The pocket watch was cold in Alice's hand. Not the brass chill of a thing hung on a chain, but the deep cold of something that had never been meant to be held. She had found it in the hollow of the mushroom ring—its face cracked, its hands spinning backward. The ticking was wrong, too. It didn't mark seconds. It marked something else. She pulled it from her pocket now, the motion so small and yet so deliberate that the White Rabbit stopped. He had been running—always running—down the winding path between towering ferns, his coat tails flying, his own watch clutched to his chest like a lifeline. But when Alice's fingers closed around the smaller watch and she raised it to her ear, he skidded to a halt. For a long breath, neither of them moved. The forest went silent. Even the crickets stopped. Alice looked at him. His pink nose twitched. His whiskers trembled. His eyes—those terrified, bloodshot eyes—were fixed on the watch in her hands with an expression she had never seen on him before. Not fear. Not panic. Reverence. "Where did you get that?" he whispered. She didn't answer. She didn't know. It had been there, in the dirt, as if waiting for her. The watch's hands had spun backward ever since—until now. Now, as she faced the White Rabbit, the second hand stopped. It trembled, hesitated, and then began to move forward. Forward. The White Rabbit's own watch gave a sharp, discordant chime. He looked down at it, and for the first time since she had met him, his face softened. "Impossible," he breathed. Alice closed her fingers around the watch. The cold was gone. It was warming in her palm, pulsing like a heartbeat. She didn't know what it meant. But she knew one thing: the White Rabbit was not the only one who could read time anymore. She took a step forward. He took a step back. The forest seemed to lean in, holding its breath. Somewhere, very far away, a door creaked open.