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She feels cold.
Even under her heavy petticoats and pure wool stockings, the cavernous expanse of the chapel makes her shiver.
The chants of piety echoing against the indifferent limestone walls do not liven the place, instead only serving to highlight the vacant spaces of the cathedral.
Glinda shouldn't be here. She isn't religious; she wasn't even raised under any scripture. Her parents were both far too practical— capitalist, more like —for faith, and if anything, her provincial origin would have put her more in the realm of Lurlinism.
Not to mention her public pagan appeal.
It's calculated, the way she looks. Despite her political association with the Wizard, she looks positively Royalist with her flowing golden hair, round face, and grand pink ball gowns. Lurline has nothing on her—not even to mention Ozma.
So yes, she does take advantage of her looks to appeal to the superstitious rural crowd. And yes, that might make her look incongruous when put next to anything Unionist. And yet, here she is, in her most subdued shirtwaist suit ensemble, which still seems excessively colourful in comparison to the sombre garments of the other attendees.
Here she sits, in the rearmost pew of a Unionist church during Sunday service.
How comical.
She wants to claim she is here to observe the architecture, or perhaps to approach the minister about any help he might want in his charity ventures. But that would be a lie—and she has made it a rule to keep lies to the public sphere, not the private one.
She bites her lip and allows her eyes to wander to the altar: golden filigree illuminated by the tainted glow of stained glass.
The organ sounds a low note, resonating through the cavernous chapel. Glinda feels the vibrations deep in her chest. Another note harmonises with the first; it hangs in the air for a few seconds before the aria picks up in earnest and a choir of voices joins itself to the fray.
They chant hymns in the name of saints and the virtues of the Holy. Glinda must say, she never loved the religious types—may Nessie forgive her—but they do have a certain appeal.
Their rectitude and righteousness keeps them from idolatry in its most sinful form. It keeps them from looking at Glinda as she is so often looked: as if she is Sainthood itself, the reincarnation of the poor lost Ozma.
The masses say her name with reverence, the sparkle of adoration in their eyes. Social climbers say her name with envy, foaming at the mouth for any piece of her glory.
Faithful Unionists, though? They say her name with indifference, sometimes an undertone of disgust.
She almost prefers that.
The hymns resound through the nave. They speak of Saints as they should be spoken of: their piety distant and inhumanity divine. They are portrayed amongst legends and the misty fogs of history.
They deserve these chants. Glinda, in all her human frailty, does not.
The odes echo.
They speak of isolation in the name of faith.
Of humanity at its best and at its worst.
Of nature in its most Holy simplicity.
Glinda shouldn't lie. Not even to herself. Not in this hallowed place—even with the little respect she has for it. She knows full well why she's here.
The chants speak. The hymns speak. The odes do too.
That's why she comes.
Because Her name is one of a Saint and she wants to hear it spoken by lips more suitable to prayer than her own. She wishes to hear it echoed with reverent intention.
Not her own name. Never her own name. 'Glinda' is much too droopy in its vowels and void in its meanings.
The reason she is here. She wants to hear Her name spoken as Glinda speaks it: with Veneration.
"Saint Aelphaba," the chants-hymns-odes speak.
"Saint Elphaba," Glinda weeps.