"Oh, drat," the Hatter vibrated, his silhouette blurring into a dozen ghostly versions of himself. "I've gone so fast I've arrived back at yesterday. Does anyone want a scone I haven't baked yet?"
With a sudden pop of displaced air, the table was empty. The tea was gone. The Hatter was gone. All that remained was the faint, high-pitched ringing of a clock that had finally given up on keeping track of him. mad hatter sped up
The March Hare sat frozen, a piece of toast halfway to his mouth, eyes wide as the Hatter rearranged the entire table three times in a single second. The bread, the jam, the sleeping Dormouse—all of them were flickering in and out of place like a glitching dream. "Oh, drat," the Hatter vibrated, his silhouette blurring
"No time! No time! The clock is holding its breath!" he shrieked, his voice pitched up into a manic whistle. The tea was gone
The tea party wasn't just late; it was vibrating. Hatter wasn't sitting; he was a blur of plaid and frantic energy, his limbs moving like a film reel set to triple speed. He didn't pour the tea; he shattered the concept of pouring. One moment the porcelain pot was upright, the next, twelve cups were full, steaming, and already cold from the sheer wind of his movement.