She wanted to run. She wanted to run fast, very far.

She wasn't entirely sure what she was running from, if anything. She simply felt the need to do it.

The great clock in the hall seemed to be melting in nasty, sluggish dribbles down its front, like the sagging face of an old Quadling beggar woman.

Galinda paced about her bedroom in a state somewhere between paranoid fear and extreme frustration.

Time.

Time.

Time for what?

Was there ever time for anything? For anything to happen specifically? Did all occurrences have preordained times?

Why isn't it happening yet?

What was even supposed to happen!

Something. She could feel it.

But she couldn't make something happen there.

There, in the modestly pretentious, consiencious house upon the hill. There, in Gilikin. There, in her sheltered mind and her sheltered surroundings.

She huffed in a hot, itchy, completely disturbed sort of way. Was she running out of time?