“I know,” Arch resumed, “that when using caterpillar silk to make a Milliner’s hat, the mix of colors and the amount of each color used have everything to do with the powers produced. I know that the stitch in which the threads are bound are equally important. I suppose what I’m saying is that different combinations of caterpillar silk produce different weapons. For example, were you to take a bit of green thread and a pebble-sized wad of yellow thread and weave them together in a butterfly stitch, you’d better be sure to have a zincon-lined container to put them in, because you’ll have produced something not unlike what recently upset Wonderland’s Crystal Continuum. I also know that each of you Milliners was taught to manufacture your own hat, as it was believed you should give birth, so to speak, to the weapon that would become an extension of yourself.”

“Your knowledge befits your authority, Your Majesty,” Hatter said.

“And every Milliner’s hat contained no more than a couple shreds of caterpillar thread. Often they 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-

“Ah, the Madigans,” their usual table said as they entered. “Where should I position myself this evening? We have some space by the mullet-hawk buffet.”

Made of hydroponic barks particular to the marshy regions of Boarderland, the furnishings at the Living Room Tavern used the exposed roots at the bottom of their legs to get around, steeping these root systems in tubs of water whenever they weren’t catering to customers. Two chairs approached. Crossing paths with other similarly engaged furniture, one of the chairs carried Hatter to the riverfront buffet, which featured thirteen different species of fish from the Bookie River, while the other chair carried Weaver to the salad bar. They then convened at the usual table, which had stationed itself near the mullet-hawk buffet.

“Has there been any progress concerning your daughter?” the table asked. “Not enough,” Weaver said, with a pointed look at Hatter.

“I’m very sorry to hear it,” said the table. “But I’m sure things will turn out all right, particularly with King

Arch aiding you. Now what would the two of you like to drink?”

Hatter and Weaver were again carried into the traffic of crisscrossing chairs and tables to fill their glasses. When they were returned to their meal, their table stayed quiet, respecting their right to privacy while they ate. But Weaver seemed bent on respecting her own privacy, silently forking salad into her mouth until

her utensil at last clanked down on her plate.

“I know you’ve been doing your best and these Ganmedes are being ridiculous in their demands…” Hatter’s face showed surprise.

“Arch keeps me informed,” Weaver explained. “Anyway, I know you’re not used to negotiating as much as you are to…fighting, but I think we should at least have daily proof of Molly’s well-being, don’t you? Especially because the Ganmedes’ demands are so extreme.”

“I’ll arrange it,” Hatter said, not daring to tell her that the only Ganmedes he’d seen were a couple of Arch’s tailors and that, as yet, he’d negotiated with no one, not unless he counted his recent meeting with Arch. So while Weaver did her best to be upbeat, talking proudly of Molly’s maturity and good looks, and of how nice it would be when the three of them were living as a family for the first time, the Milliner retreated into his thoughts…

Assuming that Ripkins had come upon Weaver by accident at Talon’s Point, the question was, What had the bodyguard been doing there in the first place? Spying on the nearby military post? Possible, but not likely-not when there were so many other Wonderland outposts Arch would have deemed of equal or greater strategic value.

“Why’re you shaking your head, Hatter?” Weaver asked. “Won’t you even consider living in Boarderland? I know you have responsibilities to Queen Alyss and the Millinery, but maybe we could live here part of the year?”

“Maybe.”

Hatter guessed that it had to do with WILMA, that Ripkins had probably been on Talon’s Point preparing WILMA to go online. He himself had seen nothing irregular when he’d lived on the Point, but then, he hadn’t exactly been on the lookout for caterpillar silk. But why was he even thinking about this? It wasn’t as if he could set out on a reconnaissance mission to Talon’s Point; that would bring Arch’s displeasure down on him and jeopardize Molly’s life.