Lillyanne Plume's Arc

Chapter 18 of 22

"Tick tick," the hatter sang, tapping the rim of the golden scale. "The clock does love a slow girl. Eight way the same, and the ninth is heavier.” Lillyanne stared at the nine hats. Wizard cones. Top hats. One that shimmered like spilled oil. Her mind moved the way it did at the poker table—cold, in threes. Three on one side. Three on the other. Three set aside. One weighing tells her which group hides the heavy one. The second weighing narrows three to one. Simple. It had to be simple. She reached for the first hat. Scott's hand closed on her wrist. His grip was tight. His silver eyes were serious now, the grin gone. "Lilly. If you're wrong, we lose the clue. We lose the room. We lose Marjorie." His voice dropped. "Let me think it through with you." "There's no time," she said. "Then tell me you're sure." She met his eyes. "Trust me." A muscle jumped in his jaw. He let go. Lillyanne lifted three hats onto the left dish. A stiff felt bowler. The oil-slick one. A green pointed cone. She set three more on the right. The scale trembled. The right dish sank. A soft clink as the chain pulled taut. The hatter clapped once, delighted. Behind the register, the small mouse in the gold-and-purple cap sat up on its haunches to watch. She cleared both dishes and set the three untouched hats aside. From the heavy group she chose two—a wide-brim straw and a red pillbox—and placed one on each side. The scale held level. Even. Her breath left her in one quiet push. The third hat from the heavy pile, the one she hadn't weighed, was the answer. A small black top hat with a violet band. She lifted it off the counter. "That one," she said. The hatter's grin split wider. "The clue is inside, love." She turned the hat over. A slip of cream paper was tucked into the silk lining. She pulled it free and read aloud. "Closer and closer you come, but you're not quite there. Something sharp they used to slice—how unfair." Scott exhaled through his teeth. Whatever he'd been holding in his chest let go a little. "Sharp," he said. "Something that cuts." "Whatever caused it," Lillyanne said. The words came out flat. "We need the weapon." The hatter bowed low, one hand sweeping his own tall hat off his spikes of black hair. "Out you go, then. The clock has other appointments." The shop door clicked open on its own. Lillyanne folded the paper into her pocket. She kept the black top hat too. Something told her to. On the purple-tiled street, the woman in red was gone from the doorway. So were the two men at the fountain. Only the man in the gray hoodie remained, still leaning, still watching. He pushed off the lamppost as they stepped out. He had waited for them.