“I’m afraid I haven’t quite got it,” Mad With Hat sighed, his very box-like hat sitting very still in his hands, unlike the active, semi-sentient hat that was doing all kinds of tricks with Thom’s whims.

Hatter Thom rolled his hat sideways over his arm, then across his belly, and up his chest, finally landing it on top of his head, like a climber ascending the peak of a great, Thom-shaped mountain. “See, it takes a little bit of balance and quantum physics, Mad With Hat, that’s it. Try it again.”

Mad With Hat summoned the gumption and decided to use some elbow grease. The elbow grease, instead of easing the process, only made it messier. The hat flew off of his elbow and landed in a bowl of punch. Mad With Hat sighed once more, as did Thom.

At least Mad With Hat would get some of the punch this year.

He would have turned and ran to get his hat, lest he be labeled Hatless at the Hatter’s Tea (horror of horrors!), when the spatially misplaced hat suddenly appeared before his eyes, attached to two very small, dainty, heavily adorned hands, whose weight seemed multiplied several times over with the bands upon them.

“You threw this into the punch.”

The hands themselves were attached to two very dainty, pale arms, which were attached in turn to a very dainty, pale Mad Hattress. Or mattress.

“ Thank you! I was thirsty," he said, drinking from his hat.