Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

This basically takes place in the same time as my previous fic. Few notes though:

• I'm playing loose with canon/timeline here. Kinda like Disney's Cinderella Trilogy (Anastasia x Baker timeline). Don't worry, Baum wasn't worried about canon either. He was more concerned with telling a good story.

• In the movie, the events of Oz the Great and Powerful took place in 1905, but The Wonderful Wizard of Oz was published in 1900, and The Marvelous Land of Oz was published in 1904. In my story, all those events took place before 1900, so move all the events back by 10-20 years.

• I'm taking elements from the Return to Oz movie. I loved its dark tone and take on the story, and I wanted to explore Mombi and Ozma's relationship. I'm including characters from other Oz media, like the Legends of Oz: Dorothy's Return and the Tom & Jerry: Back to Oz movie (my favorite crossover movie).

• Oz is going to be surrounded by mountains, to accommodate the Deadly Desert (which will play a bigger role as you read on).

• All names with the prefix "Oz-" are titles of rulers in Oz. If you have "Oz" in your name, that means you're related to the royal family. Your christened name comes after. Princess Ozma is Ozma Tippetarius. Her human name will be revealed shortly. Those that marry into the family, like King Pastoria, don't change their name

• The rules above also apply to the Land of Ev. I'm going to add more details between the relationship of the two kingdoms and their inner workings as the story goes on. Was anyone else confused about how many queens/princesses live in Oz, yet all defer to the ruler in the Emerald City?

• Evanora and the Wicked Witch of the East are different characters. Same with Theodora and the Wicked Witch of the West. They're good, albeit misguided in their attempts to save their home. And growing up in a divided country with power-hungry lunatics is not beneficial for one's mental health.

• There are going to be songs. LOTS of songs. What inspired me is this Great Mouse Detective/An American Tail crossover fanfic, where Basil wonders why everyone randomly bursts into song and dance and how they know the lyrics. I just think Mombi would cast a spell that makes everyone sing just to sing her praises (I'm still looking for the perfect villain song for her).

• I'm including a lot of social commentary/criticisms. Not gonna lie, Holmes and Watson in a new world that operates by different social, cultural, and political norms just screams at me to get a soapbox. Holmes is bohemian by his time, and the question is whether this world may be a bit too much for him. Of course, being a country ruled by a non-native species with powers that a select few are granted access to, there are bound to be some issues in Oz.
  • In the books, Ozma later issues a ban on magic until you have a permit. It's pretty harsh; a boy gets arrested for picking up a magical artifact. I'm keeping it, but who issues it is different. There's also going to be a system for determining who are magic users, and a bureaucratic nightmare for those who want a permit.
  • There is going to be an aristocracy in the Emerald City, like the one in Dorothy Must Die. Expect to hate them.
  • Oz is technically four principalities unified by an autocrat in the middle. There are a lot of racial, ethnic, religious, geographic, and cultural divides within the country. And that's not getting into the disparate communities that exist outside those political borders (e.i. Dainty China Country, Candy County, Utensia, etc.)

• I want to explore neurodivergency/disabilities, and LGBTQ people. Here are things to expect:
  • Holmes is autistic/Asperger's and asexual/aromantic
  • Watson with a disability
  • Ozma being bisexual & neurodivergent
  • Polychrome having ADHD
  • Evanora having anxiety disorder (and a dark secret)

• There are going to be some extremely uncomfortable scenes. I will issue a warning in the notes and titles, but it's up to you to read them. I will not be holding back on anything, so WARNING: prepared to be scared for life.

• Don't like, don't read. Simple as that.

Chapter Text

From the

The Personal Papers of Doctor John H. Watson

Everything I am about to relay is, to the best of my knowledge, nothing short of the complete truth. The accuracy of these statements cannot be verified by any sources other than the witnesses stated, and I recorded their accounts to the best of my ability. 

After arriving back in London, the last thing we expected was for Tippetarius to end up at their doorstep. After a good week of peace, we were ready to write our experiences off as a shared nightmare, only for the evidence to land at our door. I was reclined on my chair, paper in hand, as Holmes was playing his violin, when there was a heavy pounding on the door. You could imagine our surprise when we found the girl on our door.

