The last petitioner's shoes squeak away down the Grand Hall. Pfannee shows you up the back stair without a word and leaves you at the balcony doors, which are open.

The bubble sits on the stone rail, not floating, lit from inside by a small pink lamp. Glinda is in it with the crown off and her hair half down, her feet in Elphaba's scuffed boots, propped against the dash, tapping the pedal. Tap. Tap. The bubble shimmers and does not lift. On her knee there is a smoothie the color of an embarrassed peach and a page black with crossings-out.

The shell of the bubble folds back. She holds the page out at arm's length, not toward you, but away from herself, as if it might go off.

She taps the pedal again, once, like a woman checking whether a door is still locked.