“Leave us,” she says to the girls hovering around them; the ones standing by the bed, the ones by the door, with those uncertain looks, those worried looks. Some are scared. Magic has been performed under the eyes of the Wizard - a rare, generous permission, to sing their sister to rest. Of course, it has come with a catch, and he received what he hoped for. West crumbled under the pressure, and Glinda could only watch.
She presses the wet cloth against her sister’s hot forehead, the frown on Glinda’s face unchanged. “I hope you are happy,” she says, exhaling through her nose. “This spell is not to be performed by one witch alone. But of course you know that already.” She isn’t even sure West is listening at all. Does she ever listen when Glinda talks? Does it matter now? Glinda sits on the bed by her side; the room has cleared and they were alone once more, though she can still hear the busy bustling outside. She loathes being here.