She had not changed one bit. Her face was still boyish, with bits of red hair peeking from under her cap. Her body fit the waistcoat and trousers better than any gown would. Holmes once compared her to Madame Maupin. She had smeared dirt on her face and cupped her ears with her hands, protecting them from the din of the streets. The only indication that it was not one of Holmes' street Arabs was her eyes, those large hollow eyes. They were large, taking up most of her face, were mirrors, pools of cool malachite that reflected your deepest secrets back at you, but obscured the owner's. As a man familiar with Holmes' piercing glare, the sharp look characteristic of him, it was unnerving to see a similar look on a child (especially in such a colour). It would not be an understatement to say that those eyes were more piercing.

"Doctor Sacker," a smile stretched across her cheeks. "Or Watson, was it?" She took off her cap and made her way into the sitting room. At the sound of her voice, Holmes' pipe had slipped from his fingers and his eyes grew to match hers.

"Sergeant Hope," her smiled twitched slightly when the violin screeched to a halt. "Or should I say Holmes?"

At the mention of his old alias, Holmes glared at her with an intensity that I could do no justice. Tip (that was her favorite alias) simply smiled and made herself comfortable by the fireplace. She stuck her hand in the brazier, pulling at the tips of the flames, letting them dance and sway to the rhythm of her fingers.

"If I may be so bold, Your Highness," Holmes stood and made his way to the fireplace, standing opposite of her (near the iron fire poker). "What are you doing here?"

She shrugged, molding the flames into the shape of a butterfly. "I followed your lead and leapt into the water," she gave him a Cheshire grin that cut deep into her cheeks. "You were an inspiration for me, Sergeant."

"Stop calling me that!" At that thundering cry, Tip stilled. "Who told you about our flat?"

Tip's smile returned, and she pointed at her ears. "Basil was on a case," she drummed her fingers against the bricks. "I followed him around until he returned home," Holmes' eyes widened, growing as large as Tip's, before they narrowed to silts as he turned towards Basil's mouse hole.

"Well," she stood up, hand braced against the mantle. "Until I find my way back to Oz, I need a place to stay and a name." She flounced over to the shelves and pulled out a random book. She thumbed through it, vacantly muttering under her breath.

Holmes blinked. "What?"

"I thought you were a genius," she flipped to the next page. "I have no where to stay, and, considering your opinion on magic and faeries, I need a human alias in order to—"

"I know that!" he snapped. "But what the devil gives you the right to walk in uninvited into my flat?!"

Tip yawned and flipped to the next page. "Dupin sounds nice. Much better than Holmes, anyhow, but I'll need a Christian name." Her brow furrowed, before her lips let a fit of giggles burst forth. "Though I'm not really Christian or human, so I'll need a—"

"Tippetarius, please!" I could stay silent no longer. "Can we please sit down and discuss this in a civilized manner?" Sense seemed to returned to Holmes. He sighed, pushing his fingers against his head and throwing himself back on his seat. Perhaps Tip felt merciful, as she sought out his pipe and Persian slipper, creating a small flame with the snap of her fingers. She smiled as he glowered at her, reluctantly accepting her assistance. Once his pipe was lit, she inquired about his cigarettes, at which he broke into a coughing fit.

"What," he growled between gasps. "Could you possibly want with them?"

"Oh, nothing." The grin she gave him could only be described as devilish. "I just like watching you twitch," at that, I let out a chuckle, which I quickly stifled when Holmes turned his glare towards me. Tip, however, held no inhibitions.

At the sudden racket, Mrs. Hudson burst in at the sight of the sullen consulting detective, the dismayed doctor, and the new urchin. She looked at the scene laid before her, sniffed, and asked Holmes if his Irregular had provided him with his latest case.

Holmes gave his landlady an odd look, then smiled rather amiably. "Mrs. Hudson, I assure you, she is no Irregular. Just a poor orphan in need of assistance." He went on to explain how she was friend they had made during their brief disappearance last summer, that she had no where to stay, and would his dear landlady provide her with proper treatment and attire?

In an instant, Mrs. Hudson clasped her hands to her mouth. "Oh, you poor dear!" She fussed over the poor girl, how thin she was, how many holes littered her trousers and shirtsleeves. Tip groaned, staring at me, begging for my aid, to which I answered with a shrug. When her desperate gaze turned to Holmes, he gave her a rather satisfied grin, one that he rarely displayed only when men were in awe of his skill. 

