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Chapter Text

Dorothy picked her way down the path with care. Her boots were good ones, but they were borrowed from Uncle Henry and too big. Aunt Em's had pinched, though, and padded large boots were better than too-small ones. 

There had been a time when Dorothy had dressed in her family's clothes while putting on little shows—plays and things, mostly about the people she knew but occasionally featuring characters she had made up. 

That time had been long ago, now.

A light flickered in the shadows of the trees. Dorothy ignored it and followed the path.

After another few minutes, she saw another. It might be will-o'-the-wisp, or something else. Someone else. 

Still, she followed the path.

Eventually the light grew closer and closer. Dorothy neither slowed nor quickened her pace. It was no use. The faerie had found her again. 

A now-familiar figure stepped between two trees. The faerie had brown skin and pointed ears which nearly paralleled the ground. Her silky yellow hair was cropped a few inches above her shoulders except for two pieces at the front, which framed her face and fell past her shoulders. She wore, as usual, a green dress over a white shift. A dark cape was clasped around her shoulders. She wore a tiara. Dorothy had yet to learn whether she was fae royalty or if all faeries were allowed to ornament themselves that way.

"Hello, friend," Dorothy smiled and lifted her hand in greeting. Her errand was not a happy one, but she supposed she was glad to see what had so far proved to be a friendly face.

"Human," said the faerie. "You have returned."

"I have," said Dorothy. "So have you."

"I have to," Ozma said. "You're in my forest."

This was not strictly true, but Ozma was not replying to a direct question. Ozma did not need to, nor did she usually, personally interact with travelers. Not even ones clearly looking for the spring. The girl strode through the woods in large walking boots, trying a different path each night. She wore a warm cloak over her dress. She would be hard to see among the shadows, with all the bright colors, if her hair weren't red. Red was the brightest color to faeries. Even with her hood up, the girl's hair glowed becomingly. When Ozma had spied on the traveler through a crystal ball, the first thing she had noticed was how pretty she was. Her warm brown skin was freckled. Her curly red hair was twisted into braids. 

Presently, the girl shrugged and focused on her path. Ozma smiled to herself and matched the girl's pace.

It was nice, walking like this. Enjoying the mortal side of the forest. Sharing a space with one who called Ozma 'friend'. 

Even if she wouldn't tell Ozma her name. Ozma hadn't even asked for it, just something to call the girl. She had wondered if the girl was lost, at first, even when the girl said she wasn't. But then she had turned back halfway through the night and returned the way she came. 

Ozma had been almost sad to see her go.

They had spoken more the next time. Nothing serious or relevant. No personal information had passed between them. They had avoided discussing their favorite and least favorite things, for example. They had spent their time telling harmless jokes. When they had parted, the girl said, "Perhaps I will see you tomorrow, friend," to which Ozma had replied, "If you return... perhaps."

In the hours they had spent apart, Ozma had tried to think of a new joke. She had searched among the books and asked every faerie she saw. None of their jokes seemed like the sort of thing that would make this girl laugh. They weren't... witty, and silly. On the whole, they were sort of mean.

She had finally thought of a joke while bathing.

"I thought of a joke for you," Ozma said. 

"For me?" the girl clarified, generously giving Ozma an out.

Ozma blinked. She had never slipped up like that before. 

But—

"Sure," Ozma said. "You can have it if you like."

The girl nodded and gestured for Ozma to tell it. 

"What does an owl need after a bath?" Ozma asked. She was already regretting it—perhaps it was too random. It wasn't like the girl was taking a bath, or looking at a carved owl functioning as a toiletry holder. (Which was what Ozma had been doing when she thought of the joke).

The girl smiled. She thought for a second, then said, "Well... I haven't any guesses."

"A towl," Ozma said, nervously. 

The girl laughed, probably more than the joke really caused. Well, it was hers, now, so at least she enjoyed it.

Dorothy found herself laughing at the faerie's silly rhyme. It was more mirth than she had felt in ages. 

Dorothy had spent many days at Aunt Em's bedside while Uncle Henry tended the farm.

Uncle Henry was losing hope, though he wouldn't admit it. Dorothy had turned to children's stories, desperate for options.

She probably would have given up after the first two nights of searching with no results. Dorothy was so tired she would doze through the day, waking at least once an hour to help her aunt through a coughing fit.

The appearance of the faerie, though—one who walked with her, and lit the way without lighting a torch—that gave Dorothy hope that the spring of health really did exist.

Tonight Dorothy took the third fork in the road instead of the second. The faerie's expression did not change, but she grew quiet. Dorothy walked faster and faster.

The faerie matched her pace easily.

