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

can’t go waltzing around as if I’m used to milking the cows of a spring evening.”
    “No, Mum. But I’m not alowed to wander about, either. Guards are posted, you see, beyond kitchen gardens on the barn side, beyond the forecourt on the carriage frontage, and beyond the reflecting pond and the parterre to the west.”
    “Is that so.” She wasn’t surprised.
    “I do hope you’re not going to contemplate some campaign, Mum.”
    “You flatter me with that remark.”
    “I have a hunch that General Cherrystone wouldn’t hesitate to restrict your liberties even further than he has already done.” She began to cross the roof and head for the stairs. “I’m sure you don’t believe me capable of laying gelignite sandwiches on the party platter. Anyway, I can’t cook.” When she was back in her salon she wandered along al the windows to see what she could see. She had never considered herself an inquisitive woman, but being confined to a suite of only eight rooms made her restless. She was also gripped with curiosity. Why hadn’t she thought to retain someone nubile? Someone who could smolder, sloe-eyed, near a vulnerable soldier? Someone who could pick up some useful information? She herself was too high, Murth was too dead, Rain hardly more than a babe in arms … and Glinda doubted that Chef or Puggles would attract much attention among itchy-triggered soldiers.
    Was it too late to exchange Miss Murth for someone a bit younger—younger by, say, a half century? Glinda could pretend to do it out of concern for Miss Murth’s health.
    But then Miss Murth came tramping in, hauling six logs of oak she had split and quartered herself, and she knelt down at the hearth to arrange the fire for when the evening chil took hold. Glinda knew that unless she herself brained Miss Murth with one of these spindle-thread vases, the old fiend would probably never die. She’d colapse over Glinda’s grave with dry, red eyes, and then take up a new position somewhere else.
    The tedious never die; that’s what makes them tedious.
    Glinda remembered the death of Ama Clutch, her governess. Almost forty years ago. Glinda never wakened from any sleep, even the luscious damp sleep that folows rousting sex, without sensing a pang of obscure guilt over her governess’s demise. Glinda didn’t feel she wanted to take on another such debt, especialy over someone as irksome as Miss Murth.
    “Miss Murth,” she found herself saying, “Puggles was teling me about how limited a range he is alowed to traverse these days. Does the same apply to you?”
    “I suspect it does, Lady Glinda,” said Murth, “but I haven’t pressed myself to try. I have no place else to go, and for years I haven’t had reason to leave the premises unless you require my company.”
    “What had you been used to doing when I would go to the Emerald City for six or eight months?”
    “Oh … tidying up some. Dusting.”
    “I see. Have you no family?”
    “I’ve been in your employ for twenty years, Lady Glinda. Don’t you think I would have mentioned my family if I had any?”
    “You may have nattered on about your kin for yonks. I never know if I’m listening.”
    “Wel, since you’re asking, no. I am the last of our line.”
    And I the last of mine, thought Glinda, who had had no siblings. And she and Chuffrey had never managed to conceive. How quirky, to share this common a loneliness with a member of her staff. Whereas if Glinda had had children—even now, some child or children dashing in every direction, carrying on irresponsibly as the young do—wel, what a different place Mockbeggar would seem.
    “There are al sorts of maps and missives in the dining hal, Miss Murth, but I draw attention to myself when I enter. There’s no chance you could sneak a peak at them and report to me anything you read?”
    “Out of the question. We’re al under supervision, not just you.”
    “Do you think that our Rain has the run of the grounds?” She picked at