Alice stopped because the sign had stopped first.
“TARTARIA,” it said, as though announcing a sneeze that never quite arrived. The cottage behind it pretended to be a cottage, the path pretended to be going somewhere, and the air smelled faintly of yesterday.
Alice adjusted her basket, which was full of eggs that were thinking about becoming clocks, and stepped forward carefully—because places that are formerly elsewhere have a habit of remembering you before you remember them.
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 