As their landlady left with their friend in hand, Holmes lapsed back into a familiar mood. His brow furrowed and his lips thinned. I did not need to inquire on what could have damped his disposition. We could not fault a child for forces beyond her power, but Tippetarius was no mere child. I could only hope that whatever chaos in the Fae world would not reach us.

She was the Queen. He would not do her the service of remembering her name. She was a Queen, and to call her that was a kindness. Monster would have been more fitting.

He was no longer Sherlock Holmes. He was Sherringford Hope, a Sergeant, a guard, a member of Her Majesty's regiment. The girl's words came back to him. Names are dangerous things, her eyes burned into him. Be careful with who you share them with.

It was a fairly good life, that of a soldier. He understood their friendships, a strange one build on shared suffering. He saw how they laughed and pounded each others back, how they handed their clothes and food rations to each other with little regard, how they smiled and beckoned him over to join their games with little green dice and coins. Holmes was used to rejection, whether it was from the more incompetent members of Scotland Yard or from his peers, but Hope found fraternizing with strangers in a Faerie country easy and rather enjoyable.

The uniform was the same shade of green as the rest of the city. There was even a green plaster mask to accommodate his face. He slipped the mask on, and was surprised to find that it fit perfectly, even accommodating his rather structured nose.

Other servants wore similar uniforms, blending into the walls. Many of them were small porcelain dolls, standing no higher than his knee, adorned in uniform, more plain than his own. They scuttled about, always keeping to the walls, away form the flesh-and-blood, as he understood it.

"Servants from the China Country," the maid waved them off. "They're easy to ignore." They were not the only ones. There were also Cuttenclips and citizens form Bunburry and Candy County, all of whom seemed to have very short periods of employment. He didn't like to dwell on it, especially considering how Mrs Bunn was crying about her missing son, who joined her in search of better prospects in the Emerald City. As his time in the Palace continued, he became very good at blocking out these thoughts.

The one servant that he was growing fond of was Jellia Jamb. She was small, plump, and a mother of three or four. She was the Head of the Household, was expressed through her green uniform trimmed with gold. As she had done with other recruits, she had taken him under her wing and taught him the ways of the palace. "This is PermaSmile," she took out a small glass jar, filled with a sickly oily cream that smelled like soured roses. She smiled, stretching the corners of her lips from ear to ear, then smeared her mouth with the evil-smelling substance which texture resembled mud.

Her lips stayed in that position. When she talked, the corners of her lips twitched but refused to give.

He kept his face still as she dabbled some PermaSmile on his lips. His lips felt heavy, worn down by some adhesive weight. He tried to talk, and he did, through strained and stiff lips.

He looked at his reflection at the wall.

At least he wasn't smiling.

He put his mask back on.

Watson had faired the same. Assistant Physician Doctor Ormand Sacker faired the best. He tended to the wounds that the servants suffered from daily accidents and attention from the Queen. He had befriended Jellia Jamb, who aided in his efforts to assuage his patients and often helped guide the listless ones to their seats for examination. There were some wounds that left him completely baffled. Many servants, ones of flesh-and-blood, would appear pale and confused, with unfocused eyes and withered hair. The youngest was fourteen, a little girl.

Unmentionables excluded, he enjoyed his short employ at the Emerald City. One days where he wasn't required at his office, he would walk the streets, occasionally entering a shop and explore its contents. He also, on the occasion, worked with Doctor Pipt directly. He was a crooked man, long-limbed and pleasing to the eye. It would not be hard to imaging him resting a chid on his knee and indulging the boy with foolish tales of his youth. The Doctor would bring his papers to him, spend hours pouring over them, making annotations and notes on the side, which ended in Pipt thanking him profusely before leaving. Sometimes, the Doctor would invite him for tea, one of his own designs.

He didn't think too deeply on what he meant by that.

It wasn't until he saw the unlocked door, where the curiosity overwhelmed him, and he marched in. It was the room on the semi-below level one the palace. It had always been locked, with a heavy plank of wood laid over the hinges. Now, it was open, letting a stale and coppery scent fill the air.

Watson had hoped that the moaning was just his imagination, but he had long given up on any pretenses. He cursed his imagination, his mind and heart alike, praying that whatever stood on the other side of the threshold was subdued enough to refrain from any violence.

When he stepped in, he vehemently cursed that his selfish safety was his primary concern.

