. Brrr padded away. The brittle woman in the veils went with him, one hand upon his roling spine. In the lamplight he looked quite the golden statue of a Lion, regal and paralyzed, and his consort like some sort of penitent. The lads in orange were stil strapping up the Clock and securing it.
    “I have been trying to think of where we met,” said Glinda. “I ought to have kept better notes.”
    “You ever intend to write your memoirs,” the dwarf said, “you’re going to have to make up an awful lot. Maybe this wil remind you.” He motioned to the young men to stand back. They looked singularly strong, stupid, and driven. Ah, for a stupid young man, she thought, losing the thread for a moment. Lord Chuffrey had been many wonderful things, but stupid he was not, which made him a little less fun than she’d have liked.
    The dwarf approached the Clock. She couldn’t tel if he pressed some hidden mechanism or if the Clock somehow registered his intentions. Or maybe he was merely responding to its intentions; it seemed weirdly spirited. “The next moment,” he murmured, “always the next moment unpacks itself with a degree of surprise. Come on, now.” The section of front paneling—from which the lake of blue tule had sweled—slid open once more. There was no sign of the dragon head, the drowned Menaciers, the rustling waves. The dwarf reached in and put his thwarty hands on something and puled it out. She recognized it at once, and her memory snapped into place.
    Elphaba’s book of spels. Glinda had had it once, after Elphaba had died; and then the dwarf had come along, and Glinda had given it to him for safekeeping.
    “How did you persuade me to give it to you?” Her voice was nearly at a whisper. “I can’t remember. You must have put a spel on me.”
    “Nonsense. I don’t do magic, except the obvious kind. Fanfares and mistaken identities, chorus lines and alto soliloquies. A little painting on black velvet. I merely told you that I knew you had the book of spels, that I knew what was in it, and that I knew your fears about it. I’m the keeper of the Grimmerie. That’s my job. If not to hoard it under my own protection, then to lodge it where it wil do the least harm.” He held it out to her. “That’s why I’ve come. It’s your turn. This is your payment for our service tonight. You wil take it again. It’s time.” She drew back, looked to make sure that Cherrystone wasn’t approaching from the barns or the house itself. “You’re a mad little huskin of a man, Mr. Boss. This is the least safe place for the Grimmerie. I am incarcerated here.”
    “You wil use it,” he said, “and you must use it.”
    “I don’t respond to threats or prophecies.”
    “Prophecy is dying, Lady Glinda. So I’m