'But I don't want to go among mad people,' Alice remarked.
'Oh, you can't help that,' said the Cat: 'we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad.'
'How do you know I'm mad?' said Alice.
'You must be,' said the Cat, 'or you wouldn't have come here.'
Alice didn't think that proved it at all; however, she went on 'And how do you know that you're mad?'
'To begin with,' said the Cat, 'a dog's not mad. You grant that?'
'I suppose so,' said Alice.
'Well, then,' the Cat went on, 'you see, a dog growls when it's angry, and wags its tail when it's pleased. Now I growl when I'm pleased, and wag my tail when I'm angry. Therefore I'm mad.
April 11th, 2007
"This." Cinder said. "Is silly."
Objectively speaking, the werewolf had a point. At the moment, the motley assortment of changelings, mortals, and one werewolf were standing in a playground in the last hours before dawn, staring at a kiddy sandpit.
Once one knew the logic behind it, the situation made somewhat more sense. Othello's wagon moved around a great deal, deep in the Hedge, which made finding the grinning feline a matter of great difficulty. He could be anywhere in London, on any Trod, in any corner of that metaphysical maze known as the Hedge. But there was a method to Othello's madness, and if one followed through his logic (which Erin could do), it was possible to choose the shortest path.
The shortest path, at present, meant opening the Hedge-Gate that was the bound area of the sandpit, and jumping inside. From there, it would be only a quick hop, skip, and jump to The Marquis de Carabas's Travelling Emporium of Wonders.
"Eh, lass, it can't all be castles and brooding forests." The short man in the top-hat said. "Now, if we are all gathered here? Everybody ready to go? No last rush to the loo, nobody forgot to pack a sandwich?"
"I am ready." Sergei Morozov said, his curling pooka ears a humorous counterpoint to the far less humorous sniper rifle slung over his shoulder. Technology and the Hedge rarely mixed, but old Russian military arms were reliable things, they'd last.
"Sure." Heather Harte, on the other hand, didn't bother with much in the way of weapons. The young woman was Erin's near-twin, and certainly looked the part, though a quite different sort of changeling. Where Erin was small, and fuzzy, and a tinker-fey, Heather was small, and sleek, and had a forest-wildness about her.
"I forgot to bring a sandwich." Sasha Zmeyevich snarked. The dragonish, tiger-demon had a shotgun under one arm, also an old Soviet weapon. He glanced to Erin for orders.
"Ain't that a pity, laddy-me-buck." The short man in the top-hat said. He glanced at his lanky companion (the three werewolves had left), and then shrugged. "All set? Guides first, iffen-you-please."