I sat on the bench and studied her as she drifted into a party-planning reverie. To think I’d almost sympathized with her when she’d complained about the burdens of royalty. If this was the extent of her duties, it didn’t seem so bad at all.

Still . . . a party. For me. What better way for me to announce my return to Oz for good?

Ozma slid back down onto the bench beside me and draped a slender arm over my shoulder. Her wrist of bangles glinted in the sunlight.

“And,” she said, raising her eyebrows in conspiracy, “it will be the perfect way to show your aunt and uncle what fun it is here. Once they’ve seen a royal ball, they’ll never think of going home. You won’t even need to use those special shoes of yours to convince them.”

The words hung in the air. So there it was. I’d almost let her trick me into buying her act.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I sniffed. I wasn’t fooling anyone, naturally—she knew, and I knew she knew, and she knew I knew she knew—but I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of hearing me come clean.

“Oh, Dorothy,” she said. “You don’t need to hide it. I knew those shoes were enchanted from the moment I laid eyes on them. And I don’t blame you for experimenting with them. Magic can be quite intoxicating.” Her eyes darkened. “Too intoxicating,” she said, the singsong of her voice giving way to sternness. “So let’s just get them off, okay? That way you won’t be tempted.”

She twirled a finger and pointed it at my feet, at my beautiful, shiny shoes. A green spark sizzled from her fingertip, zigzagged through the air, and bounced right off my heel. The shoes glowed in response to the insult, but they didn’t budge.

Ozma frowned, seeing that her spell hadn’t worked. I was already on my feet. I spun around and faced her in a rage.

“They’re mine,” I said. “She gave them to me, and you can’t do anything about it.”

Ozma’s mild smile didn’t flicker. She was one cool cucumber when she set her mind to it, I had to give her that much. “She?” the princess asked, cocking her head to the side.

“Don’t play innocent,” I hissed. “Neither of us was born yesterday. You know who she is. Glinda. What, were you jealous of her? Did you want her out of the way so you could keep all the power for yourself?”

Ozma put a hand to her cheek like she’d just been slapped. She shook her head. “You’re not in your right mind. Those shoes. The magic is already beginning to twist you. The way it did with . . .”

I didn’t care to let her finish. I was too upset. Rightfully so, I should say! Glinda had been the one who had watched over Oz while she’d been off wherever she was, and Ozma had gone and done away with her without so much as a how-do-you-do. She had some nerve playing innocent with me now—as if it was anything other than a power grab worthy of a true tyrant. “A Scarecrow’s one thing,” I said, sneering openly. “You surely got him out of the palace fast enough. A Sorceress, though, that’s another story, isn’t it? Couldn’t have her mucking things up for you, now could you?”

Ozma bit her lip and looked away like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Glinda didn’t have Oz’s best interests at heart,” she murmured. “Trust me, Dorothy. I know that she was kind to you, but the Sorceress is not everything that she appears at first. I had no choice. It’s my duty to keep Oz safe.”

“Naturally,” I said. “After all, you’re the one true ruler, and everyone else can just fall in line. Why, you call yourself a fairy, but you’re no better than a wicked witch. And you know my history with them.”

Ozma’s gaze turned steely at my threat, and I knew that she was through with arguing. She rose to her feet.

“I need the shoes. Now.” Ozma reached for her scepter on the bench. “It’s for your own good.”

I didn’t give her a chance to get to it.

It was easy-peasy this time. I barely even had to think about what I was doing. With every spell I cast, I was becoming more powerful. It was like my shoes were doing the work for me.

This time, I could actually see the magic with my own two eyes as it unspooled from my palm as a gauzy scarlet thread and curled toward her. Ozma could see it, too: her eyes widened in dismay and she took an unsteady step back. I guess she hadn’t expected this.

That would teach her to underestimate me, Dorothy Gale, the Witchslayer herself. There was nothing she could do. My magic was already twisting its way into her skull like a corkscrew.

Her gaze turned to mush. The side of her mouth drooped a bit.

I felt a sick joy in my chest as I used the magical filament like a piece of dental floss, pulling back and forth with my mind, carefully scraping Ozma’s memory clean of our conversation.

When I’d changed Uncle Henry’s mind just a few hours ago, I’d sworn to myself that I wouldn’t do it again. But then I had, just a few minutes later. And now I was literally changing Ozma’s mind. Sprucing it up and making it presentable the way one would change the sheets on the bed.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I had the vaguest notion that I was the one being wicked. But I found that I didn’t care. In fact, I almost enjoyed it.

I made her forget the shoes, and our talk of Glinda, and the incident with Uncle Henry at the breakfast table. When I was done, I was just Dorothy Gale, her dear friend and confidante, a spunky, headstrong girl from Kansas to whom the people of Oz—her loyal subjects—owed a debt of gratitude. Or three. A girl with an unusually lovely pair of red high heels.