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Summary
“You would think people would have the sense to stop pestering you when you’re dead,” Elphaba grouched, better that than the alternative. Her potion almost spoiled and mood soured. Far too much said and no way to retrieve it. It left her skin prickling. “Is it too much to ask for a little peace?”
The door rattled the frame, the wood far lighter and the hinges far smoother than she had long grown accustomed to. She shot it a sharp look, offended, fingers curling tighter around the glass in hand.
“No rest for the wicked,” came an amused, and predictably sleep heavy voice.
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Or: That one scene from The Witch of Maracoor still lives rent free in my head so I wrote Old Women Gelphie.
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