Chapter 12: The Tea Party

Far from the frost.

Far from the lanterns and trembling piano.

Far from the place where love had just cracked open like thin ice.

There exists another place in the Divide.

A place that does not belong anywhere.

It drifts.

Not slowly, not predictably. The ground itself slides through the mist like a thought half-remembered, a fragment of dream too warped to settle in any proper realm. Those who arrive here rarely do so on purpose.

The Divide does not guide you here.

You simply become… far enough gone.

And then you notice the floor.

Checkered.

Black and pale cream squares stretching outward in neat order that refuses to obey perspective. Some squares are slightly too long. Others bend subtly, as though the pattern is trying very hard to remain normal but cannot quite remember how.

Above it, the walls lean inward just enough to make the room feel like it is listening.

The wallpaper is pink.

A strange pink.

Not cheerful.

Not delicate.

Something slightly faded and slightly peeled, as if the room itself has been sweating secrets for too many years. Across the wallpaper run repeating symbols—spades and clubs—printed over and over in tidy rows like the face of a playing card.

Someone tried very hard to make this place festive.

Someone failed.

The table dominates the room.

Long.

Solid.

Made of ordinary walnut wood, polished smooth with age and use. It stretches across the center like a runway awaiting its passengers.

Cloths lie across it.

If one can call them that.

A white tablecloth draped lengthwise.

Then another cloth—pink checkered—thrown across sideways.

Neither reaches the edges.

Neither aligns.

Another strip of lace fabric sits diagonally across both, as if someone gave up halfway through caring.

Teacups line the table.

None match.

Porcelain cups with delicate gold rims.

Heavy ceramic mugs chipped at the handle.

One small glass teacup shaped like a tulip.

A battered metal tin cup that might once have belonged in a soldier’s field kit.

Beside them sit plates stacked with pastries that look delightful at first glance and faintly wrong the longer one studies them.

Chairs surround the table.

Rows of them.

No two alike.

A modern folding chair with aluminum legs sits beside a tall Victorian throne carved from dark oak.

Next to that, a simple wooden stool.

A velvet parlor chair with torn upholstery.

A plastic lawn chair.

A classroom desk with the tiny writing arm attached.

A throne too large for any normal body.

And a child’s chair barely big enough for a doll.

They form a ring around the table like a jury of different centuries.

The room hums faintly.

Outside the windows—if they are windows—the Divide shifts endlessly. Trees slide past sideways. Entire hills drift by upside down before vanishing into mist.

The place floats.

It does not care where.

This is where the explorers gather.

The ones who went too far.

The ones who walked the Divide until the map dissolved beneath their feet.

And tonight— Tea waits for them.

If the room itself were strange—  The music is worse.

Off to one side of the long walnut table, carelessly placed with absolutely no concern for symmetry or sense, sits a much smaller table. It is round. Slightly crooked. One of its legs appears shorter than the others and compensates by occasionally scooting itself a few inches to the left whenever the rhythm demands it.

Upon this table rests a gramophone.

Not a decoration.

Not an object.

A creature.

The brass horn stretches and compresses with every beat of the song like lungs inhaling laughter. The wooden base jiggles happily on its stubby feet. A chalk-drawn eye—simple, crude, unmistakably sinister—sits on the front panel and swivels lazily as it watches the room enjoy its music.

The gramophone is very proud of itself.

After all, like many things in the Divide, it plays music not yet welcomed in the mortal realm.

Tonight’s selection:

Lemon Demon.

The record spins with gleeful absurdity as the song You're At the Party pours into the warped space, cheerful and unhinged in equal measure. The melody bounces around the room like a drunk jester.

Madness floats gently through the air.

Pink bubbles drift lazily between chairs.

Soft.

Shimmering.

When popped, they release a puff of sweet smoke that smells distinctly of cannabis. Occasionally one will burst against a passing shoulder and belch out a small, offended little “ow.” before vanishing.

The gramophone laughs every time this happens.

Above the room—

Or perhaps simply somewhere high enough to pretend it is above—

An unseen disco ball spins slowly in the abyss.

There is no ceiling.

No beams.

No rafters.

Only the open black of the Divide itself stretching upward forever.

Yet the disco ball turns regardless, spraying sickly red and pink light across the already pink room in fractured reflections that slide over wallpaper and tablecloth like blood diluted in syrup.

The entire chamber pulses gently with it.

And at the far end of the table—

Behind the head position where the most important guest would sit—

Stands a door.

Blue.

Not gently blue.

A loud, storybook blue.

The thing is enormous.

Thirty feet tall, perhaps.

Fifteen feet wide.

No one has measured properly.

The closest approximation came when Angelica once stretched herself alongside it in curiosity while several observers attempted to judge the scale.

She squirms often, which made the estimate unreliable.

Still—

Large.

Absurdly large.

Its brass handle sits far above normal reach.

And directly opposite this towering entrance—

Is something smaller.

Much smaller.

A hedge wall grows abruptly from the checkered floor, curling inward as if someone had begun constructing a garden maze and then abandoned the idea halfway through.