Dorothy thought about breaking into a run, but even with the light she was a little unsure of her footing. It didn't matter—after another minute of walking she stopped short.

There was what looked like a cliff face, just... cutting across the path.

Dorothy glanced at the faerie. The faerie looked back at her. Watching. 

Dorothy pressed her hand against the cliff. She walked to the edge of the path and felt the cliff as far as her arm could stretch. She crouched, too—maybe there was a weak spot where one wouldn't think to look. 

"Clever," the faerie said. 

Dorothy turned and looked. 

"I mean it," she affirmed, "Nobody's ever looked there before. That isn't how to get in, though."

Dorothy sighed. "Well, all right. Thank you, I suppose."

She stood and stepped back toward the center of the path. She looked at the cliff. There were no obvious hand-holds, but maybe—

Dorothy ran her hands over the cliff face again, above her head this time. She found a small edge, maybe an inch across, almost out of her reach. 

She braced her foot against the cliff and lifted herself up. She searched for another hand-hold. Nothing. 

She fell to the ground as her hand began to give out. She dusted herself off and tried again. And again. And again. 

Eventually, she looked at the moon. It was nearly time to turn back. 

Dorothy took a few steps away. Then a few more. She glanced at the faerie, who had watched all of this impassively. 

Dorothy inhaled deeply, steeling herself. Her final idea might work, but it was a risk, running head-on at a cliff. 

She didn't even have time to build up speed before the faerie pulled her back.

"Stop!"

"Why!?" Dorothy exclaimed, suddenly on the verge of tears. "I have to try—I have to, don't you see?"

"I don't. I'm sorry. I don't. Why don't you tell me?" The faerie's skin was warm against Dorothy's forehead. She brushed Dorothy's hair from her face. 

"I—you won't use it against me?"

"I won't. I promise."

"My Aunt Em is sick. Terribly sick. She can't sleep through the night, she coughs all day. She burns to the touch—the doctor said—he said she might," Dorothy couldn't finish.

The faerie seemed to get the gist, though. She pressed a soft kiss to Dorothy's brow.

"I see," she said. 

They sat there in silence for a long moment. Dorothy listened to the sounds of the forest. Leaves rustled, insects buzzed. An owl hooted, and Dorothy remembered the faerie's—Dorothy's, now—joke. She smiled, despite herself. The faerie saw and understood. 

"I may... be able to help," she told Dorothy. 

"Oh, can you, really?" Dorothy asked, excited. "Can you get me past that cliff?"

The faerie shook her head. "I don't think either of us could leave again if I did. No. I have another idea."

Dorothy waited for her to continue.

"On—one condition," said the faerie. Dorothy felt her heart plummet. She had been warned of the deals of the fae. What would she give up for her family? Her freedom? Her life? Her self? What would this faerie want from her, anyway—she had seemed so kind, but not suspiciously welcoming.

"Oh, I have to set conditions for my magic to work," the faerie clarified. "I can make sure it works in your favor."

"I see," Dorothy said. "I'm not sure I trust that—no offense. Please, tell me your offer. Then I'll decide."

"On the condition that you always call me friend, I will give you my name. If you have my name, I can work permitted magic on your family. But because you must always call me friend, you will not command me."

"I wouldn't want to!" Dorothy said. "Does that—the only word I'm unsure about is, 'always'—I assume it's necessary, so that I can never use your name against you, but will it mean we always remain friends, or only that I call you so?"

"I'd like to be friends for ever," the faerie said, a note of shyness in her voice. "But that is up to you. And this bond will not take your mortality without your consent, nor will it tie you to my side."

"All right," said Dorothy. "If you give me your name, I shall always call you friend." 

The faerie squeezed Dorothy's hands—at some point Dorothy had pulled away from her embrace, but they had clasped hands.

Their eyes met. Dorothy felt—tremendous hope, paired with a new fear she couldn't quite name. The faerie's eyes were as dark as Dorothy's own, but they shone red in the moonlight. It was comforting—they were reminiscent of friendly cat's eyes, not a wild beast's. 

"My name is Ozma," said Dorothy's friend. "Let's go see your aunt."

Chapter Text

"Good morning, Dorothy-dear." Ozma said as she entered the private dining room. The curtains were thrown open so that alternating patches of lime and white-tinted sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows.

"Good morning, Ozma," Dorothy replied cheerily, without looking away from her breakfast. "I saved you a cinnamon bun!"

"Two, I see," Ozma grinned. The platter was large enough for eight buns, and the icing-drippings that covered it implied there had been at least that many.

"Yes, well, I did share with a few—oh!" Dorothy blurted, having finally looked up.

"Hm?" Ozma hummed, knowing perfectly well what had caused Dorothy to interrupt herself. 

