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The scent of damp earth mingles with stale biscuits as Ellie Coptor’s propeller whirs in agitation above the wilting rose bushes of L'Îlot Zanimo. A crumpled invitation—gold ink smudged by August humidity—flutters under Fudge’s paw: *Join the Grand Thé de l’Inconnu!* Beneath it, thirty drenched guests drip onto a single soggy cracker resting on a chipped saucer.
Ellie’s pink feathers droop. "Only three teaspoons of Earl Grey in this giant pot?" she murmurs, tapping a porcelain cup with a claw. "It tastes like rainwater with a hint of disappointment."
Fudge shakes his head, floppy ears slapping his cheeks. "And this cracker? One. Crumbly. Square. For everyone." He eyes the crowd—a disgruntled hedgehog, a soggy squirrel—and shivers. "Who expects thirty guests to share something smaller than my paw?"
Gofrette, fur plastered flat by the impromptu monsoon, grins. "Zowie! Sprinklers during teatime!" He dances in puddles, tail kinked like a question mark. "Classic misdirection!"
The mysterious host remains absent. Ellie sighs, propeller spinning briskly. "I’m opening Salon Plumage early. At least there, we have enough hair gel." She flaps away, leaving a trail of sparkly glitter.
Fudge whimpers, nudging the disintegrating cracker. "Wowie Zowie Gofrette—this isn’t funny! My ears weigh a kilogram wet!"
But Gofrette’s eyes gleam, imagining trapdoors and invisible strings. The chaos tastes sweeter than stolen cream.