Within the living green sits a door.

Black.

Only about six feet tall.

A modest, almost apologetic little thing when compared to the monstrous blue gate across the room.

Yet the hedge around it breathes slowly.

Quietly.

As if waiting for someone to notice it.
--------

The small black door in the hedge creaks.

Not ominously.

Not dramatically.

Just… casually.

It opens inward with the quiet confidence of a door that knows exactly how ridiculous the room already is.

Out steps a man.

A pale man.

Not ghostly pale—more like porcelain left too long under moonlight. His hair is striking, a brilliant cerulean blue that spills down in thick waves, bright enough that it almost glows against the pink wallpaper. His eyes are large and feline, the pupils sharp and curious as they sweep the room.

His hands—

Well.

His hands are not hands.

They are enormous cat paws.

Soft-looking. Plush even. Each digit tipped with curved claws long enough to scratch a thought out of someone’s skull if he wished.

He stretches them out wide like a performer greeting a crowd.

Because that is exactly what he believes he is doing.

His outfit is theatrical in the most confident way imaginable. The coat resembles something between a marching-band conductor’s uniform and the regalia of some long-forgotten prince. Deep blue cloth fades toward blue-green near the hems, stitched with bright gold inlays that mark where one piece of the ensemble ends and another begins.

Medals cover his chest.

Too many medals.

Some are polished brass.

Others are painted enamel.

Most appear to be shaped like playing cards—hearts, spades, and clubs layered over tiny arrows and triangles that have no known military meaning.

He clearly awarded them to himself.

A long blue cape flutters behind him as he steps fully into the room.

And he waves.

Not politely.

Not cautiously.

But with the broad, theatrical enthusiasm of a television host greeting a studio audience that may or may not exist.

“Hello! Bonjour! Kon’nichiwa!”

His voice carries effortlessly across the room.

He spins once in place and bows with exaggerated grace.

“I am the Blue Chester Cat!”

He pauses.

Then leans conspiratorially toward the invisible watcher.

“—Chesty for short.”

He waits.

No one reacts.

He sighs lightly.

“Of course, of course. No one calls me that. Everyone simply says ‘Cat.’”

He spreads his massive paws again in welcoming display.

“And this—my dear wandering audience—is my realm.”

He gestures around the warped chamber with flamboyant pride.

“Wonderland.”

The gramophone wobbles approvingly behind him.

“This is where my friends gather for tea parties far away from the world of tolls and drolls.”

The disco ball above spins lazily, washing the room in pink and red light.

Cat snaps his fingers.

From absolutely nowhere, a thin metal cigarette holder appears between his paw pads.

He places it elegantly between his teeth.

Then winks.

“If you have a problem with drugs and sex,” he announces brightly, “I suggest you wait for the next chapters!”

He grins wider.

“Though I assure you—nothing truly scandalous will happen.”

A beat.

“I simply enjoy offending people for the sake of offending people.”

He takes a long, theatrical drag from the cigarette holder.

It produces no smoke whatsoever.

Cat seems pleased with this outcome.
-------
Cat claps his paws together once.

Sharp.

Bright.

“Now then!” he declares.

He reaches beneath the table and produces a cane seemingly from nowhere—long, thin, silver-tipped, the sort of cane used by someone who enjoys tapping it more than walking with it.

He hops up onto the walnut table with theatrical grace, boots landing between teacups and pastries as though the table were built for stage work.

Tap.

Tap.

The cane strikes the wood.

The gramophone perks up immediately.

Drums begin to pound from nowhere—deep, dramatic, completely unnecessary drums.

Spotlights appear.

Also from nowhere.

They swing wildly around the room before focusing dramatically on the small black hedge door.

Cat spreads his cape and throws one paw toward it like a circus ringmaster.

“Ladies… and Ladies!” he announces.

He says it twice.

With extra creep.

The drums roll louder.

“I present to you—”

He taps the cane again.

“—the Heroes of the Divide!”

The hedge door creaks open.

And something squeezes through.

Angelica.

She wiggles her way out of the doorway like silk being poured through a bottle. Her long serpentine body coils gracefully across the checkered floor, scales catching the pink disco lights in soft reflections. A flowing white cloth drapes across her shoulders and torso like a ceremonial veil.

Her wings fold neatly behind her.

Every one of her many eyes lifts upward in radiant delight.

She waves.

Then waves again.

Then gives a warm little hug to absolutely no one in particular.

Cat beams proudly.

“Angelica!” he announces grandly.

He twirls the cane and points at her.

“Master of the Cult De Oros!”

A wink follows.

“And—master of prayer.”

Angelica bows enthusiastically.

Too enthusiastically.

Her bow becomes a half-spin, then a wiggle, then a flourish of wings that sends several pink bubbles popping in offended little squeaks.

The gramophone whistles approval.

Angelica beams at the applause that may or may not exist.

Cat taps his cane again.

“And now!” he proclaims. “Her best friend!”

The spotlight slams back to the door.

“ENVY!”

Envy steps through.

And immediately mimics Cat’s entrance.

