He finds it strange and yet not at all surprising that he is having tea with the so-called Wicked Witch of the West.
“Sugar?” he asks casually.
“Lemon,” she responds.
“So, what did you do?” he asks after passing her the necessary accoutrement.
She looks up at him, green skin crinkling as she arches an eyebrow. “What?”
“What did you do to earn your moniker?” he repeats. “You don’t seem all that wicked.”
She shrugs. “I’m a woman and I spoke my mind. You don’t scare children into behaving by saying the Bitch of the West, so they went with Wicked Witch.” She pauses thoughtfully. “And the skin doesn’t help.”
“I’d imagine not,” he remarks.
She takes a sip of the tea, careful not to spill any on her. “And what about you?”
“I was unaware I had a nickname floating around that involved alliteration,” he says, although he doesn’t doubt that one exists.
“I haven’t heard one,” she clarifies. “But everyone seems to be afraid of you.”
“Is that so?” he asks, stirring his tea even though he hasn’t added anything to it. He brings it to his lips and says, “I suppose I’m just a misunderstood pretty boy.”