I shifted positions ever so slightly and dropped my free hand out of Jellia’s line of sight, just behind Dorothy’s back. My knife materialized in my hand, its warmth spreading up through my arm.

I wrapped my fingers tightly around it. No one had noticed. I was inches away from her neck. Without even consciously casting a spell, I heard Dorothy’s blood pulsing through her veins.

I had the bitch right where I wanted her.

I pulled my elbow back and raised the knife so that it was just a centimeter from Dorothy’s spine. Would it be quicker to slit her throat or stab her in the back?

I hesitated. A moment ago, I’d been possessed by a pair of pretty shoes. Was that happening again? Were they controlling me right now? No. I wanted to kill Dorothy. I could undo everything she’d done, return the beauty and magic to Oz, create a happily ever after. It was all just one blade stroke and one seriously ruined carpet away.

Was I ready, though? Was I ready to be Amy the Assassin? God knows Dorothy deserved it, but—

Dorothy let out a high-pitched, ear-shattering scream that rustled the rows of dresses. She jumped up from her chaise, knocking it over. The brush snagged on her hair and flew out of my hand. I froze, unsure whether to hide the knife or lunge forward and stab her.

“Guards!” she bellowed.

Shit, shit, shit, I thought in panic. I made a split-second decision—maid or assassin—and willed the knife to disappear. I was pretty sure Jellia hadn’t seen it. But had Dorothy? Had she sensed the magic? I decided playing dumb was the best option.

The Tin Woodman appeared in a burst of smoke, his ax poised to attack. “Your Majesty!” he said. “What’s wrong?”

My eyes darted around, looking frantically for a way out, just in case Dorothy pointed a finger in my direction.

Instead, Dorothy had righted the chaise and climbed atop it, shaking, but also managing to delicately smooth out her robe. Jellia stared up at her in confusion and I followed her lead.

Dorothy could barely get out the words. “A—A,” she stuttered. “There was a—” She pointed to the corner, and every muscle in my body relaxed when I saw that it wasn’t me she had been reacting to. She had no idea I’d been about one second away from killing her.

“Catch it,” she wheezed, pointing to the corner just in time for us to see a tiny brown ball of fur streaking under the skirt of one of her floor-length gowns. “Kill it!” Dorothy screamed, jumping ridiculously from foot to foot.

A mouse. It was just a mouse.

The Tin Woodman looked at Dorothy with concern. “Of course, my princess,” he said, with something approaching actual tenderness in his voice. He stepped forward and began to carefully pull the clothes aside. “I can’t imagine how upsetting this must be for you.”

“No,” Dorothy said. She reached out blindly, found the top of my head, and used it for balance as she lowered herself back onto the chaise. Her fear seemed to have suddenly twisted into something else. “Not you.”

“Princess?” the Tin Woodman asked, confused.

Dorothy thrust a long, half-manicured nail at Jellia. “You. You catch it.”

The maid’s face was stoic. “Yes, ma’am,” she said quietly. Jellia dropped to her hands and knees and began to crawl across the floor, disappearing behind the dresses. We all watched her.

“Did I tell you to stop, Amanda?” Dorothy snapped. “My hair’s not going to brush itself, now is it?”

I picked up the brush. Three hundred and twenty-eight. I didn’t even know what I was feeling anymore as I went back to work. Three hundred and twenty-nine.

The garments rustled and every now and then we caught a glimpse of Jellia as she searched, but ninety strokes of the brush later she still hadn’t emerged. Dorothy, the Tin Woodman, and I all watched intently.

“It would be an honor if you let me catch the foul creature,” the Tin Woodman suggested finally. “With my speed and training, it would take me no time at all.”

“No, you’ll get oil on my dresses,” Dorothy said irritably. “I guess I have to do everything around here.”

Even with a concerted effort not to look directly at them, I noticed that Dorothy’s shoes were glittering brighter than before. She twirled a finger in the air and a pink bubble materialized at the tip of her nail.

“Come on out, Jellia,” she ordered, “now that you’ve disappointed me on every possible level.”

After a few tense seconds Jellia emerged on her hands and knees and crawled back toward us, her face ashen but still PermaSmiling eerily, her hair messy and matted with sweat.

“Stay,” Dorothy commanded. Jellia froze on her hands and knees.

Dorothy gave a little flick and the pink bubble went spinning. It twisted and darted in the air the same way Nox’s tracing charm had, back in the forest outside Pumperdink the night that Gert died. After a few seconds, it zipped into the pink folds of the closet and, not thirty seconds later, returned, now rolling along the ground. Inside the glowing bubble-gum orb, a tiny mouse barely bigger than my thumb squirmed and scratched.

Four hundred and ninety-nine. I kept on brushing. The ball spun across the carpet right up to where Jellia still knelt.

The maid looked up at Dorothy in fearful anticipation.

“Pick it up,” Dorothy said.

Without rising to her feet, Jellia complied, and as she did, the bubble faded away, leaving just the mouse in her hand.

“Now kill it,” Dorothy said.