"Your hair—did you cut it yourself?"

"I did," Ozma admitted, though the evidence was plain enough. She ran a hand through her admittedly choppy layers. "My head feels lighter now."

"I like it," Dorothy said. She tugged Ozma down into her usual spot at the head of the table. Dorothy always sat at Ozma's right hand, except sometimes if her friends were visiting and needed to be separated to minimize the bickering.

"Thank you," Ozma said, and poured herself some juice. Dorothy loaded a plate for Ozma, momentarily ignoring the contents of her own plate. Even after so much time, it brought a flush to Ozma's cheeks. Dorothy was so sweet.

"May I ask—why today? Have you been thinking about cutting it so short for a while?"

Ozma shrugged. "Oh, I don't know. I suppose. I liked it long, and it was certainly very—well, it looked pretty in an up-do, didn't it?"

"Very."

"I suppose I just remembered that, for all that I didn't love about being Tip, I did quite like having my hair short. It sort of—blows about in the wind, but it's not long enough to get in my eyes or my lip-gloss. And I suppose recently I realized I can take nearly whatever I like from that life, and bring it into this one."

"I think that's lovely, Ozma." Dorothy squeezed Ozma's hand, then placed a fork into her palm and wrapped her fingers around it. 

Ozma took a bite of sausage, then a small berry.

She chewed, and swallowed, and then she said, "Also, I just learned a spell that would grow it all back, if I didn't like it." 

Dorothy laughed. 

She had the most beautiful smile in the world, but her laugh—especially when Ozma caused it—her laugh was better than the center-most bite of a cinnamon bun.

"I think you should leave it this way a while. It looks very nice. May I touch?" 

"Rinse your hands, and then yes. I know you."

Dorothy laughed so hard she snorted a little as she rose to dip her hands in the basin in the corner. Ozma took a few more delicious bites, of egg and potato now, while watching Dorothy make her way across the room. She was wearing a white shirt with tiny buttons, half-tucked into a long pink skirt. The skirt had a gauzy over-layer which fell a few inches lower than the opaque inner layer. Some of her hair was held back with a barrette Ozma had given her—simple, carved of rosewood, and by far one of Dorothy's favorites.

Ozma tended to leave the sweet, bread-y parts of breakfast for last. She was just biting into her cinnamon roll when Dorothy's hand touched the back of Ozma's head.

Her eyes fell shut. A slight shiver spread from Dorothy's finger-tips and through Ozma's whole being.

"Oh, I'd forgotten that," Dorothy said, casually.

"So had I, to be honest," replied Ozma, quickly deciding to keep her hair short for the foreseeable future.

Dorothy tugged gently, and Ozma found herself looking at Dorothy's smiling mouth. Ozma tilted her head back, closed her eyes, and parted her lips.  

Dorothy met her in a sweet, syrupy kiss. It tasted like sugar. 

When they parted, Ozma tried to repress her smile. "So, I don't look too much like Tip, today? With the overalls." 

Dorothy's laugh brought back whatever part of Ozma's smile she'd managed to keep down. 

"Oh, dearest. Even if you were dressed as a farm-boy, in overalls of a far less fine fabric, and purple at that—you will always look like Ozma to me. Because you are Ozma. You must not ever forget that, all right?"

Ozma's grin almost hurt, it was so wide. 

"All right."

Dorothy kissed her again, and her fingers wound through Ozma's hair. Cinnamon-hot syrup flowed through Ozma's veins, and she got the feeling Dorothy was aware.

"Are you finished eating?" Dorothy asked innocently—or so she would seem, to any who didn't know that gleam in her eye. "Only because we have an hour or so before we have anything scheduled, and I'd like to see—which shears you used for your hair." 

Ozma stood up. "Why, are you planning on cutting yours?" 

She grabbed the last cinnamon bun as she followed Dorothy out. 

"No, now that you point it out. Come to think of it, my chambers are closer anyway." 

"Yes, let's go there," Ozma agreed, and then muffled a giggle. "Slow down, dearest, we'll both get a stitch if we run."

Dorothy muttered something under her breath—Ozma would think it was a vague threat about slow walkers getting stitches, but Ozma's lovely Dorothy would never say such a thing to Ozma. All right, so she would.

"What was that?" Ozma teased.

"Nothing, love." Dorothy glanced back at Ozma, eyes full of mirth. "Come along."

So Ozma did.

Chapter Text

Dorothy peeks over the crumbling wall. She has to stand on her tip-toes to see. 

On the other side, a child about her age is crouched, talking to... a chicken?

They're wearing a very comfy-looking sweater. 

