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

subsequent scratches on her forearms, chalk marks at first, slowly beaded up. Crimson stitches on an ivory bolster.
    She said, “You’re hurt, but hurting me back won’t help you any.”
    It humped itself a few inches away, as much by wilpower as by mortal strength, and regarded her with need and fury.
    “If I can’t pick you up and take you—”
    But where would she have taken it? To some house, some vilage, some river?
    She roled an apple at it in case it liked apples. The merin knocked it away savagely.
    Then—so why did she remember any of this?—she took care of it. She didn’t remember how, just that she did. She found a way to feed it for a while until it had gathered its strength.
    Say what you know.
    I remember puling a golden minnow or smelt from my pocket, stil flapping, as if I had just rescued it from the weir, and feeding it to the merin. I remember how the fishlette flopped in the beak, dropped in the grass, and with what acumen and zip the merin retrieved it, and swalowed it whole.
    But what a patently false memory this was. The rescue of an ice-bound fish happened in winter. The merin’s recuperation from some unknown attack or disease clearly happened in the autumn—al those apples decorating the memory.
    So—if the oldest memories could contaminate one another, could prove impossible—what good was memory at al?
    Was that why she remembered nothing more?
    Except that when the merin had recovered its nerve and its composure, it staggered to its bandy legs and rushed at her, clacking its beak like scissors. Until it pivoted. Like a one-legged man picking up his false leg and tucking it under his arm before hopping to bed, the merin swung its beak into place. Then the bird raised its weird puppet-head and opened its wings. She could see that one wing had been wrenched at; its feathers thinned. An ugly viscous patch glistened on the leading edge like wet shelac.
    And stil it somehow managed to launch itself. It battered through branches as it learned how to fly al over again, with new strength in its left wing correcting what it had lost in its right. Lopsidedly it lifted along the slopes of air that mimicked the steps of terraced orchard below. It wheeled against silver blue, heading for something beyond the scope of memory to imagine.
    To climb up the invisible staircases of the sky—!
    Without benefit of a mouth, which was in storage, it said to her, one way or the other, “Remember.”
    9.
    Cherrystone was true to his word. The next morning he sent an underling to colect Rain for her first lesson in reading. It would take place in the Opaline Salon. Safe enough. Miss Murth reported that the door had been left ajar, as if for Lady Glinda or her minions to be able to check for impropriety.
    “Is that so. Wel, then, be a dear, Murthy, and nip down there to investigate, just in case,” said Glinda.
    “Lady Glinda. I do many things and I do them wel, but I do not nip.”
    Rain returned an hour later not visibly glorified with learning. She trotted off to water the potted prettibels in the south porch, since Glinda now felt obliged to keep the damn things alive.
    Chef sent word that his supplies of potatoes had been appropriated. Also three whole smoked haunches of skark and a pair of hams. Would Lady Glinda settle for a lunch of coddled eggs and new carrots?
    Miss Murth had a headache and retired for the afternoon.
    Glinda walked the length of her apartments. Since Mockbeggar Hal crowned a headland, it enjoyed water views from three directions. Westward Glinda could see a flock of geese. Out the front windows she spied a lone tugboat plying the waves. Easterly, several stacks of smudgy smoke unfurled from an indeterminate source.
    She rang for Puggles. “They’re not burning Zimmerstorm, surely?” she asked.
    “I can’t say for certain, Mum,” he replied. “Al our kitchen deliveries are now handled through an EC lout who acts mute. Perhaps he is. He is caled Private Private, and he