Epilogue

Alice had never expected that she would be married on a ship with the bustling port of Nagasaki, Japan for a witness. She had never expected to find a man who would not only indulge her mad whimsy and wanderlust but encourage it, want nothing more than to be a part of it, agree to a life spent aboard a small ship visiting strange places. She had never expected that she would marry this man who is just mad enough to love her and just brave enough to free her. She had never expected anyone like Tarrant Hightopp to be her partner in life. Although, looking back on those frantic, adventure-filled days in Underland, she probably should have!

Captain James had refused to marry them without Helen Kingsleigh’s consent... at first. Luckily, being in the trade business has made Alice very persuasive – delightfully obstinate, Tarrant later labels her – and the following day, the captain agrees.

The warm, summer wind plays with her hair as she slides the ring onto his bare finger. She fights back a blush – she is not a blushing bride in white, after all; she is a trader in a blue suit! – but she can’t help but feel this ring that she’d fashioned from a lock of her own hair, braided and bound, is not... enough. She guides it into place on his finger with an apology: “I’ll buy you a proper one in Calcutta.”

Tarrant smiles, wry and indulgent, and then slides the ring he’d fashioned from a corner of fabric – fabric that she recognizes as having been dyed up high on a mountaintop overlooking the Nagasaki plain – onto hers. “And I shall do the same,” he promises.

Useless, empty promises: when their gazes meet, Alice knows that no such purchases will be made, for neither of them has any desire whatsoever to exchange these humble tokens for gold or silver or gems.

That evening, they return to the inn. And when Tarrant arrives to guard her sleep, she takes his hand and leads him to her bed. He does not protest. The walls are too thin for what Alice would like to do, so she contents herself with the warmth of his arms around her and his solid heat and undeniable heartbeat beneath the cloth under her cheek.

“Thank you, Alice,” he whispers and she smiles.

Yes, one impossible thing has been made possible: they have no more need for nightly good-byes. “It’s my pleasure, Tarrant,” she replies.

And it is.

*~*~*~*

This wine will be the death of her.

Alice leans back against Tarrant’s chest, and rolls the mouthful she’d sipped over and around her tongue, exhales and swallows.

“Does it compare?” he asks on a whisper in her ear.

She sighs: No, no it doesn’t. It compares to nothing she has ever tasted in this world. She doesn’t have to admit it aloud. His soft giggle tells her he Knows.

She opens her eyes and looks out across the valley. The goldenrod has turned rosy; dusk is approaching. They sit on the porch of their rented cottage here at a quaint and quiet spa retreat that overlooks a landscape of steamy hills and hot springs and volcanoes.

“Does it compare?” she asks him.

“The wine?” he asks, kissing her cheek and gently nudging her head until she obligingly tilts it to the side so that he may press his lips to her jaw. She shivers, and not because her hair is still wet from her bath. She shivers because she and Tarrant have been married for over a week, have been sharing the same room, the same bed, and yet circumstances have not permitted... More.

Tarrant had asked Mr. Mutsu to recommend a place where a married couple could be alone together. (And for that particular question, she is glad it had been Tarrant who had done the asking!) Their associate’s suggestion and a chartered fishing boat had lead them here: to a mountainous bay called Kagoshima.

“No, not the wine,” she replies, setting her tea cup of Witzend wine aside and closing her eyes. Hot shivers dance through her as his warm, bare fingers push her damp hair out of the way and he kisses the side of her neck. “The place. Does it compare to Underland?”

“In some ways, yes. In others, no,” he replies, undistracted from his survey of her skin. “Bu’ I hae’nae seen aul o’Underland.”

“We will,” she promises. “After we’ve seen this world, we will...”

“Aye.”

He inhales against her skin and she reaches for his arms. They’d both bathed, had both dressed in the lounge wear they’d been provided: simple kimonos with narrow belts that tie at the waist. The porch of their cottage, a bottle of wine the queen had given them, and the sunset had beckoned. Now, however...

“Tarrant...” she whispers. It’s not an interruption, but an invitation. Shyly, she moves his hands to the knot in her belt.

He moans softly against her skin. “Inside,” he rasps and she gasps.

Inside...

“Yes.”

Her neck feels cold when his mouth pulls away, but his hands urge her up and his arms pull her close to his warm chest. The lapels of his robe have fallen open and Alice presses her lips to the revealed skin: his throat – oh, the scent of him makes her knees weak and some part deep within her throb – his collarbone, his sternum. Her hands reach for the fabric over his belly.

“Alice...”

“Inside,” she agrees, lifts her face in silent request.

With a soft growl he covers her lips with his own. The kiss begins as so many others this past week have, but then... Her fingers clench in his robe as his tongue – hot, sleek, beyond sensual – caresses her lips open and slides gently past them.

He is...

… inside.

Alice shivers and dares to move her own tongue against his. He breathes in sharply and the kiss changes, deepens, heats.

Will it feel like this when that other part of him is inside her? Will it be this... intense?

She is curious, but she does not ask. She delves into his mouth and seeks out a flavor unlike any other she has ever savored. It’s his flavor. His and the wine’s.

He pulls back from the kiss but not from her. She can feel him against her hip, hard and erect.

Before he can ask if she is sure, she tells him. “Inside.”

His gaze is hungry but his hands tremble as he leads her across the threshold. When he leans away to reach for the sliding door, she spares a thought for their half-finished cups of wine on the porch. The taste of the Witzend wine had truly been beyond compare... until she’d tasted it on Tarrant’s tongue.

She glances over her shoulder. In the instant before the door slides shut, this is what she sees: the porcelain cups glow in the light from the setting sun; the surface of the wine captures a reflection of the sunset, peaceful and vibrant and golden. Another impossible thing: two sunsets, each in its own teacup.

She’ll mention it to Tarrant later. Or, perhaps, show him tomorrow. Now is not the time.

She has chosen him and he has chosen her. This is their time, now. To live. To explore.

To make the path.

Later, after the autumn cicadas have left the stage and the frogs have begun their chorus in the night, after Alice’s unasked question has been answered – yes, the feel of him moving inside her, joined with her is intense... is very... much... much more! – Alice opens her eyes to the gentle motions of Tarrant’s fingers playing in her hair. She stirs, smooths her palm over his bare chest and along his shoulder, learns the masculine curves of his arm.

Long moments later, he whispers, “Where shall we go next, my Alice?”

“After we arrive in London?” she confirms.

“Uh-hm.”

She closes her eyes, smiles. “I’ve shown you my path. I’d like to see yours.”

“Paris?” he asks after a moment, his fingers trailing along the edge of her ear now.

“And Vienna and Milan and all the places you’ve seen in between.”

He presses a kiss to her forehead and agrees. “I would like that. I would like that very much.”

Alice’s smile widens and she remembers his musings on the bustling, aromatic streets of Lagos:

“I imagine Paris would be just like this.”

And, the following spring, when they arrive in the French capital, her arm through his, it is exactly like Lagos. It is beautiful and brilliant and thrilling and so much more than it ever could have been without someone to share it with.

*~*~*~* The End *~*~*~*

Author's note: Continue on to the next entry to read my epic Research Notes. (^__~)