The teacup is warm against the Dormouse's fur. Not warm enough to wake him—nothing is warm enough for that—but enough to keep the edge of his dream soft. Around him, the tea party roars on: the March Hare's laughter like a cracked bell, the Hatter's voice rising and falling in riddled spirals. The Dormouse hears none of it. He never does. What he hears is the space between sounds—the thin, silent thread that runs underneath all the shouting and the clatter of cups. It hums. A low, patient note, like a distant violin string plucked once and left to vibrate. He has been listening to it for longer than the tea party has existed. Longer than the Hatter's watch has been stuck at six. The note moves. It shifts pitch, slow as a turning tide. The Dormouse's whiskers twitch. His tiny claws curl tighter around the teacup. The March Hare slams a spoon on the table. 'He's asleep again!' The Hatter grins, pouring tea into a cup that is already full. 'Let him dream. Dreams are the only thing that still move here.' But the Dormouse is not dreaming. He is tracking the note as it swells, as it begins to take shape—a word, almost. A name. He does not open his eyes. If he opens them, the note will scatter, and he will be just another creature at a table that never ends. So he waits. The note vibrates in his chest, a small, warm hum. Something is coming. Something that is not tea. Not madness. Not six o'clock. The Dormouse breathes in. The teacup trembles. And somewhere, beyond the edge of the party, beyond the garden, beyond the rules of Wonderland itself, the note answers.