Exactly.

The cape gesture.

The hand sweep.

The head tilt.

Even the way Cat taps the cane.

Cat watches this happen.

His smile remains.

But his eyes narrow just slightly.

“Yes,” Cat says slowly.

“Envy.”

He sighs with theatrical patience.

“Master of the Factory.”

He taps the cane once more.

“And the Lord of Manipulation.”

Envy takes the cane smoothly from Cat’s paw and turns to address the invisible audience with a rich, handsome voice.

“Ah—thank you for inviting m—”

He does not finish.

Angelica grabs him.

A god-level hug.

She scoops him up clean off the floor and squeezes him with delighted affection before depositing him firmly into a chair beside her.

His speech ends in a muffled—

“—aahha!”

The gramophone erupts with stock laughter.

Completely canned.

Entirely inappropriate.

Envy adjusts his coat with dignity that survives the moment only barely.

Cat watches all this with amused detachment, twirling the cane back into his paw.

“Oh yes,” he murmurs to the room.

“This will be a very good tea party.”
---------------

Cat straightens his coat.

Very dignified.

Very proper.

He reaches down and plucks the cane back from Envy’s hand.

As he does, he leans close and mutters through tightly clenched teeth—

“Don’t touch my shit, asshole.”

Envy answers with a middle finger.

And the biggest, most feral smile imaginable.

Cat inhales slowly.

Then claps his paws together.

“ANYWAYS!”

He coughs once into his paw like a refined host trying desperately to maintain composure.

The gramophone drums kick up again.

Cat spins the cane and points dramatically toward the hedge door.

“Now introducing… the power duo!”

He pauses.

Tilts his head.

“Actually…”

He shrugs.

“Let’s make it a trio!”

The door swings open again.

Three smaller figures shuffle through.

The first one is… a rabbit.

Sort of.

She looks like a porcelain doll someone tried to repair with nightmares.

Smooth white mask.

Painted eyes.

And beneath the neck of the mask—thin writhing tendrils that twitch and curl like nerves exposed to cold air.

She stands barely three feet tall.

Cat gestures proudly.

“White Rabbit!”

The rabbit tilts her head slowly.

Cat clears his throat.

“Her bite is worse than—well…”

He waves a paw vaguely.

“…a lot.”

White Rabbit lifts the lower half of her mask.

Just slightly.

The room briefly sees the inside of her mouth.

Rows.

Rows.

Rows of razor teeth.

More teeth than should fit in anything that small.

Her voice erupts in gleeful gremlin laughter.

“I got tired of playing the victim!” she shrieks joyfully.

She throws both tiny arms in the air.

“NOW I PLAY THE MONSTER!”

She spins once, giggling wildly.

“And I am having SO MUCH FUN!”

Cat smiles.

A little nervously.

He quickly turns his cane toward the door again.

“And now—White Rabbit’s boyfriend!”

A figure steps in.

A bluish Shoony.

Dog-folk.

But sharper.

More wolf than dog.

Thin.

Almost fragile.

Five feet tall at most.

He wears patchwork clothing stitched together from too many fabrics. Something moves beneath the cloth.

Then it reveals itself.

A long, vibrating tendril slides from beneath his sleeve.

It coils around his arm.

The color shifts constantly—blues, violets, sick greens.

It waves his hand awkwardly for him.

Cat gestures.

“Wicked!”

He sighs.

“A young man who is… well…”

Cat tilts his head.

“…technically a parasite inside a wolf boy’s body.”

The tendril waves again.

Wicked looks deeply embarrassed.

White Rabbit immediately waddles up to him.

The size difference is absurd.

Three feet versus five.

She scoops him clean off the floor like he weighs nothing.

Carries him proudly to her seat.

Wicked blushes blue.

He hugs her quietly.

“Thank you,” he mutters.

But the voice that says it is not one voice.

It is many.

Layered.

Whispering.

A delusional porcelain rabbit.

And an eldritch wolf host.

What a couple.

Cat taps the cane again.

“And finally!”

He gestures lazily toward the door.

“Schizo.”

He shrugs.

“He is… you know.”

Cat waves vaguely.

“Just a friend.”

The others immediately begin adding commentary.

“He finds things!” Angelica chirps.

“Bones,” Envy mutters.

“Paint supplies,” White Rabbit adds happily.

“A wrench!” someone else shouts from the table.

Schizo steps through the doorway quietly.

He is sickly blue.

His eyes glow a dull yellow.

Deep pink stains run beneath them like permanent bruises.

It looks as though blood is always leaking from the corner of his mouth.

When he moves, something strange happens.

The colors and patterns on his body shift.

Slide.

Ripple.

As if his body were only the outline of a person and the rest were constantly trying to escape the borders.

A smiling demon mask rests loosely on the top of his head.

He looks tired.

Sad.

A little uncomfortable.

Because unlike most people in this room—

Schizo is not insane.

He knows exactly what this place is.

Exactly what all of them are.

And exactly how bad everything has become.

But he still walks over.

Still sits down with the others.

Because despite everything—

He likes his friends.