Chapter Text
Imagine a city far below you, as if we are hovering above it. Extending in every direction are streets of narrow houses standing crammed together, shoulder to shoulder underneath a damp cloud of smog. This city is teeming with people, swarming like ants from a nest - see them as the dawn breaks and they go scurrying forth, more lives than you could possibly imagine. Now see the soul which stands out from the sea of soot, glowing, a poisonous snake with iridescent scales. Watch as he makes his way down a long stretchy street, past the urchins dressed in rags who run after him, tugging at his coat until he ducks past them down an alleyway and raps at a door so inconspicuous it blends into the wall. It swings open and he is ushered inside - and this is where our story begins, for the first time.
Galinda sits at the kitchen table, idly picking stitches from a handkerchief. It’s silk, finer quality than the usual fare - whoever filched it must have been working in Mayfair, or Kensington. Sometimes Galinda imagines those gleaming, wide streets, the rustling silks and the bonnets the ladies might wear. It’s all a figment of her imagination though - although she’s lived in London her whole life, she’s hardly been out of the Borough. Her whole world is contained inside their crooked house on Crope Street.
For through this crooked house passes all manner of crooked characters, bearing goods of every description, from silk handkerchiefs to brass candlesticks, silver plate stamped with coats of arms, pocket watches and jewels of paste that shine like the real thing. Galinda can tell the difference, of course - had been taught to, as soon as she could walk and talk, as well as how to tell a good coin from bad, how to pick a lock and a pocket, and all the other skills that make up any self respecting Borough girl’s arsenal. Galinda knows she’s not like other Borough girls though - although she’s been trained to act a part and can smile and a simper while pocketing your purse as well as anyone, she’s never been put out to work the streets like the rest of them. Her household is above street thievery; rather, they consider themselves the cogs that turn the engine of the vast network that redistributes goods, from their kitchen at Crope Street down a hundred dark alleyways and out onto carts and boats and wagons that can reach any street in London, faster than you would believe.
The face of their operation is Oz, or the Wizard, earning his nickname from his alchemical skill for making old brass shine like new, removing tarnish from silver, prising apart jewellery for the stones and melting down the gold. He has the charm to dazzle any common confidence trickster - when they arrive at his kitchen door with their wares, he welcomes them, draws up a chair by the fire. But then, his face will fall as he combs through the spoils. ‘Pretty nice stuff this - but I’m afraid that crest will never come off! It’ll be impossible for me to move on… never mind, my boy, I can still give you three shillings for it…’ As he goes to usher the visitor from the kitchen, he seems to pull a coin from nowhere and holds it winking under the candlelight: ‘Dreadfully cold out there, isn’t it? Make sure you get something to keep you warm,’ and the grateful thief palms the extra sixpence and melts back into the night from whence they came. It’s this network of grateful thieves that return loyally to Oz, unsuspecting of the true value of their wares. While he works his magic on metal, anything of cloth he leaves to Galinda, who is an expert at salvaging lace from collars and cuffs, darning silk stockings and picking initials from handkerchiefs.
The household’s real head sits in her kitchen chair, the spider at the centre of her web, tugging at the threads that connect their kitchen to all the corners of London. Visitors never suspect that Crope Street’s vast network is actually managed by a woman - even thieves are unwilling to look past the ends of their own noses sometimes - but Galinda’s heard Morrible make threats that made her blood run cold. Still, Galinda’s never been on the receiving end of that; Morrible treats her as if she’s a valuable jewel, something you keep under protection. Galinda can’t recall a time before she lived under their care - her mother had left her in that kitchen while she went on a job and had never returned. So it had been Morrible who raised her, and Oz who had instructed her in the tricks of their trade. Which brings us to the present moment, Oz heating the kitchen brazier to remove the stamps from a set of silver, Galinda picking at her handkerchiefs, and Morrible observing it all from her armchair. It’s a misty, drizzling twilight, the thief’s witching hour when the slanting rays of remaining light are as good a disguise as darkness - an hour that is bound to bring callers at the kitchen door.
‘Nasty weather out there - good for business, my dears,’ remarks Oz.
‘I should hope you’ll get some more handkerchiefs for me tonight, I’m almost finished with these,’ Galinda replies.