"I like your jumper!" says Dorothy, because it's true and kind and if you ever think something both true and kind, you might as well say it.

The child is startled, though, and they fall on their butt. 

To their credit, they aren't angry when they peer up at Dorothy in confusion.

"Thanks," they say. "I wear it a lot. I like your dress, I guess."

She shrugs. "It's my Sunday best. Aunt Em made me."

"Oh. Well, it suits your hair, anyway." 

Dorothy nods and says, "Thank you,". Her hair is sort of a purply-red-brown, and the dress is lilac, so that's probably true. And it sounds kind.

"Might I climb over this wall?" Dorothy asks. The green-skinned child blinks at her. 

"If you like," they say. Dorothy gets one leg over before the child speaks again. "Though, I was planning on going over the other way, so if you're climbing to join me you probably shouldn't." 

"Oh," says Dorothy. "Well, would you like a hand?" 

"No, thank you," says the child. "Though—would you hold this chicken?"

Dorothy takes the chicken and watches as the child pulls themself up with their arms and then hitches a leg over the wall. The ground is lower on the other side. Dorothy is impressed.

"You're very strong," Dorothy says.

"Thanks," says the child.

"Is this your chicken?" Dorothy asks.

The child gives her a funny look. Sort of... considering.

"I don't know. Can you keep a secret?"

"Why?" Dorothy asks. "Did you steal it, or something?"

"No," says the child. "But can you?"

Dorothy purses her lips. "I suppose, so long as you didn't steal it."

"This chicken..." says the child, dramatically. "...Was a witch." 

"What!" Dorothy cries. "How—what happened?"

The child shrugs. "I don't know. I guess I might be a witch too. Or maybe it was her own magic, and I had nothing to do with it. All I know is, one minute, witch! and the next minute, chicken."

...."Strange," says Dorothy, enthralled.

"So, will you tell?"

"What would I even say?" Dorothy points out. "I don't even know your name. But, sure, I won't tell anyone this chicken was a witch. In the future, though, you probably ought to just tell people that it's your chicken. Even if it's sort of a lie. Was she your witch?" 

"How would someone even have a witch? It was more like, I was her lad."

"You're a lad?" Asks Dorothy, surprised.

"Did you not think so?" the imp asks. "People usually think such."

"I didn't think any which way, I suppose," Dorothy says after a moment of consideration. "You're a imp-child, like me. I was more interested by your chicken. And I liked your sweater. Oh! And your earrings, and your stars as well," she adds, for she'd forgotten to say, even though she had been admiring their cute earrings in the shape of tiny fish-skeletons, and the star-shaped stickers sprinkled across their face.

"Thank you! I made them." The child accepts this compliment more enthusiastically than the others, and Dorothy makes a mental note.

They've climbed off the wall, and begun walking around it. Dorothy wasn't ever going anywhere in particular, just looking for something to do after church, since she didn't have to stay with her Aunt and Uncle after it was over. So she was perfectly amenable to follow this child wherever they were going.

 "Are you a lad, by-the-by? You didn't say. Not that you have to say. We can be friends no matter what."

Dorothy doesn't really know why she added that last bit. She supposes the child had dodged the question because they found it private for some reason, and who is she to judge? There is plenty she'd rather not say to just anyone, after all.

"Oh, I don't know. Who cares? Not I. I just thought it was odd, that you weren't sure, when everyone always acts certain of it."

"All right, then."

"Is it?"

"Well, I think so. Do you want to play in this meadow?" Dorothy asks, for they've come to a lush meadow filled with patches purple and white flowers, all swirled together.

"That sounds nice," says the child. They go and kneel among the blossoms. Dorothy lets go of the chicken, which wanders a few steps and pecks at the ground.

"She doesn't act like a witch," Dorothy says. 

"I suppose not, but how do you know?" asks the child. "Have you met many witches?" 

Dorothy shrugs. She doesn't feel like getting into it. 

"Do you want to do each other's hair?" she suggests. "We can braid flowers into it."

"Sure," says the child.

They spend hours there, in the sunlight and the lovely breeze. Occasionally the chicken wanders too far, and they shoo it back.

Mostly, they spend it in silence. Occasionally, in giggles or in conversation which flows more easily as time goes on.

Dorothy has made friends like this before. Companions for a few hours one Sunday, who she doesn't see again. 

Usually, it's enough. She has her family, farmhands, and friends. She has Toto, who is still at home today.

But she wants to show this new friend to all of her other people. 

"Would you like to meet Toto," Dorothy suggests, casually. "And perhaps some of the others?"

"I don't know," says her friend, digging up a blossom with a stick. "Is your Aunt very mean?"

