The ash smelled like blackberries, and made him want jam.

Tarrant also wanted the clouds to recede, those deeply sinister ones that made the sky appear rusted, and he wanted fresh green grass to spring up from the charred ground, and he wanted the fires to be drenched out, and he wanted his family to be alive, but now was not the time to believe in impossible things. Jam was possible.

Drifting somewhere outside of himself, he crouched down and lifted his hat from the smouldering dirt. It rained cinders into his long, curling hair, singing the ends; a haircut would be needed, but not before jam. With this thought, he left the devastated clearing behind, tracking embers into the forest on the soles of his boots.

Seeking out jam was a good reason to leave the clearing, but not the reason; the reason was that there was no reason to stay. Time in Underland is an intricate and mutable paisley, but for all its whorls and coils, it never runs backwards.

*

When he reached his tea party (slightly early), he carefully ignored Thackery's feverish raving about purple fireworks and clouds with claws. He lowered himself into the armchair at the head of the table and gently rapped on the mauve teapot to his left. A prolonged yawn echoed within the pot, followed by a grunt as its occupant slid the lid open.

"Wot is it, Hatter?" the Dormouse sighed, resting her chin on the rim and blinking her inky eyes.

"Mallymkun, would you be so kind as to go and fetch me some jam?"

"JAM!"

Tarrant slammed the lid back down and ducked as a jam jar sailed from the Hare's grasp and smashed into the back of the armchair.

"A very inconvenient place for jam," Tarrant frowned; it dripped on his shoulder in reply. Thackery giggled like a lit fuse, but was soon distracted by a wisp of teal smoke whirling between his ears.

"Some things never change, I see," Chessur drawled, and looped into his full form at the opposite end of the table, "even in the face of so…much…change."

Tarrant's lips pursed, but he said nothing, did not even bother to meet Chessur's cerulean gaze. (In an unprecedented show of wisdom, Thackery folded back his ears and inched down his chair until only his wide and darting eyes were visible.)

"The writing was on the wall, dear Tarrant," he continued, helping himself to a saucer of black tea, two sugars. "First there was that repulsive business of the King of Hearts' beheading, then the reinstatement of the Red Knights, and of course, that most curious incident of the misplaced crown…."

His smile unfurled, a cruel mockery of Tarrant's darkening features.

"I often ponder the notion," he replied slowly, his voice rumbling into a foreboding brogue, "that there is no hat more dangerous than a crown."

He arose with a sulfurous gleam in his eye and added:

"Wouldn't you agree, Chess?"

With a bellow he gripped the edge of the table and hurled it towards Chessur, but the oaken slab soared straight through the Cat and there was nothing to show for the attack but a cascade of shattered ceramics clattering across the yard.

"'Never get involved in politics,' you said! But when you've a taste for a bit of mischief, then it's no holds bloody barred. If it doesn't hurt you, it's harmless! Never mind that your little joke has slaughtered my entire clan and threatens the lives of all who call Underland home, never mind that the sky is burning and the ground is naught but ash and the air is melting mutating mistreated misused misled—"

"Calm yourself, Tarrant." A plume of teal smoke smothered his ranting. "It seems to me that you ought to express your concerns to Queen Mirana. Oh, do excuse me…Lady Mirana."

And he vanished, leaving Tarrant to dwell on the horrible possible with only a quivering Thackery and dozing Mallymkun as his companions.

*