The Cat’s body faded to a whisper of stripes, leaving only his mouth behind. The grin swelled until it filled the whole clearing, teeth like piano keys, each one a different shade of white.

Alice found him on a branch of the old Twistwood Tree, which grew in impossible directions—some limbs pointing down into the earth, others curling into their own knots like thoughts trying to escape.

“I’m not a helpful creature,” he purred. “I’m a precise one. There’s a difference. Helpfulness fills the teacup. Precision asks why the teacup exists when your hands would do just fine.”

“That’s not helpful.”

The Geometry of Unbecoming

Silence. Then, from somewhere very close to her heart: “Now run along. The Queen has a lovely beheading scheduled for four o’clock. And do try the tarts. They’re terrible. That’s what makes them perfect.”

But when she stood up, the ground felt suspiciously like a grin beneath her feet.