Slam. Oof. Choke. Cough. Gasp. Ugh.
Ground? We’re on the ground! The dust clears and oh, I could kiss these dirty bricks beneath me. I rise and stick my finger in one ear. I twist hard, attempting to get rid of the resounding ring. The howling wind turned my eardrums into ear cymbals. But worse than my newly contracted tinnitus is the constant cough. Give me drowning over wind suffocation any day.
Odessa said I didn’t end up in the former Third due to one of her cyclones. Well, thank the Verity for that. Once is enough. With the cough and ear ringing, I might as well have aged thirty years.
I dust off my clothes, scrape the crusted dirt from my shoes. My hair has a lovely dusting of, you guessed it, more dust. I flip it over then back, shake out as much as I can. Once I’m as dirt free as possible, I take in my new surroundings.
They’re nothing like I pictured.
Don’t get me wrong—the city is unlike anything I’ve witnessed.
“Everything is green.” I can’t help but speak the thought. Forest and lime and turquoise and mint. Seaweed and chartreuse and hunter and pear. And, of course, emerald. Because, yeah. Duh. Except . . .
Every hue is tainted, dingy. Worn. Old. Faded. As if the entire city has been run through the wash and hung out to dry more than a few times.
“What do you think?” Jasyn withdraws a handkerchief from his blazer pocket and releases a quiet cough. Evil or slightly less, he’s forever the gentleman. “Is it not extraordinary?”
Blink. Wheeze. Sniff. “Are we in the Sixth?”
“We are indeed.” He folds the handkerchief into a triangle. Pockets it once more. “How can you tell?”
“Lucky guess.” No need to add I came to the conclusion by process of elimination. Still unsure how much I should and shouldn’t tell him.
Soft music plays through speakers attached to lampposts. Not the happy, joyous, Oz-ish overture I’d expect, though. This soundtrack is more akin to elevator or grocery store music. Dull and quiet and not at all happy. A hypnotic and creepy lullaby.
My spine crawls. This isn’t the Oz I’ve imagined so many nights in my sleep. Definitely not the inspiration to the times I broke out in a chorus of “Defying Gravity” within the safety of my shower. The dark sky and numerous artificial lights give this place the feeling of being underground. Reminds me of a book I read for school in fifth grade. City of Ember, I think it was called.
Ember. How fitting.
“I think I will call you Ember,” Joshua said once. “I’ve decided it suits you better than your first name . . .”
I search for the rest of the conversation. What was it he said next?
“An ember is neither fire nor ash. Smoldering but not truly alive.”
Ouch. The truth hurts, doesn’t it? I’ve changed since, learned what it truly means to live. But now, inside the walls of this dying city, I feel more Ember than ever.
“This way.” Odessa click-clacks forward, guiding us up and down bustling streets of dull yellow brick. The people here seem to live in the same era we left behind. Bowler hats and pin curls, A-line skirts and saddle shoes. It’s like stepping into the 1940s but in Technicolor. Except something is wrong with the screen and the only shade coming through is green.
Did I mention everything is green?
Odessa squints over her shoulder. “Keep up, please. We don’t have all day.”
I’m starting to think her nose is permanently turned up. Though, to be fair, most of the residents seem a bit snobbish. Not a wave or kind greeting to be found. Now I really know I don’t miss New York as much as I used to. The thought of eye-contact avoidance used to be endearing. Now I long for Robyn’s warm smile. Stormy’s melodic laughter. Even Ebony’s eye roll would satisfy my need for human contact.
As if on cue, Jasyn and I exchange a glance. He smiles, and I find it easy to return the wordless salutation. Am I growing fond of him? Are my teenage grandfather and I becoming . . . friends? I stare down at my soggy shoes. Better not get too attached, just in case.
The buildings aren’t clusters of thin domed towers like so many artists have depicted. Instead, they’re like any other, made of bricks and windows and peeling paint. I understand the need for green-tinted eyeglasses now. In the book the wizard ordered everyone to wear them, his ploy to make the city out to be more than it appeared. Now I sort of wish I had those glasses. Maybe they’d help Oz seem like less of a disappointment.
“Left up here,” Odessa instructs before making a sharp turn around the nearest corner.
I try to keep up, stepping on a cat’s tail in my attempt. The feline screeches, then scrams. This road smells of used mop water. Mop water that was used to clean some other city, then drained here.
My gaze travels up, up, up. Stained-green windows might look like glimmering emeralds if they were polished. Instead, they’re cracked and faded, appearing more as if they’re made of mold than gems. And don’t get me started on the road. Aside from the odor, the yellow bricks are closer to broken teeth than the golden pathway to a city of dreams. No one smiles, proud to be a member of this society.
“Nice try, wise guy. Now, skedaddle.” A police officer in a winter-green uniform drags a Munchkin in handcuffs from an old-fashioned car. “We ain’t got all day.” His accent is very New Jersey with a Brooklyn undertone.
“Penny for a poppy, miss?” A woman in jade rags sells wilting poppies at the mouth of an alley.
I offer a kind smile. “No, thank you.”
Instead of returning my gesture, she glowers. Her stare could kill the flowers in her basket.
This is Oz? Where’s the sparkle? The wonder? The wizard?
A sudden sinking feeling in my gut tells me exactly where Odessa leads us. I’m Dorothy minus the braids and terrier. Except I know how the story ends. I know the wizard isn’t the man he claims to be. Besides, in my experience, men with that much power at their fingertips aren’t to be trusted.
I glimpse my young grandfather from the corner of my eye. Even King Aidan is up for question now that I’ve met Jasyn prior to the Era of Shadows. No one is innocent. I’ll never believe anything is black and white now that I’ve seen so much gray.
A car horn blares and I jump, nearly knocking Jasyn into a rusty statue of a . . . monkey? With wings. Not a good sign. Winged monkeys are the bad guys. There should not be statues of them stationed at every street corner. I gulp.
Jasyn steadies me. “You have to keep your wits about you in this place.” He keeps his hand on my back, forcing me to match his pace. I can’t tell if he’s being protective or assuring I don’t run away.
We turn one corner, then another. An evergreen stoplight (golight?) marks our next turn onto a street dubbed Pastoria Lane. This avenue is busier than the others, decked mostly with shops and other businesses. A tattoo parlor with flashing green lights in the windows. A diner with a neon-green arrow sign that says “Eat at Moe’s.” Two plump women exit a salon, hair set in perfect curls with green pins stuck in. We pass them just in time to hear one titter.
“Did you see Winnie’s new beau?” Hand to her cleavage, she produces an air of pure shock. “I never! Imagine, a human breeding with a Munchkin.”
Her friend nods, lips pinched, hanging on every word the other says.
Is Odessa bothered by their small-minded gossip? I can’t see her face, so it’s difficult to decipher if she heard.