"No!" Dorothy laughs, then quickly sobers. "She certainly isn't a witch. You've nothing to fear, there, dear."

Dorothy's friend nods.

"...Maybe."

"Well, have you anywhere else to go?" the thought occurs to Dorothy. "If your witch is now a chicken."

"Uh..." 

"In that case, you'd better come with me." Dorothy says authoritatively. Then she feels a little bad, and adds, "Though we haven't got to go this minute, of course."

"Okay," says the child, and smiles up at her. "We could play touch-and-go, first, if you like."

Dorothy holds back a grin. "Well.... hmm...." She stalls, standing up. She looks at the sun in the sky, and then licks her thumb and holds it in the wind. 

The child is staring at her, brow furrowed. 

"Why are you—"

"You're it!" Dorothy blurts, tapping the child. She races off, giggling as the child gasps in affront and climbs to their feet to chase her.

That begins a years-long rivalry, in which the two of them often switch from being perfect friends to competitive rivals at the drop of a hat. (Or rather, the start of a game.)

Of course they shake hands, after. But they only step back into their roles as amiable friends once one of them achieves victory. 

People will comment, in times like then, how clear it is that their relationship was founded in childhood. 

The two imps will smile fondly. It will not impact their competition.

Chapter Text

Ozma was enamored with the way Dorothy practiced magic.

Dorothy didn't care for any of the rules the Witches swore by. Not the Laws of Magic that both the Good Witches and the Wicked Witches understood; and certainly not the rules that various sects of magical practitioners ascribed to. 

Dorothy had limits, obviously. She was a thoroughly ethical person. There was magic she wouldn't practice—probably couldn't practice, to be honest, Ozma didn't really believe Dorothy had it in her to really harm somebody—

But Dorothy didn't consider any Rule of Three, or of Returned Energy, or any such thing.

She just did spells when she believed they were necessary, or thought they'd be helpful, or if she just knew it would bring a smile to somebody's face.

Dorothy did magic for fun.

There were others like her, of course. By some reckonings, most of the citizens of Oz were magical practitioners in one way or another, and the smallest minority of them were Witches. 

But Dorothy was not from Oz. She was from Kansas, and her magic was in some respects learned from her family—healing traditions, "superstitious" actions, and the like—but mostly, it was child's play.

From Ozma's limited understanding of Kansas—children were in many cases the only people allowed to practice magic, and even then they were often restricted by their family's beliefs. Yet Dorothy told tales of children's magic expressing itself strongly. She explained traditions of hair-braiding and flower-crown-weaving which were, in essence, knot magic; of psychic visions dismissed by elders as over-active imagination; of the banishment of bad weather, something only the most powerful Witches could do, but their rituals were dismissed as children's games.

Dorothy's magic was equal parts play and intuition. It was zero parts based on Traditional Books or Standard Correspondences or Customary Incantations. She'd been gifted wands—plural—but on the rare occasion she felt the urge to use one, she surely didn't adhere to any Conventional Wand Movements.

Dorothy was generally open to using the tools she was gifted. She took pleasure in making use of anything that a friend gave freely out of their regard for her, and magical tools were always something of a novelty to her. They weren't—toys, to her, but... Her magic was half-play, and play-things could be sacred.

For Ozma it was... different, to say the least. When she was given a wand, it was one of the first times she'd ever really had a way to channel the magic out of herself. And then she had been expected to become—precise. It was a new freedom, but also a skill she would have to practice until she could get it right every time. And if she got it wrong—

Well, Ozma was distinctly aware that her magic could hurt people, if her intentions were off. Or if she—

Well. 

It was a lot of power. 

Ozma had a lot of power in most ways, to be honest.

And it wasn't that Dorothy had less power, because she was a game-changer politically and magically and in any crisis, really, she was the number one person Ozma wanted on her side. She had social clout, and magical ability, and emotional intelligence, and she was clever, and Ozma loved her terribly.

It might be said that Dorothy's power was simply a different kind to Ozma's. 

Dorothy had responsibility to the people she took care of, and Ozma had that too, but Ozma also had what was best described as hegemony. 

Dorothy, Ozma thought, was sort of like the Empress card. Ozma was like the Emperor. There was no power of one over the other; but the Emperor was focused on a new twist in its path for growth.

Ozma had learned to read tarot. Oscar had taught her, according to the Standard Correspondences he was used to. It wasn't a traditional divinatory practice in Oz, but Ozma quite liked it, for the art and the organization of the system.

Dorothy read tarot, too, but she hadn't memorized any readings. She just went off of what the cards looked like.

