The room quieted down. Elphaba made up a little song on the spot, a song of longing and otherness, of far aways and future days. Strangers closed their eyes to listen. Elphaba had an okay voice. Boq saw the imaginary place she conjured up, a land where injustice and common cruelty and despotic rule and the beggaring fist of drought didn’t work together to hold everyone by the neck. No, he wasn’t giving her credit: Elphaba had a good voice. . . . Later he thought: The melody faded like a rainbow after a storm, or like winds calming down at last, and what was left was calm . . .
...more