‘Any moment now, they’ll come,’ says Oz, and sure enough, a few minutes later there follows a confident knock at the door. Morrible gestures with a tilt of her head and Galinda scrambles to her feet to open it, whereupon a tall, cloaked figure looms out of the shadows and enters the kitchen.
‘Good evening, my darlings,’ Fiyero greets them. Oz takes his coat, beaming.
‘It’s good to see you, my boy,’ he says, hanging the coat in front of the fire where it begins to steam damply. ‘Keeping yourself out of trouble?‘
‘You know trouble chooses me,’ chuckles Fiyero. He makes a deep bow to the armchair. ‘Madam,’ he intones, and Morrible’s mouth twists in a kind of half smile - which is actually quite demonstrative for her, Galinda thinks. Then he takes Galinda’s hand and kisses it in a way she knows works on the other Borough girls who gossip incessantly about him; she’s even once heard them spreading a rumour that he’s descended from princes. Galinda has always found him to be something of a peacock, though - all puffed up feathers and fluff. He reclines in the rocking chair in front of the fire like he owns the house.
‘Tell us then, what schemes are you running?’ Oz asks. Fiyero smiles a lazy smile.
‘I’ve actually been out of London… on business.’ He raises his eyebrows.
‘Oh, business! You know we don’t descend to that kind of thing around here!’
Galinda watches their back and forth with mild amusement.
‘Ah, the business is but a prelude to the true plot. About forty miles from here, there lies a house, deep in the countryside-‘
‘Oh, so you mean to break in where nobody can hear a cry for help?’ Galinda cuts in. ‘Forgive me, but what prize could make it worth the journey?’
‘Breaking and entering?‘ Fiyero shakes his head. ‘Oh, darling, we’re above that kind of dodge, aren’t we? Besides, the prize I’m talking about here is greater than worldly goods.’ Galinda just rolls her eyes at him. ‘You see, inside this house there lives a gentleman and his daughter, quite elegant, quite rich, and quite alone in the world. I’m sure she had never met another man before me!’ He winks lasciviously. ‘Of course she has quite the dowry, and were I able to obtain it through charm alone, it would be mine already. Alas, her father is strictly religious and has very rigid ideas about chaperoning, and her maid has been most unwilling to indulge me. I’ve barely managed to spend half an hour in her company.’
‘Forgive me, Fiyero, but I find it hard to believe that you came all this way to tell us how you’re failing at seduction.’ Galinda narrows her eyes at him. ‘What’s your real agenda here?’
A smirk spreads slowly over Figero’s features.
‘That all depends on you, my dear.’ The room goes quiet for a minute, save for the crackle of the fire. Galinda can sense three sets of eyes focused on her. She laughs uneasily, trying to diffuse the tension. ‘What do you - what do I have to do with this?’
‘What I am in need of here is an accomplice, someone discreet with eyes that know how to look the other way when I slide too close to her mistress on the sofa. I can make her fall for me - I just need the right kind of chaperone so I can get started.’
‘Doesn’t she already have a maid?‘ asks Galinda.
‘Here is where fortune has smiled on us! Her maid has come down with scarlet fever and gone home to be nursed. Luckily, I have a cousin,' he winks at her, ‘in need of a new situation.’
‘So you want me to pretend to be this cousin, go and act the maid to this girl, and turn a blind eye to your seduction until you’ve married her and got your hands on her fortune?‘
‘Why put it so harshly, Galinda, dear?’ interrupts Oz. ‘Think of it more like… redistributing some wealth.’
‘Exactly how much is her dowry worth?’ asks Morrible. Fiyero’s eyes gleam and he leans forward to whisper:
‘Ten thousand pounds.’
Oz whistles. ‘Quite a sum!… and what fee would Galinda’s part in this earn her?’
‘Two thousand from the dowry, and whichever of the lady’s dresses and jewels takes her fancy.’
‘What happens to her?’ interrupts Galinda. ‘Once you’ve married her… what happens?’
‘There are many institutions willing to house young ladies permanently, for a fee. We say it’s female hysteria, get a crooked doc to sign off on it…’ he waves his hands airily.
‘Pardon me - are you saying you’ll lock her away forever, in some kind of asylum?!’
‘Dearie me, you are so dramatical today, Galinda!’ Morrible says, shooting her a glare.
‘Trust me, with the way she lives today, she shall barely notice the difference.’ Fiyero tells her.
