contained no more than one color. Isn’t that right?” “As far as I know. I only have experience with making my own hat.” “Hatter, what if I told you that I had enough silk from all six of Wonderland’s caterpillar-oracles to produce many generations’ worth of Millinery hats?” Hatter said nothing, hoping Arch would answer his own question. It couldn’t be that he wanted the foremost Milliner of the age to sit around manufacturing top hats for Boarderland forces, could it? “Are you sure they’re not counterfeit, Your Majesty?” Hatter asked. “I’m sure.”
They sat looking at each other.
“You haven’t asked me how I came to possess so much caterpillar silk, Hatter.” “It’s not my business, Your Majesty. My business is for me to do as you command, to prove my loyalty to you and thereby earn my daughter’s freedom.” “I don’t know why you insist on believing your daughter’s freedom is mine to grant,” Arch said with a scowl. “One thing remains to be done if WILMA is to be fully operational. You’ll soon serve your purpose, Mr. Madigan, and then we’ll see how far your loyalty to me extends.”
The bodyguards’ tent was typical of
Boardertonian bachelors—the cots covered with quilts of unicorn
skin, the furniture all silver alloy and animal hides. Taking up
most of the tent was an entertainment matrix, complete with virtual
reality booth, 360-degree holo-screens, a game-controller body
suit, and enough buttons, knobs, and switches to dizzy even the
most technologically savvy. Hatter was washing up at the water
basin, in preparation for a night out, while Ripkins watched him,
lounging on his cot with feet crossed and hands clasped behind his
head. “You sure she doesn’t have any friends?” Ripkins teased,
swinging his feet to the floor and reaching for Hatter’s top hat,
which rested innocently on the Milliner’s cot. He examined its
lining as if he were a haberdasher inspecting a competitor’s wares.
“’Cause I’d give anything to find a meaningful, long-term
relationship like the one you and Weaver have. Wouldn’t you,
Blister?” Blister, sitting at the dining board amid take-out
containers and dirty plates, pinched dead the last leaf of an olive
branch poking out of a vase. “No,” he said. “How do I look?”
Ripkins asked, plopping Hatter’s top hat on his head. Hatter spun,
slapped at the hat’s front brim; it flipped from Ripkins’ head to
his own. “It looks better on me.”
“You should probably know,” Blister said to him, “we took it easy
on you back at Sin Bin.” “Did you?” Hatter said. “That’s ironic,
since I took it easy on you.” And with that, the Milliner stepped
from the tent, out into the Boarderton night. Weaver was waiting
for him outside the Living Room Tavern, so-called because its
tables and chairs were as alive as its patrons. Hatter held the
tent flap open for Weaver and—