It was filled with dozens of bodies, the youngest was estimated to be twelve years old. There were bound in chains, hanging from the walls, crouched in small cages, or tied down to tables. Watson noted that all were human (or resembling the sort), and that some were still breathing, which he speculated was due to some magical means.

That was where Pipt found him, amidst the juvenile specimens. He was courteous, and invited the Good Doctor to join in his studies.

Watson did not think it was prudent to refuse.

Chapter Text

From the

The Personal Papers of Doctor John H. Watson

Holmes is always rather irritable when dealing with those endowed with inferior intelligence, but he was far more dismayed to meet a child of equal intelligence and personality. Our many months must have been a few hours — days at most — to our new ward. It seemed unlikely that Tip would have changed much. She still seemed to deprive a childish glee from his misery. Every observation was met with derision, a dismissive wave and a rather scathing remark of how his preconceived beliefs clouded his deductions.

"You are mistaken, my dear." He narrowed his eyes. "I never make assumptions."

"I never said you made assumptions," she smiled. "I simply said that your beliefs about the impossible and possible blind you to what is true," she smiled as his glare. "Take me, for instance. You reject the existing of the Fæ, but the evidence sits right before you. Your rational judgment of my kind as simply another species that happens to resemble mankind is correct, but it fails to encapsulate the truth: that we are not a subspecies of human or an ancestor. Our resemblance happens to be a coincidence, if not created due to glamour."

She was a giddy as a girl deserved to be as Holmes felt into another black mood. She never failed to elicit a glare or a growl from Holmes, which only prompted her to poke at him further. Her teasing

As I was searching for the words to pen this, Holmes once again challenged my "romanticism" and my superfluous language.

"Drivel, all of it." said Holmes. "It would serve us far better as kindling. Now—"

"Same could be said about your Stradivarius." said our newest tenant.

I was fortunate enough to disguise my chuckle as a cough. Holmes threw her a foul look before picking up his treasured instrument to scrape at the strings while he still could.

To my knowledge, she never did fulfill her promise, but Holmes took meticulous efforts to ensure she never reached the violin, always keeping an eye on the girl singing to the fire. She was always singing in some Irish dialect or eldritch tongue that either brought joy to hearts or sent chills up spines. When Holmes complained about her "incessant babbling" and the scratches she left on the mantle, she remarked that he heard no complaints from her about him torturing his poor instrument every midnight. I once inquired her about her songs, at which she shrugged and said they were nonsense poems she made up songs about.

When she was not tormenting my poor friend, she spent her days sprawled on the floors, listening to Basil and Dawson's scurrying in the walls. Sometimes, she would reply, passing them apple slices through the mouse hole. When Holmes took his bow in one hand and the Stradivarius in the other, she would retreat to the lumber room with a penknife, only returning when Holmes had set the instrument down. After only two weeks of this, she handed me a small wooden Holmes, carved and smoothed to perfection. When Holmes found his wooden Doctor, he dismissed her sentiments as misguided, but never did use it as kindling. Instead, our dolls made their home on the mantle, reflecting where we sat.

Our landlady adored the little girl, Holmes' new protégé. She gave the girl a new wardrobe, an array of gowns that brought her endless joy. Her favorite was a blue frock and white pinafore, which the girl stitched a green star into the right pocket. Tip would invite herself to the kitchen in the hours before the sun rose, and they would serve three plates of eggs and sausages, much to Holmes' dismay. She found Tip's odd appetite to be a welcome challenge, as years of having Holmes as a tenant prepared her for such a task.

Holmes would have sent her out to find her own entertainment, much to Mrs. Hudson's protest. London was a great and terrible metropolis, and Tip hated the noise and hollers on the streets. She found solace in the pick-pick-pick of her embroidery, the scratches of her penknife on wood, and the vague whispers of the mice in the walls. Even passing through the sitting room, she would place her hands on her ears when cabs and boots clattered outside, lips pursed in a tight line. Eventually, he grew to appreciate the new tenant in the lumber room and singing by the fire. What he did not appreciate was the new decorations on his handkerchief and drapes. Moths and streaks of moonlight stretched across the hangs from the ceiling to the floor, meeting the fields of pumpkin and wheat. A small bee adorned the edge of Holmes' handkerchief, soon joined with vines and roses at the corners, at which my friend gave up hiding it from the culprit. To his surprise, this was when the decorations found new places to inhabit, rather than joining their predecessors.