Ozma took this as evidence that their differing approaches had less to do with their various relationships with Oz Magical Practices and more to do with their varying relationships with magical instructions in general. (Or just instructions. Dorothy only read instruction manuals as a last resort; Ozma was always too afraid to waste time or break something by doing it wrong to go that way.)

Ozma didn't take issue with Dorothy's approach, in magic or otherwise. (She was harder on herself than on anyone else.)

When Dorothy did magic, it was an art. 

She moved gracefully, intuitively finding spatial pathways that lit up in activation. She hummed under her breath, and the magic sang at her fingertips and the curls of her hair. Sometimes she simply asked for something to happen, and it did, because the magic wanted to please Dorothy as much as anyone else. Her intentions were always pure.

Ozma wished she could learn from Dorothy, instead of Glinda and the piles of tomes full of Recipes and Rules. Unfortunately, Ozma believed that trying to turn Dorothy's processes into a system Ozma understood might ruin Dorothy's magic for the both of them. 

So she just watched Dorothy moving about in her half of the Spell-Kitchen, throwing ingredients into a cauldron and talking to Toto all the while.

It was less orderly, Dorothy's half, but somehow all the more homey. The dog was curled up on a pillow on the counter-top, watching as Dorothy bustled about and occasionally fed him this or that—edible scraps from her ingredients. The cauldron steamed. Most of what Dorothy made was edible, and even when it wasn't it smelled like it should be. (At the end, anyway, sometimes her process involved a cloud of sulfur right in the middle—but she'd always have fun, even if she was covered head-to-toe in yellow powder that turned out to be a technically unnecessary step—though Dorothy tended to claim that even the steps that didn't need to happen for the spell, needed to happen for the mind.)

Ozma's half of the room was filled with mostly books, at this point. Several of them were open to different versions of the same recipe. Ozma's journal was open to a page filled with notes on dozens of ingredients. Bungle stared from atop a towering pile of books in the corner—Ozma had given up on trying to talk the Glass Cat out of climbing up so high, and had instead dedicated a small pile of pillows to surround the tower at all times. That was the only cozy part of Ozma's half of the room, and it was borne out of mainly concern.

Ozma sighed.

Dorothy, of course, caught on the moment Ozma's frustration was audible. She glanced over.

"Have you reached your limit with those recipes, yet?" Dorothy asked.

"I'm just so tired of this," Ozma said. "I was wishing I could do it your way." 

"You'd hate doing it my way," said Dorothy. "You always prefer to do it in your head first."

"I know," Ozma admitted.

"Boredom beats anxiety, dear," Dorothy reminded her. 

Ozma nodded. That was, as hard as it was to remember now, the crux of the matter. If Ozma didn't begin with a plan, she worried all the way through. This way kept her from getting it wrong without a Plan B. 

Dorothy blew her a kiss. Ozma felt Dorothy's lips on her cheek—ghostly, but unmistakable.

Ozma smiled and felt a blush rise to her cheeks. She flushed easily, especially around Dorothy. There were times she found it annoying, but with Dorothy she really didn't mind it much.

Ozma turned her attention back to the Recipes.

Chapter Text

Beep beep !

Dorothy blinked awake, startled to hear the honk of a cheerful-sounding horn.

She sat up in bed and stretched. The morning air was crisp, but not uncomfortably cold. Dorothy got out of bed and paced to the window.

She gasped aloud at the sight of a bright yellow school bus. She couldn't even remember the last time she'd seen one. 

Dorothy pressed her face to the glass. Oh, how she wished this window would open! She didn't want to get her hopes up—but what other Bus would appear so suddenly? And why?

The Bus doors opened and a figure with a familiar head of red curls and a star-patterned dress appeared.

Dorothy exclaimed with joy. Of course it was Valerie Frizzle and her Magic School Bus! 

Dorothy rushed to get dressed. She dug out the dress Val had gifted her upon their last parting, and quickly pulled it over a white blouse. It was a saturated purple, and buttoned like overalls. The dress' pattern changed with the day, of course. This morning it was covered in something white and fluffy, like fresh cotton. 

Dorothy pulled on her shoes and tied a bow round her neck as she raced through the halls of the palace. 

She skidded to a halt at the foyer, but she nearly smacked into Ozma anyway. 

"Good morning, Dorothy!" Ozma was decked out in her court attire. She had an early session today, which Dorothy normally would have attended, but Dorothy had been all the way in Munchkin county all the previous day and had gotten home in the very late evening. 

"Hello, dear," Dorothy said, and gave Ozma a quick kiss. It occurred to her that she hadn't brushed her teeth, but Ozma didn't seem to mind. 

"I suppose you know that's Valerie outside," Ozma said, smiling at Dorothy's dress. 

