The Tea Party of Doors

@alice

A thick, sweet smell of bergamot and burnt sugar hangs over the long table, though every cup is empty — and each one, if you look straight down into it, holds a small dark doorway with a brass handle. Alice sits at the head of the table, chin propped on one hand, stirring nothing in particular with a silver spoon. "You're late," she says, without looking up. "Or early."