Toby was suspicious of the poor girl, which did not entirely surprise Holmes. "Dogs are said to never be fond of the otherworldly," remarked the consulting detective. She smiled, never reaching out to pet the hound. She would place a bowl of water and leftover meat for him by Holme's seat. Toby never bit or barked at her, instead snarling when he heard the pitter-patter of her feet on the boards. It did not matter how we scolded him, he refused to cease his growling. If Tip was saddled by this, she never made it known. She continued with her days, rarely speaking except for the rare day when Holmes managed to be exceedingly irritable.

I would like to introduce Mary to her. Tip was cursed with a horrid monster as a guardian for seven years, and I doubt that she would want to return to that beast's care if she somehow managed to return home. I look forward to see how Holmes will explain to Scotland Yard how he found a new child to tug on his coat.

It was a room of heads. A long corridor of heads raised on marble pillars and kept in glass cases with gold frames, each number from one to thirty. Each head was a work of art. There were ravens, blondes, brunettes, strawberry-blondes, even one deep midnight blue, but none gray. The locks were curls, waves, straight, but neither frizzed nor split at the ends. There were blue eyes, green eyes, purple eyes, but none red.

What truly terrified him was that all the eyes blinked and followed the heads that still had bodies.

Miss Jamb coughed and drew him into the Queen's chambers.

The walls were mirrors, large reflective panels that seemed to project a light of their own. Every solid surface was converted to a mirror. There were even small mirrors built into the posters of the bed. The drapes for the bed, the carpets, the curtains, were translucent, decorated with small diamonds that caught the light as the wind made them dance.

On the far end of the room, opposite of a large closet, was a balcony. What was striking was the tint of red that seeped between the cracks of the mirrored floor.

The closet was roughly the size of the sitting room at Baker Street. The walls were lined with silks, satins, and velvets, no linens or leathers. There were full gowns, trousers (a novel idea!), petticoats, dusters, and dressing gowns. They were all trimmed with gold or platinum, never silver. They came in shades and tints of red, blue, yellow, purple and green. They were decorated with pearls and diamonds, no quartzes or glass beads. It had everything a Queen wanted, except for shoes.

In her dressing room, the Queen wore a white dressing gown over a pearly nightgown. Under the hem of the gown, were two silver tips that gleamed in the sunlight.

"EEEKKKKKK," the Queen leapt from her seat as if stuck with a red-hot poker. As quickly as she left it, She climbed back onto the chair, standing on the seat, holding onto the back of the chair for dear life.

"Your Majesty?" Ford rushed forward, ready to brace the Queen if necessary.

"A MOUSE," accompanying her shrill cry was a quivering finger extended towards the depths of her closet.

Her finger, her hands. The Queen bore a youthful face and voice, but her hands were twisted and knotted, a bit worse off than the roots of an ill tree.

The mouse in the closet was small, grey, wearing a blue hat and uniform. He looked like a small nutcracker doll with round ears.

In an instant, all the seravnts fell to their knees and began searching for the vermin. They crawled between the silks and satins, muffled cries and screams filling the air, mixed with demands for someone to grab it. With every command, the Queen's face grew redder and redder. After only five minutes, the Queen rose.

"Stop," the Queen waved a hand and her servants froze. "Come out, all of you. Not you, Jellia." She pointed at the maid in question. "Stay," she pointed a gnarled nail downward.

Miss Jamb's smile twitched and her face was beaded with sweat. "Your Majesty?"

"You've disappointed me," the maid's face curdled. The Queen lifted a finger and a bubble formed at the nail, floating into the closet and returning with the intruder. The bubble glided to Miss Jamb, bobbing before her nose until she reached out and POP!

The mouse landed in her hands. It stood up, straightened his coat, and glared at the Queen. "You tyrant! You monster!" It was a male mouse, judging by his voice. "Your tyranny will come to an end! Soon, you'll see! Soon, you'll—"

"Kill it."

Miss Jamb looked up. "Your Majesty?"

Everyone wondered, How would she kill it? In a world of magic, ignorance remained the same. In a world of magic, how many ways can't she use to dispose of the rodent? She wouldn't be allowed to use magic, the Queen wouldn't allow it. She could smash its head in, but it was supposed to be a punishment. The Queen wouldn't allow it to be that easy.