"I saw from the window," Dorothy nodded. "I should have grabbed your Frizzle-pattern trousers—I apologize."

"Don't worry, dearest, I know you were so thrilled to see our dear old friend that you wouldn't have had time to think of something like that. And first thing in the morning as well! Really, I wondered if you would have slept through her honking—you were so exhausted when you got in last night." 

Dorothy waved Ozma off. "Oh, don't worry about that. I'm fresh as new, now." 

"You do look it," Ozma smiled at Dorothy with a familiar gleam in her eye. 

"Oh, hush, we don't have time for flirting. She'll be at the door any moment—"

A knock echoed through the foyer.

"—now," Dorothy finished. 

Ozma giggled a little as the door swung open. 

"Hello, girls!" Val said, her arms spread wide. Dorothy and Ozma ran to her embrace. 

"Hi, Val!"

"It's been so long!"

"Too long."

"You said you'd visit soon,"

"I'm a liar and a cheat, it seems. But oh, I'm here now, and it's lovely to see you both."

"You as well,"

"Of course!"

"Well—we shouldn't just stand in the entry all day—!"

"We could, of course, but I can't imagine you'd like to," 

"No—though it is very nice. I love what you've done with it."

"She is a liar, Ozma, we all know the Frizz hates art deco,"

"Oh!"

Ozma and Dorothy giggled as Val floundered. "I don't hate—it's just a bit—but it suits this palace, so—!"

"Enough bullying, Dorothy, you terrible thing."

"You're right, dear, we ought to invite her in."

"Oh, we did, she just didn't come!"

"Because you decided to bully her!"

"Girls, girls, you're as bad as my students!"

"Well, don't say that," Dorothy said, aghast. 

"I'll tell you I mean it, if you don't offer me tea this instant!"

"Of course, of course, come along then," Dorothy and Ozma chorused.

After a lovely tea and chat, with lots more bickering and quite a bit of gossip and catching up on all ends, the three of them sprawled on couches in the garden. 

Liz had skittered off at some point. Liz and Billina were longtime friends (maybe more? Dorothy had been meaning to ask.) and were all but inseparable. She'd last seen them in deep conversation with Inty of the Munchkin Council, who worked closely with Billina. 

They were joined by Scarecrow, Glass Cat in tow. He'd tied up Ozma's loose ends as quickly as he could and then followed her footsteps. Somewhere along the way, he'd changed into a Frizzle dress. It was patterned with what looked like black ribbon.

Val was one of Scarecrow's favorite people. They were working on a multi-dimensional communication device of some kind, with some help from Oscar and a small team of magical citizens. It was slow work, of course, considering how rarely Val was able to slip away and come visit.

She'd be in Oz for the weekend. She'd agreed to stay the night in the palace, but said she planned to visit some witches the next day, and then she'd have comfortable lodgings with some of Liz's extended reptilian family. Val did promise to stop by one last time before she left, but Dorothy was very aware that they were working with limited time.

"Well, Val, is there anything you'd absolutely like to do this afternoon and evening?" Dorothy asked. 

"I'm glad you asked," said The Frizz with a twinkle in her eye. 

Shortly, she'd commandeered some of the Wizard's old props to construct a massive screen at the top of the palace steps, in front of the great doors. The drive in front of the palace, paved with jade and marble, was increasingly crowded with furniture set up to face the screen and quickly filling with friends and passers-by willing to join the effort.

"What's go-ing on here?" asked Tik-tok, on his rounds. 

"Val is showing us a moving picture!" Dorothy told him. 

Tik-tok surveyed the blank screen. "No off-ense, but it does-n't seem to be mov-ing all that much." 

Dorothy giggled. "Oh, Tik-tok, it hasn't started yet! We're waiting for the sun to set, and then the Bus will project a film onto the screen."

"I see," said Tik-tok. "That makes some sense, I sup-pose." 

"Valerie won't tell me what the movie is," said Lion, in lieu of a greeting. He leapt onto a sofa and butted his head against Dorothy's arm like the great cat he was.

"She never does," said Dorothy, combing her fingers through Lion's mane. "She likes to surprise us!" 

"Not everybody likes a surprise," said Lion. 

"That-is true," said Tik-tok. 

"Valerie always chooses excellent films," said Ozma, reappearing with a sack of peanuts so large she had to wrap her arms around it.

Dorothy couldn't help but giggle. "Is that to share, my love?"

"No, it's for my very own dragon's hoard... of course it's to share!" Ozma admonished, but only held a straight face for a few moments before she broke into giggles as well. 

"There's some more, and some corn for popping as well—you three might think about helping, instead of lallygagging and horsing about!"

