The little boy asked them to sit down, and then, to Alice’s surprise, took his seat behind the large desk, laced his fingers on the table, and said,

“Alice, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Oh,” she said, startled. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, too, Mr.—um, Mr. Time.”

“No need to be so formal,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Call me Tim. And please”—he smiled and gestured to his appearance—“forgive my age,” he said. “It changes on the hour.”

Alice tried to smile.

“Thank you for meeting me here again,” he said to Oliver. “I know how much trouble it is to negotiate with my security team, but I can only ever be of use to you when I can stand to be still.” To Alice, he said, “I hope my friends didn’t frighten you too much. Some people find those pantsuits extremely intimidating.”

“Not at all,” she said shakily. “I thought their pantsuits were lovely.”

But Alice was distracted. Tim was dark-haired and olive-skinned in a way that reminded her of Father. Father’s skin was not such a lovely brown as Mother’s, but just a shade or two lighter, and Alice’s heart was hit with a sudden swell of emotion as she remembered her parents’ faces.

“Now then,” Tim said as he turned to Oliver, all business. “You brought the book?”

Oliver nodded and placed the pocketbook on the table.

“Very well, very well,” said Tim, looking vaguely disappointed. “Thank you for returning it.”

Alice glanced at Oliver, all question marks. He still hadn’t told her anything about what they were doing here, and she was beginning to realize he seldom did—not until it was too late.

Tim seemed to understand.

“Oliver paid me a visit,” he explained, “the last time he was in Furthermore. I’d respectfully requested that—in the very likely chance he should fail in his mission—he return the pocketbook to me. And now he’s here, true to his word.” Tim folded his hands on his desk and took a moment to smile at Oliver in a kind, fatherly fashion, which, truth be told, was uncomfortable to witness, as Tim had the face and build of a seven-year-old and appeared to be in no position to have fathered anyone.

“But why was Oliver here before?” Alice asked. “What did he need the pocketbook for?”

“Well,” Tim said, surprised. “To find your father’s pocket, of course.”

“My father’s—I’m sorry,” she said, stunned, “my father’s pocket is in there?”

“Yes,” Oliver said quickly. “The pocketbook brought me to Tim the last time I was here. I needed to hand over to him the contents of your father’s pocket.”

“Oliver!” Alice gasped, horrified. “You just handed over Father’s things to someone else? How could you?”

Oliver sat up in his seat. “No,” he said, “it wasn’t—I didn’t—”

“Your father got himself into a bit of a bind,” Tim said gently. “Oliver was only trying to help mend the matter.”

“What?” Alice looked at Oliver, panicked. “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?” she cried. “What did Father do? Was it awful? Did he . . . eat someone?”

(Tim flinched at that last bit, but we won’t dwell on it.)

“Of course not,” said Oliver. “But he took far too much time to make a decision. Remember, Alice—we talked about this—it’s a grave offense.”

Alice was stunned. It took her a full minute to find her voice, and when she did, she said, “That is one of the most ridiculous rules I’ve ever heard in all my life.”

Tim cleared his throat, visibly offended, studied a chipped corner of his desk and pinched his bottom lip between two fingers. Finally he dropped his fingers and, affecting a tone of sympathy, said, “See, it’s quite simple, really. In Furthermore we do not waste time, share time, or spare time, and I’m afraid your father took more than his measure. Because what he took belonged to me, I was the only one with permission to search his pockets.” He paused. “Though I’m afraid there wasn’t much to reclaim. I had no choice but to repossess his ruler.”

Alice’s hands fell into her lap as she sat straight up and stared, unblinking, at Tim’s round, ticking face. His mouth twitched; his hands twitched. He looked like an old clock.

Suddenly, Alice understood.

“Is that what Ted meant?” she said slowly. “About being arrested?” She looked from Tim to Oliver. “Was Father arrested for taking too much time?”

Tim’s eyebrows hiked up an inch and his oversized glasses slipped down his nose. “Yes, I’d say so,” he said, pushing the glasses back into place. “I’d say so, yes.”

“Oh my.” Alice had taken to flapping her hands around as the seriousness of it all finally set in. “Oh, oh, oh—”

“I know this isn’t much in the way of comfort,” Oliver said gently, “but . . . would you like to see his pocket?”

Alice dropped her flapping hands. And nodded.

Oliver checked to make sure it was alright with Tim, and Tim tilted his head approvingly. Oliver gave Alice a warm smile, cracked open the pocketbook, and Alice was on her feet and looking over Oliver’s shoulder in the same second it took Tim to sneeze. The old, musty pages of the pocketbook had unleashed a foot of dust into the air, and while Tim used up the moment to blow his boyish nose, Oliver bent over the book with great care. The spine creaked and wheezed like an ancient staircase mounted by mighty beasts, and though Oliver did his best to be gentle, he couldn’t help but disturb the peace of the pocketbook.

Alice was no help either.