Elphaba Glinda Fainting

But Glinda found that the binding spell was deeper, cut closer than she had even understood. It wasn't merely that they couldn't talk about it.

Already she had begun-to lose the words about it, to falter in her thinking, to fail to commit the interview to memory. There was the proposal. It was a proposal, wasn't it? Of some questionable proposition in (was it) the civil service? Doing some-some ballroom dancing, which didn't make sense. Some laughing, a glass of champagne, a handsome man taking off his cummerbund and pressing his starched cuffs against her neck, nibbling the teardrop-shaped rubies at her ears . . . Talk softly but carry a bit stick. Or was it not a proposal but a prophecy? A little friendly encouragement about the future? And she had been alone, the others hadn't been listening. Madame Morrible had spoken directly to her.

A lovely testimony to Glinda's . . . potential. The chance to rise. Walk softly but marry a big prick. A man draping his evening tie on a bedstead and rolling his diamond studs, nudging them with his nose, down the declivity of her superior neck . . . It was a dream, Madame Morrible couldn't have said that! She must be dazed with grief. Poor Ama Clutch.

It had only been a quiet word of condolence from the dear and self-effacing Head, who found it hard to speak in public. But a man's tongue between her legs, a spoonful of saffron cream...

Nessarose said, 'Catch her, I can't, I'm-' and she sagged against Nanny's bosom, and Glinda swooned at the same moment. Elphaba thrust out strong arms and scooped Glinda in mid-collapse. Glinda didn't really lose consciousness, but the uncomfortable physical nearness of hawk-faced Elphaba after that undesired act of desire made her want to shiver with revulsion and to purr at the same time. 'Steady on, girl, not here,' said Elphaba, 'resist, come on!' Resist was just what Glinda didn't want to do. But after all, in the shadow of an apple cart, on the edge of the market where merchants were selling the last fish of the day, cheap, well, this was hardly the place. 'Tough, tough skin,' said Elphaba, appearing to pull words from the back of her throat. 'Come on, Glinda-you've got better brains-come on! I love you too much, snap out of it, you idiot!'

'Well, really,' she said as Elphaba dumped her on a heap of moldy packing straw. 'No need to be so romantic about it!' But she felt better, as if a wave of illness had just passed.

- Wicked, Book 2