February 25th, 2026 — The Day the Frost Blinked
The frost arrived late.
It did not settle in the night as frost properly should, but wandered into Ballykillduff sometime after breakfast, looking faintly apologetic and extremely decorative.
Alice noticed it first on the gate.
At precisely eleven minutes past ten, the iron latch glittered.
At twelve minutes past ten, it stopped.
At thirteen minutes past ten, it glittered again.
“It’s blinking,” Alice said calmly, which is the sort of thing one must say calmly if one wishes to be believed.
The frost had begun appearing and disappearing in polite intervals — hedge, path, rooftop, sheep — as though winter were reconsidering its position.
Alice stepped into the square. Each time the frost shimmered into existence, the air grew crisp and silver; each time it vanished, the village returned to its damp February self.
“Make up your mind,” she advised the sky.
The sky, which had been undecided all month, hesitated once more — and then, with a soft sigh, allowed the frost to remain.
Not thick.
Not harsh.
Just enough to turn the puddles into mirrors.
Alice looked down and saw not her reflection, but a faint suggestion of spring standing just behind her shoulder.
“Ah,” she said.
The frost did not blink again.
And somewhere beneath the quiet silver crust of February 25th, something green made up its mind to begin.
February 25th, 2026 — The Hat That Refused to Thaw
The frost had only just decided to behave itself in Ballykillduff when the sky coughed politely and produced a hat.
Not a rabbit.
Not a teacup.
Just a hat.
It fell with dignity, landed upright in the square, and waited.
Alice, who had already negotiated with blinking frost that morning, approached it cautiously.
The hat cleared its throat.
A moment later, the Mad Hatter unfolded himself out of it as though he had merely been stored there for convenience.
“Good morning!” he cried. “I’ve come for the Thawing!”
“We are not thawing,” Alice said firmly. “We are gently transitioning.”
“Ah,” said the Hatter, peering at the frost. “A hesitant season. Very dangerous. They tend to wobble.”
He removed a small silver teaspoon from his sleeve and began tapping the frost on the cobbles.
Ping.
A patch melted.
Ping.
A daisy appeared.
Ping.
A sheep sneezed and turned very briefly pink.
Alice caught his wrist before he could strike again.
“We’ve only just persuaded February to sit still,” she said. “If you start stirring it, we shall have daffodils arguing with snowflakes.”
The Hatter considered this gravely.
“Yes,” he agreed. “They never agree on colours.”
He placed the spoon back into his sleeve, stamped his hat once (which caused three crocuses to pop up apologetically), and looked at Alice with unusual sincerity.
“Very well. No mischief. Only observation.”
They stood together in the soft silver light, watching the frost hold its breath and spring wait its turn.
After several whole minutes of remarkable good behaviour, the Hatter leaned closer.
“Between ourselves,” he whispered, “March is terribly impatient.”
Then he folded neatly back into his hat.
The hat tipped itself.
And vanished.
The frost did not blink.
But somewhere beneath the cobbles, something giggled.
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 