The Wizard narrowed his eyes. “Describe this . . . favor.”

“Long ago, you gave three gifts to three children of Oz—all of whom asked you for something they lacked. This much, I assume, you remember now?”

“The Cowardly Lion,” the Wizard said slowly. “The Scarecrow, the Tin Woodman—but that was nothing. Those gifts weren’t even real. I had no power then.”

“Indeed, you thought nothing of answering their pleas, knowing that the magic they believed you had was nothing but an illusion. But what if I told you the illusion itself was a lie?”

“I don’t understand,” the Wizard said helplessly. “I was never—I never had magic, before now. I don’t even know what happened back there with the Lion. It’s out of my control.”

“The journey from the Other Place transforms your kind in ways we do not yet understand,” the fairy king said. “In the crossing, you become something more—and perhaps something less—than what you once were. Like Dorothy, you had no magic in your world; like Dorothy, Oz has altered you. You have had the power of Oz at your disposal all this time, Wizard. When you created the three gifts—the Lion’s courage, the Tin Woodman’s heart, the Scarecrow’s brain—you thought you were only offering them a kind of panacea. But there was real magic, Old Magic, in those gifts—and when those from the Other Place make that discovery it often leads them down a path of perversion and abuse.

“Make no mistake, Wizard, the magic of Oz is our magic, the magic of the fairies—and we want those gifts back. The corruption of the Lion, the Scarecrow, and the Tin Woodman is on your shoulders. You must bring back to us what was not yours to give.”

“You want the gifts back?” the Wizard asked, his mind whirling. “But why?”

The king rose from his throne, fierce and imperious. “The doings of my people are no business of yours, Wizard. The magic of Oz is ours to keep safe, ours to protect. You have let loose something that must be stopped, and it is up to you to make amends. The pool offered you a choice, and you chose Oz. Do not challenge Oz’s rightful rulers.”

“Look,” the Wizard said crossly, “I went through kind of a lot to get here. Pete said you could help me, and now you’re asking me to go off on some crazy quest. Is he one of you?”

The fairies stirred restlessly, and the fairy king looked almost shifty. “Is that what he told you?”

“He didn’t tell me anything,” the Wizard said. “Except that you had the key to my memories, and that I’d be tested—a test I just passed. I’m not helping you until you tell me who Pete is and why you sent him to me in the first place.”

The fairy king considered the question, his eyes half-lidded, before he answered. “Pete is one of us, in a way,” he said finally. “We have been waiting a long time, Wizard, to see if you might be able to help Oz with your . . .” The king paused delicately, and someone behind him snickered—“powers.”

“What do you mean, you waited? You knew I was in that field? For twenty-five years?” The king didn’t answer. And then the worst thought of all occurred to him. “Someone sent that storm to keep me in Oz—someone with real magic. That was you, wasn’t it?” The fairy was silent, but his expression gave him away. The Wizard felt fury rise in his chest. The fairies had been using him all along, and for longer than he’d even imagined. They’d left him in that field until they thought he might be useful—and they would have continued to leave him there forever if he wasn’t. And if the king lied about that, no doubt he was lying about the gifts—lying about protecting Oz. He wanted the gifts for himself—but to what end? Did the fairies want to restore Ozma to the throne, when the pool itself had told him they were corrupt? Was the fairy king imagining himself on the throne in the Emerald Palace? The Wizard schooled his features, keeping his expression neutral. He couldn’t let the fairy king guess that he knew there was more to the fairies’ demand than simply the well-being of Oz. And suddenly he was angry again, angry like he hadn’t been since he’d faced the Lion. The voice in the pool had made him believe he could be good again—but this lying pack of fairies was only out for themselves. Why should he be selfless, when no one else in Oz was? What did he care about their petty power plays? Who was to say that Ozma was any better? Maybe everyone who rules Oz is destined to put themselves first, he thought bitterly. Maybe it’s not me. Maybe it’s this place—and now I’m stuck here. Ozma had tricked him in the pool—tricked him into believing in the possibility of his own goodness. But what felt good about being good? He squashed down the thought of Iris—after all, even she had been trying in her own way to stab him in the back. No, the only thing that felt good was power. He’d had power once. And now he wanted it back.

“We felt you had more to do in Oz,” the fairy king said smoothly, interrupting his thoughts. “Bringing your balloon down was not the most graceful way to keep you here, and for that I apologize.” The king coughed, and the Wizard noted how difficult it was for him to so much as admit to the slightest wrongdoing—even if he was only doing it to sweet-talk the Wizard into doing his bidding. “I hope you can forgive us. Sometimes when the good of Oz is concerned we—ah”—the fairy king looked as though he was about to bring up a hair ball—“we can, er, make mistakes. Not that that happens often, of course,” he added hastily.