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each of the dozens of tiny Ozmas until he found one that seemed to have an extra bit of difference. Its face was just a teensy bit more realistic than the others, and something about the silver folds of its dress looked familiar. “That one,” he said, pointing with his paw. With a pop, the silver figurine exploded into confetti.
    The Nome King giggled. “Not even close,” he said. “You’re really bad at this, aren’t you? What was Ozma thinking, putting you in a position of responsibility? In my kingdom, only qualified people get to be in charge.”
    â€œI wish you’d stop talking,” the Lion muttered under his breath, trying not to panic. He still had two more guesses. There was still a chance to save Ozma—and Oz. But the Nome King was getting restless. His warriors shifted where they stood, theirarmor clanking.
    â€œMaybe I should just kill you,” he said thoughtfully.
    â€œYou can’t,” the Lion said quickly. “You made a bargain. Ozma sealed it.”
    â€œThe deal was that if you recognized Ozma I’d let you both go,” the Nome King said. “I didn’t say anything about not killing you.”
    â€œI can’t recognize Ozma if I’m dead,” the Lion pointed out. “So technically you did agree to keep me alive.”
    â€œAn unfortunate technicality,” the Nome King said peevishly, sinking back onto his stool. The Lion was proud of himself. That line of argument had been worthy of the Scarecrow’s brain. Maybe he wasn’t so stupid after all. Maybe that was the secret to finding the real Ozma: using his brain. What would set enchanted Ozma apart from the rest of the silver figurines? She was the Queen of Oz, obviously. Her magic was green. She was young, but somehow also ageless. The Lion was thinking so hard he could practically feel gears turning in his brain. Was this what it felt like to be the Scarecrow? Thinking was exhausting work. He looked up. The Nome King’s soldiers had surrounded him. “You can’t kill me,” he said again, his heart pounding.
    â€œI suppose I can’t,” the Nome King said. “But if they do it . . .” He didn’t have to finish.
    â€œThat one!” the Lion yelped in a panic, pointing to another statuette. It disappeared in a flash of silver smoke, and the Nome King leapt to his feet, clapping.
    â€œNever mind!” he exclaimed. “This is rather fun! You’redoing my work for me, you stupid cat. Watching you suffer is almost making up for how boring this whole afternoon has been.” He waved at his soldiers, and they advanced toward the Lion in a terrifying ring.
    The Lion’s fear turned to anger. He was still the King of the Beasts of Oz, and he did not appreciate being bullied by this creepy king. The Lion reared back on his hind legs, roaring fiercely. To his satisfaction, the soldiers took a step backward. It was impossible to read their expressions behind the black helmets, but he imagined they looked impressed and a little afraid. “That’s more like it,” he said.
    â€œOh, whatever,” said the Nome King. “You’ve only got one guess left, anyway, and I’m sure you’ll botch that one, too.” He sat back down, looking sulky.
    The Lion’s mind raced. This was it. If he chose wrong, both Oz and its queen were toast. His stomach rumbled loudly. He hadn’t eaten since he and Ozma had had their little snack. He was starving. If he screwed up now, he wouldn’t even get the benefit of a last meal.
    Suddenly, he got a whiff of something delicious. His nostrils flared. The Nome King and his army smelled flat and metallic, like hot iron being quenched in water. This was the smell of something living, flesh and bone and blood and edible .
    And then in a flash he knew why Ozma had trusted him to choose correctly. Ozma wasn’t human, and she wasn’t mortal, but she was flesh and