“May I pour, Dorothy?” Alice said. “The teapot is ever so heavy, and you shan’t be able to lift it. I remember your tales, my dear, and how much coddling you needed in Oz. You weren’t able to do much of anything for yourself, really, relying ever so greatly on your companions. You must have been a simply frightful annoyance, too, I shouldn’t wonder, with your constant repetitions of “I just want to go home.” Is it any wonder that they sent you back? You killed two witches while you were there, didn’t you, dear? Well, involuntary manslaughter, really, though some might say clumsiness.”

Dorothy sighed: Alice had become increasingly insufferable over the few years that they’d known each other. She looked at the clock. “Oh dear, I’ll be late. We must do this again, Alice.” From her reticule, she withdrew a small parcel. “Happy 15th birthday.” Setting the parcel on the table, Dorothy swept from the room.

Alice opened the parcel to find several delectable petits fours, delicately iced with the words ‘Bite Me.’