‘What’s she like then, this lady?’
‘Kept so close she’s no more experience of the world than a girl. I’m told she came of age a few years back but her father wouldn’t hear of her coming out.’
‘So she’s around my age?’
‘Early twenties, more or less,’ Fiyero shrugs, ‘but she’s spent her whole life shuttered up in her father’s library. He uses her as some kind of superior personal secretary, keeping her chained over religious texts, the poor girl barely sees the light of day - I assure you she’s naive enough that even a less handsome devil than I could have her falling for this plot, hook, line, and sinker.’
‘And all Galinda has to do is ease things along?’
‘Well, she'll have to act the proper ladies maid, pouring her tea, lacing her stays, that sort of thing, we’ll have you trained up in no time. The most important thing is acting the part - if you can gain her trust, it’ll be short work for both of us to convince her to fall in love with me.’
Three faces look over at Galinda expectantly. It’s strange, she muses. Twenty years of sitting in that kitchen, under the gaze of Morrible and Oz, and she’d never dreamed too far of a life outside Crope Street. She’s valuable to them here, she thinks. And while she’d thought her part in their enterprise would always be the same - subtle but essential - what if she could do better? Two thousand pounds is more money than passes through the house in a year, maybe even five years… it’s the kind of money that buys her a permanent place in their home. And besides, wouldn’t it be fun to be the star of a plot like this, have her own daring exploits, hear her name whispered about on Borough streets?
‘Fine. I’ll do it,’ says Galinda, ‘but I want three thousand pounds, and I am not letting you dress me in a maid’s outfit.’
‘A pleasure doing business with you,’ Fiyero says, and leans over to shake her hand.
‘Well, believe this call for a toast!’ exclaims Oz, retrieving a bottle of gin he keeps stashed behind a hollow brick, and Galinda knows that the evening from here will descend into drinking and loud, raucous banter - which she knows her part in, can smile and joke coyly to make the men roar with laughter. But before the night can get away from her, she has one more question.
‘What’s her name?’
‘Hmm?‘
‘This girl, the one we’re going to swindle - what’s her name?’
‘Elphaba,’ Fiyero replies as he passes around the glasses.
‘Elphaba,’ Galinda repeats, testing the unfamiliar shape of it in her mouth. Morrible’s black eyes glitter as she raises her glass.
‘To Elphaba.’
Three days, two new-to-her dresses, and one torturous train journey later, Galinda is perched on a wagon which trundles at a snail's pace through the countryside. Her first impression is that everything seems dreadfully damp - the air is heavy with a thick mist that feels like driving through soup, cloying with the smell of mud and rotting leaves. Besides, isn’t the countryside meant to be green? Galinda surveys the naked trees with distaste as rain drips from their bare branches, a stone in the pit of her stomach. The driver’s complete lack of response to her chatter has left nowhere for her nervous energy to go, so she sits twisting her fingers together anxiously as they pass through a large wrought iron gate.
Then, as they round a bend in the drive, she sees a house loom into view out of the twilight mist. It’s vast, sprawling over at least four floors, - it’s hard to tell exactly due to the strange, cobbled together nature of the building, with towers and turrets sticking out at the edges. The wagon rattles around the building as Galinda tries to peer through the few windows that are lit dimly from within. She’s dumped unceremoniously in a dank rear courtyard and is ushered into the house by a red-haired boy while the driver remains outside, struggling with her trunk. A round, fussy looking woman waits to greet her.
‘I am Mrs Coddle, housekeeper here at Colwen Grounds. You must be Glinda?’
The slight variation of her false name is jarring to her ears, reminding her, just as Morrible had said it would, of the part she has to play.
‘Yes, ma’am, a pleasure to meet you.’
‘We were so pleased when Mr Tigelaar wrote to let us know you would be coming here. He’s a real asset to the household! Now, I’ll show you to your chamber so you can change out of your travelling clothes, and then I’ll take you to meet Miss Elphaba. I’m afraid you’ve already missed dinner - we keep early hours here - but a tray will be sent to your room before we all turn in for the night.’
‘Thank you ma’am’ says Galinda, glad for the opportunity to shed her damp cloak. Mrs Coddle leads her up a thinly carpeted staircase and down a narrow passageway.
