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They were waiting for her to die.
The Lady was seated on the dais with her head turned slightly to the side, her plump fingers resting on the arm of the chair. Her dress was cream-colored and uncharacteristically plain, but her hair was piled in an elaborate hairstyle on the top of her head. She did not move.
Her attendants and guests fidgeted. This was getting ridiculous. Someone had to speak up. Perhaps they were waiting for a sign; the shadow of Death stalking across the room to scoop up her fragile form and carry her away. Or perhaps she would stir and make an earth-shaking proclamation of some kind: the last words of the dying noblewoman. Then her head would fall forward and her grip on the chair would relax. Yes, that would make quite a good story. They waited eagerly.
When none such proclamation was forthcoming, a subtle air of resentment could be felt in the room. Perhaps the old woman is really dead. The words were unspoken, but all could feel their effect.
Still, they had to be sure. To say something out of turn could be a serious breach of etiquette. How very embarrassing if she was not actually dead yet. And so they sat in silence.
The room was becoming unbearably hot. The Lady had complained that a chill had permeated through the walls of her bedchamber, although the heat of summer made such complaints seem an indication of madness. It was suggested that she should go outside to feel the aforementioned warmth on her skin (the doctor was concerned about her sickly pallor), but she had refused. Instead she insisted that a fire be made up in every room. The heat from the fires had choked the house in a suffocating fog, and so all the servants walked about with perspiration beading on their brows.
The news of the Lady's declining health had been leaked some weeks before. The Cloister of St. Glinda had sent two representatives, and a miscellaneous assortment of dignitaries and officials had come to pay their respects. The latter meandered rather aimlessly throughout the house, some unapologetically inquiring as to the situation regarding Sir Chuffrey's estate. The Lady's core staff rather resented these outsiders, and the cook allegedly threw a frying pan at a particularly nosy former finance minister,
But now, united by the universal discomfort of the situation, all was forgiven. When the silence had become excruciating, Sir Denerby, the former finance minister, smacked his fist on the table, nearly upsetting the begonias.
"Well, there's nothing for it. Is the old woman dead, or not?"
His words seemed to send a shock wave through the company. All heads turned towards the dais, where the woman stirred.
"I suppose not, my dear friend, although I seem to reside in twilight," said Lady Glinda.
At her words Sir Denerby jumped a little. "No offense meant, Glinda, I'm sure you know. The heat has got me out of sorts." He dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief.
"It's queer," said Glinda softly, "But I ought to disagree. I feel that it is very cold. In fact, I don't think I shall ever be warm again."
This proclamation was met with silence. They waited in vain for her to speak again, but she did not. She seemed to have forgotten they were there.
Sir Denerby's comment, however, made it acceptable to speak. The Lady sat in her chair and did not move, while gradually the room came back to life. Some left, while others straightened the room, opened the curtains. Someone asked about supper. She will live through the night, then, they seemed to say.
"And put out that damn fire!"
One of the servant girls jumped and poured a bucket of water on the flames. As she passed the Lady's chair carrying the empty bucket, she looked out the window. Had she looked at the occupant of the chair, she would have seen with her own eyes the exact moment of death of Lady Glinda Chuffrey nee Arduenna of the Uplands, who passed away at precisely 6 o'clock in the evening this past week. Although best-known for her brief tenure as regent of the land of Oz, Lady Glinda was a renowned sorceress, and a philanthropist in the name of her deceased husband, Sir Chuffrey. Lady Glinda was a particular friend and benefactor to the Cloister of St. Glinda, where she herself often resided. She lies in state there now, where she will remain before she is taken to her final resting place in her childhood home in the Uplands.
*******
If I had wanted to see one person before I died, it would have been her.
How very touching. Excuse me while I reach for a handkerchief.
As charming as ever, I see.
Don't be smart with me, dear. I've been here much longer than you.
I don't see why they let you in.
They let everyone in, Glinda.
You take liberties with me, Madame Morrible. I do not use your first name, and I did not give you permission to use mine either.
Perhaps you should get used to it. There are no titles here.
No titles? That's a pity. I worked hard for mine. Well, not work in the traditional sense of the word, but I was clever. That's all it is, really. But where do I go now?
Wherever you want.
Away from you should suffice.
We'll see each other again, I'm sure.
But which way do I go?
Just open the door.
******
Glinda walked as if floating, acutely aware of everything around her and yet not. It seemed to her that all of her senses were heightened and alive. The loss of her corset and layers of crinoline made her feel strangely light. She felt as if she could glide away if she wished.
At length she became aware that she was standing in a long white hall, bare of all furnishings but for a chair at the far end of the chamber. The chair was facing outwards, and she could not see its occupant. Her curiosity piqued, she crept forward.