The Queen giggled. "Oh, Jelly!" She leaned back and clapped her hands. "I knew you were stupid, but I didn't know how? Use your hands."

Miss Jamb went whiter. "M-my hands?"

"Squeeze it."

She did. She wrapped her fingers around the mouse and squeezed. The angry squeaks soon became panicked cries of agony, and pleads for mercy. Blood oozed from between the fingers, but the maid cupped and hand under her fist to catch the drippings.

"That's right," The Queen wagged her finger. "Don't let the blood stain anything," her smile was like a schoolteacher, praising her pupil for mastering her letters. "You're learning, Jellia."

By the end, what was left was a ball of fur, broken bones, and a blue uniform. "Y-y-y-your Majesty? W-what do I"

"Keep it," the Queen stretched out her legs and arms above her head. "In your apron. Don't let me catch you without it," the Queen collapse back in her seat, looked at her maid, and scowled. "Go clean up. You're all messy."

Miss Jamb was a good maid and did as she was told

"She's lucky I didn't make her eat it," the Queen turned her gaze to the new guard. "Am I right, chéri?"

Ford swallowed, tasting blood at the back of his throat. "Of course, Your Majesty."

Holmes hated gatherings, and always did his best to avoid attending. Ford had no excuse. Like the other guards, he stood at one of the sixteen columns in the atrium, dressed in a uniform that blended with the room. Unliked the other guards, his mask was a gift from the Queen, gold instead of emerald. He was fortunate to be standing at the column furtherest from the throne.

An endless trail of guests entered, each more looking more ridiculous than the last. A man had a live leopard purring on his shoulders. A woman's shoes were glass bowls filled with squirming fish. A woman with silver antlers sprouting from her hair, stung with bells and painted orbs like a Christmas tree. They congregated about the stage, where the throne stood empty. At the first flash of silver, the court cheered. The cheer rose to a crescendo as the Queen appeared at the centre of the state, turned, and flicked a wrist in false modesty.

The Queen wore her No. 14, a sculpted face with sharp cheekbones, auburn hair, and hazel eyes. Her ruddy curls were piled into a mountain, with gold ribbons leading to a resplendent emerald comb on the top. Her dress was a petticoat banded with four colors, sapphire on the left, topaz on the right, plum on the front, ruby on the back, with thick bands of gold silk between each color. The bodice was studded with emeralds. The skirt was cut so that it was fell just below her hips and trailed behind her at the back, displaying her silver slippers.

It was hideous to look at. For once, Ford was glad for the mask, to hide his instinctive twist of his face. In any other world, he would have laughed outright, but now, he was doing his best trying not to kneel over and retch.

A servant ran forward, carrying a tray filled with a spectrum of colored beverages. Without looking, the Queen stole a glass of lapis lazuli, pulled a pout, and took a dainty sip that lasted many minutes.

By the time she finished, she raised a hand to silence the cheers.

"People of Oz," she brandished her empty glass. "I thank you for joining me in to celebrate this joyous occasion!" The court cheered.

"But," her voice cut through the claps. "I have terrible news!" She rolled her R's. "One of my closest subordinates has been revealed to be a filthy traitor!" The crowd gasped and cooed in sympathy. A servant ran forward with a silk handkerchief, which the Queen took and dabbed at the corner of eyes.

Ford felt the need to retch again.

"But not to worry!" The Queen smiled, tossing the handkerchief aside with a flourish. "After all, it's a special day! Why let one little hiccup ruin everything?" She laughed, and the crowd laughed with her. Soon, the room was filled with the vibrations from the cackling witches.

"And for this special day," the Queen waved at something from the back of the room. "I'd like you all to meet a dear friend of mine."

Her friend shambled out, carrying a tray of drinks. Its grey skin stretched and slackened as she limped across the room. Its swollen flesh was already melting off of the face and its uniform, though new, was stained as old blood was leaking into the fabric. The eyes had been taken out, and the mouth was loose, unhinged, the bottom jaw swinging slightly.

"Jellia?" The Queen extended a hand, helping it onto the stage. "It's so nice of you to join us. I could never go on without my favorite servant," she took a drink from the corpse's tray and lifted into the sky. "To Oz!"

Cries of "Long Live Queen Mombi!" filled the room. In the chaos, Ford left and headed for the nearest exit, entering the garden, where he tore off his mask.