‘This is your room - the smaller door communicates directly with Miss Elphaba’s bedchamber, should she need any assistance during the night.’ Mrs Coddle says, watching Galinda hang her cloak in front of the large but unlit fireplace. ‘Miss Glinda, did Mr Tigelaar inform you of Miss Elphaba's condition?’
‘I’m sorry - condition?’
‘Miss Elphaba has a, shall we say, unusual appearance. You would do well to refrain from commenting on it.’ She falls into silence as they exit the drab servants corridor and enter the main body of the house, which is wallpapered in a dark crimson pattern and laid with thick carpet which muffles their footsteps. How odd, thinks Galinda, that she should issue such a warning. Is Elphaba terribly disfigured? Perhaps some accident has left her with unusual burns or scars? But Galinda knows of many people in the Borough with these kinds of afflictions - it comes with a life lived at the edge of society with no safety net, from going from the prison to the workhouse, willing to try any desperate scheme to escape the cycle of poverty they’re born into. She has to curb her spiraling thoughts, as they have come to a halt in front of a door which must lead to Elphaba’s chamber. Mrs Coddle knocks and a low voice issues from within.
‘Enter,’ it says, and Galinda is ushered into a sitting room, papered with the same oppressive wallpaper as the hallway. Unlike the bare hallway, though, this little room is crammed with furniture, including a carved writing desk with an impressive array of drawers. The walls are mostly taken up with bookshelves and in the window alcove is a cosy bench seat, piled with fraying cushions and more books. And in front of the fire is positioned an armchair whose occupant stands to greet her.
At first Galinda thinks it must be a trick of the failing blue light from the windows - or is it the flickering of the fire? - because the hue of Elphaba's skin is decidedly green. Blinking hard, Galinda’s vision stubbornly refuses to correct itself as she moves closer to Elphaba, studying the sculptural lines of her cheekbones and her full emerald lips.
‘Miss Elphaba,’ she intones, bending in the curtsey that she had to practice before arriving, never having an occasion to curtsey before this. She manages to only wobble slightly on her way back up, she notes with pride.
‘Don’t worry, it’s not contagious,’ says Elphaba. Goodness! Was her staring really that obvious! ‘I was born this way.’
Galinda tries to stammer out a response, but for once, she’s lost for words.
‘And you must be Glinda?’ Elphaba prompts her.
‘Yes, Miss!’ Galinda answers, giving herself a shake. ‘I’m very grateful to be here, after my last situation ended so suddenly. I have a reference from my mistress here if you would care to see?’ She produces the letter, a forgery of Fiyero’s, from the pocket she’d sewn into her skirt. As she hands it over, she notices Elphaba is wearing black kidskin gloves that mould to every curve of her elegant hands and delicate wrists. In fact, there is not an inch of her skin showing, save for that of her face above the high, severe collar of her black dress. She reads with an almost haughty expression which is at odds with her youthful face, spending an age looking over the letter, and Galinda starts to grow anxious. Then she notices the stern mask slip momentarily, and the look of indecision that flits across Elphaba’s face. Of course, she realises suddenly, Elphaba would have no more idea of what a suitable reference letter looks like than she does herself. She watches Elphaba fix the authoritative look back onto her face.
‘This all seems to be in order. I’m sure you have had a long day of travelling, so you may retire for the evening. Mrs Coddle can attend to me tonight.’
‘Of course, Miss, thank you,’ Galinda says, bobbing another quick curtsey.
‘You really don’t have to do that,’ Elphaba replies, appraising her dryly. ‘Good night, Glinda.’
When Galinda renters her room she notes with relief that the fire has been lit, shedding some meagre warmth into the tiny room, and a tray of bread and soup has been left steaming on a trivet before it. She eats gratefully and unpacks her trunk quickly; besides the gown she wears, she has one other, along with a couple of chemises and pairs of stockings, a cosy shawl she’d knit the previous winter, and her collection of dressing table accoutrements, amassed through years of careful curation from the pickings at Crope Street. She admires them as she sets them out at the worn dressing table, admiring the silver hairbrush and mother-of-pearl combs. Shuddering as she slides beneath the chilled bedsheets, she thinks of Elphaba on the other side of the door. Does she still look so stern when there’s nobody watching? Do her sharp features soften in sleep? In the silence of the room, she listens intently, but not a sound issues from behind the door, and eventually, she succumbs to sleep.