What was she hoping for? That Elphie would be there…no, of course not. How very fitting that just when the passage of years seemed to have finally softened the pain, she should feel once again, in death, the twisting of the knife in her heart. She was dead, after all. Surely she had done enough to be free of that particular memory.
It wasn't as if Glinda had thought about her too often. She had her affairs to attend to. And it wasn't prudent for a person in her position to grieve openly for a subversive, a political dissident. So had she swallowed her grief and soldiered on in her petticoats and glitter gowns, smiling at the people who came to see her, pretending she had nothing on her mind but her next humanitarian project.
The hall seemed very long. Lost in her thoughts, she hadn't noticed that while she was walking, she seemed to be making no progress towards the chair. A swell of frustration rose up in her. She was surprised at the force of her emotion. She hadn't felt that way since…
No. She would leave this place. Her decision made, she turned to go back the way she had came. But she found that here, too, she seemed to make no progress in covering any distance.
Glinda let out a tremendous sigh and sat down on the floor, closing her eyes. She was becoming weary of dark thoughts and old memories. Was she to spend all of eternity like this, wandering through endless halls and haunted by the past?
I see you gave up rather easily.
That voice, so familiar and yet so far away, awakened a deep urge in her soul that she had almost forgotten existed. Or shoved down. Glinda felt as if she was drowning.
Open your eyes.
No. She couldn't bring herself to look, because it meant confronting all she had run away from. All she had wanted.
She was shocked when she felt hands, gentle but insistent, work to pry her eyelids open. Glinda blinked in the sudden light, and then tears filled her eyes.
That face, the one that had haunted her dreams for decades, looked not quite as old as when she had last seen it in Munchkinland, but not quite as young as it had been at college. In fact, it seemed to have no age at all. She could have been one hundred years old; she could have been twenty years old. And of course-the skin! Sallow and green and marvelous. But what could she say? Glinda felt as if her tongue, usually serviceably eloquent, refused to serve her.
I don't know what to say.
Then don't say anything. I'm not prone to saying things I don't mean. Do you want help standing up? Oh, don't cry. I'm quite serious, Glinda.
Through her tears, Glinda could see a pair of green hands lifting and pulling her to her feet. She staggered a little, but the hands steadied her. She realized that they were walking, and in almost no time they had reached the chair at the end of the hall.
How did you do that?
What? Walk? It gets easier after a while.
No. I mean get to the other side of the hall. I must have walked for hours, but I never got anywhere.
How very metaphorical. It must be Morrible's idea of a joke.
She can do that?
She can do anything she wants. As can you and I.
Glinda felt herself being lowered into a chair. For a horrible moment, she thought it was the same chair she had died in. Perhaps it was. She had spent a lifetime in that chair, it seemed. She leaned back and examined the woman in front of her.
I missed you. I missed you terribly, in fact. I know you're not fond of sentimentality, but I thought I would tell you that.
Elphaba stared at her with an odd expression on her face. Then suddenly, she looked away and tapped her foot.
How's the boy?
The one going around claiming to be your son? I met him in the Emerald City. I was regent, you know.
Good for you.
Not really. I was quite glad to pass it off to the Scarecrow.
That idiot is in charge? Not that I care. I haven't for years.
Glinda's head was spinning. She kept her tone even, but the absurdity of Elphaba's presence was beginning to get to her. How many years had she spent imagining this conversation? And now it was here, but she just wanted to close her eyes to shut it all out. Instead, she spoke again.
Why are you here, Elphie?
You wanted to see me.
Will you always come when I want you?
No.
She said it simply, but Glinda knew it was the truth. After all, wasn't this what their relationship had always been? Elphie just out of reach, Glinda attending to her own affairs. Separated by stubbornness and their own limitations.
Goodbye, Glinda.
Leaving so soon?
I have other people who want me.
There was silence. Was that all that Elphie was, then? Just a shadow of remembrance in the mind of the people who had cared for her? The thought made Glinda strangely jealous, as if having to share Elphie was the greatest insult in the world.
I loved you, you know.
I do know.
Did you love me back?
Elphie just looked at her. After a moment, she leaned down and kissed Glinda on the forehead. Then she seemed to fade, her skin turning paler and her very presence becoming less substantial. And suddenly Glinda felt that she was a young woman in the carriage again, blinking back her tears as Elphie walked away into the rain.
And then she was gone. But the room seemed filled with her scent, a feeling. Glinda couldn't shake it. The meaning came to her several hours or days later, as she still sat on that chair.
I loved you.
Smiling, she turned her head to the side and fell asleep.