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“Do you know what you’re looking for?” asked Brrr.
“No one knows quite the shape of their death,” said Yackle, “but I daresay I will recognize it when I see it.”
The paper had a purple aspect at first, and the writing thereupon was silver. As they looked—they were all looking by now, even Shadowpuppet leaning forward, even Mr. Boss, craning from where he lay pinned on the ground—the color subsided to a taciturn peach, not unlike the tanned hide of a pig. The ink seemed less silver and more black. Almost as if the book were trying to resemble other books, as much as it could.
“Ah,” said Brrr. “Look, can you see that? A watermark.”
“What is a watermark?” asked Ilianora.
“Something I learned about in my years as a trader of etchings and drawings. A watermark is a kind of a ghost coin imprinted when the page is made by the artisan. A trademark. The emblem is an embossing done when the paper hasn’t fully set; it presses the fiber tighter there, so when the page is held up to light, the image emerges. I never knew a watermark you could see without a light behind it, though.”
“This book has its own light,” said Yackle.
Brrr rested his chin on her old shoulder; she was strong enough to take it. Absentmindedly with one hand, while trying to read, she reached up and scratched just below his lips, exactly where he would have liked it best had anyone ever done this before.
Most of the text on the page shrank and moved off to one side, like dancers in the wings awaiting their next entrance. The watermark grew a little larger, as if to be seen all the better. Brrr could make out a form, though not the foreign al
phabet that spelled a single foreign word beneath the watermark.
“Is that a symbol we’re likely to recognize?” asked Ilianora.
“Is it lightning?” suggested one of the boys looking on.
“A crow with the legs of a stork,” offered Brrr.
“That’s a pretty good description of Elphaba,” said Yackle.
“Is this her story?” asked Brrr. “Or is it her book?”
“It was her book for a time,” said Mr. Boss. The dragon claw had let him sit up, at least. “Or in her keep, I should say; the Grimmerie was no more hers than it is mine. The book belongs to a magician from some distant land, the one who brought it to Oz for safekeeping.”
“Who do you mean?” asked Brrr. “Do you mean the Wizard of Oz?”
“Please,” replied Mr. Boss. “Don’t insult my intelligence.”
“The Wizard of Oz had no power,” snapped Shadowpuppet. “That’s common knowledge by now. No, Our Glorious Wizard came to Oz looking for this book, don’t you know? And ever since Elphaba died and the book disappeared, everyone else has been looking for it.”
“You, too,” said Brrr, surmising. “Your directive was to keep an eye on me in case I actually found out something and decided not to report it.”
“Oh, you’d never do that,” said Shadowpuppet mockingly. “Not Sir Brrr, the most reliable agent we have in the field. Sir Brrr of such famously lofty principles. Heaven forfend. Besides, I’d never betray you. You’ve been such entertainment. Such a lark.”
Yackle laid her hands on the paper, palms down, as if reading the heat on the page.
“How long have you been here, guarding the book?” asked Brrr.
“You still taking notes?” replied Mr. Boss. “Oh, on and off, oh, eighty years maybe? You lose track when it’s such a gas.”
“Even before the Wizard of Oz first arrived in the Emerald City? But why?”
The dwarf replied, “That’s a tale for another time, my comings and goings. I thought you were curious about the history of Our Miss Yackle. Which is all in the Grimmerie. Haven’t you seen it now?”
“Put it together for me.”
“The Clock told it to you. You saw the story of the birth of Yackle—from the pages of this magic book. She was drawn out of here to do a job: to be vigilant over Elphaba’s life. Not to interfere, not to intervene: to be a witness. That was enough.”
“That’s all I did,” said Yackle, talking as much to herself as to them. They had to strain to make it out. “All I ever did. I was a handmaiden. Rather long in the tooth to be a maiden, but it takes all kinds to make a world. I did give Elphaba the broom; I’ll accept that much credit. But I didn’t know what she could do with it. Nor did I know why she was the watermark in my life: the deep hidden thing around which my weird existence revolved. I only knew what I was compelled to do. And I know what I’m compelled to do now.”
“You take a lot upon yourself to guard this book,” said Brrr to the sergeant-at-hand. “If the Emerald City gets hold of you, you’re history.”