"I take offense to that," said a nearby horse, admittedly helping pull a massive pop-corn pot into position. 

"My apologies, Mister Mac! I shouldn't have said that." Ozma looked genuinely nervous. Dorothy admired how much she cared for her citizens.

"Na-a-aw, I'm just horsin'. And so are your friends!" 

They all chuckled, but hastened back to work. 

By the time everything was set up, and everyone was in their seats, the sun had set. 

Dorothy was nestled between Ozma and Lion, the latter of whom was positively quivering with anxiety.  

"You know, if you don't like it, you can leave at any time," Dorothy whispered in his ear. "No-one will judge you, or think anything of it."

Lion stared at her for a moment. "Of course I know that," he grumbled, but he settled, his muscles relaxing. 

She stroked the spot between his ears and rested her head on Ozma's shoulder. Ozma placed a small roasted nut between Dorothy's lips without looking. 

Dorothy chewed it and smiled to herself. 

It was always nice when friends dropped by.

Speaking of whom—The Frizz snuck up behind them.

"I'm going to say a few words, and then we can start the show—if everyone is ready." 

Dorothy nodded and patted Ozma's knee. "Perfect!" said Ozma. 

Frizzle darted off. 

Dorothy glanced at Ozma's trousers. She'd changed at some point, and was wearing her Frizzle-pattern trousers along with a sweater vest and a turtleneck. The trousers were flowy and smooth to the touch, and patterned with soda cups. 

"Oh!" Dorothy realized. "My dress is popcorn!" 

Ozma hummed curiously.

"I hadn't thought about it until just now. I should've guessed she wanted a movie night the moment I saw the dress." 

Ozma gave a low chuckle.

"Hello all!" the Frizz was holding a microphone. Dorothy knew better than to wonder where she'd gotten it. Valerie would never travel time or dimensions without access to every possible tool, and a few impossible ones just to be safe.

"I'll be brief—just, it's very lovely to be here tonight," Val paused for applause. "I've missed all my friends dearly, and I'm glad for everyone who pitched in and helped make this movie night—it must be, what, our thirtieth random unplanned public movie night?" Impressed murmurs emanated from the crowd. "You're all amazing. An especial shout-out to the majestic messrs. Eddy and Mac, without whom the pop-corn pot would still be across Emerald City!" Applause rang out for the horses, who pretended to look humble, as horses often do. 

"This movie pick is dedicated to your wonderful princesses—" pause for applause, "Dorothy—" more applause, "and Ozma," Dorothy joined in the applause, and perhaps egged it on a little bit, "because I know they'll just adore it, and even if I didn't, it would be a pretty easy guess." 

With that enigmatic statement, she leapt off the steps and shouted, "Hit it, Bus!". She scampered back to sit between Ozma and Scarecrow (who was cuddling with Nick on the opposite side of the couch from Dorothy). 

The sound of the reel came from the Bus, which projected a studio logo perfectly onto the screen. Dorothy whispered to everybody that she'd explain the "radio tower" and the accompanying beeping later on. Then, the title card: a monochrome painting of a house, covered in snow. Dorothy barely had any time to wonder why before her questions were answered. 

"Little Women!" Dorothy cheered and clapped her hands. "Oh, that's my favorite! You didn't tell me there was a new adaptation!" 

Ozma—who Dorothy had obviously encouraged, and perhaps even pressured, to read Dorothy's favorite book, also let out an excited gasp. 

"Who's Katherine Hepburn?" Ozma asked. 

"Oh, you'll like her," the Frizz said confidently. "She makes a great Jo March." 

"I do like Jo," said Ozma. 

Valerie passed them a movie poster, painted in color. Ozma and Dorothy oohed over the depiction of the four lovely March sisters. "That must be Jo, in the front," Dorothy said.

"With those curls—and that sort of—courageous smolder? I should think so. She reminds me of you, so she must be Jo," Ozma said.

"Sounds like someone has a crush already! What did I say?" said Val. 

"I like the blonde," said Dorothy.

"What a surprise," snickered Ozma.

"Amy, I assume?" Dorothy asked, ignoring Ozma smugly tucking a golden lock behind her ear.

"You'll have to wait and see," said Val. 

"Is this better than the silent films?" Dorothy wondered aloud. "I always thought Jo's voice deserved to be heard."

"'Suppose you'll have to listen, and find out!" Valerie winked. Dorothy thought about playfully tossing some popcorn at her, but the movie was starting, and the last thing they needed was another food fight. Jack's nerves hadn't been quite the same since. 

Dorothy settled in with her friends and a movie that, yes, she would definitely enjoy.

dorothy at the window, ozma in the evening

Bonus picrews of them all a bit younger!