Chapter Twelve: Promises Kept [Rated M]

Warning: This entry contains sexual content.  [NON-explicit]

*~*~*~*

The life – the world – that Alice returns to through the looking glass is not the same one she’d left. She takes in the toppled furniture, shards of a once-was-water pitcher and matching basin, overturned table and tangled rug. Gasping, she struggles to move faster through the pressure of the mirror. When her ears emerge, the noise makes her flinch.

“Mirana?!” Alice reaches out and, thankfully, her friend is there to lend a hand. Careful not to actually pull Alice – still mindful of her promise to Tarrant from which he’d never released her – the queen holds still and Alice pulls herself back into Underland.

Sometime after her booted feet stumble out of the mirror but before realizing that her arms are covered in goose bumps, Alice identifies the deafening noise.

“LE’ ME GO! I'M GOIN' AFTE'HER – YE CANNAE STOP ME!”

On the far side of the bed, Alice sees two men – two identical men – struggling on the floor. She recognizes Chessur by the irritated look on his “Hatter” face and rational – if narrowed – green eyes. Tarrant, on the other hand...

“Are his eyes... red?” Alice croaks.

“I’m afraid they are.”

Turning, Alice glances at the queen and gasps. “Are you all right?”

Mirana gives her a brave smile. “Yes, nothing a hair brush and a bit of needle-and-thread won’t fix.” She nods in Tarrant’s direction. “I’m sorry, Alice, he saw me standing next to the mirror and...” She sighs. “He didn’t listen...”

“Of course he didn’t,” Alice growls, tearing off her jacket. The fewer reminders from her old life, the better.

“We’ll stay until you calm him down.”

“Then make yourself comfortable,” Alice invites over Tarrant’s next roar of fury.

“DI’YE THINK YE CAN KEEP ME HERE? DON’YE DARE CLOSE THA’ LOOKIN’GLASS ‘AFORE I’M THROUGH!”

Alice strides over to the pair of hatters, one significantly madder than the other. As she draws nearer, Alice notices that there’s no logic, no rational thought whatsoever in Tarrant’s eyes. If he hadn’t already destroyed her water pitcher and soaked the rug, Alice might have emptied it directly on his face, but as there is no water available for throwing...

Alice pulls off her left glove – the only one she’d worn through the mirror – and unbuttons her cuffs for greater ease of movement. Moving closer, she takes in Chessur’s clenched teeth as he keeps his arms and legs locked around Tarrant who writhes and thrashes as if possessed.

How is it I always manage to hurt him so badly?

Alice kneels gingerly on the floor and reaches out her hand to his face. She places her hand against his forehead and temple and... something... flickers in the depths of his eyes, but in the next moment it’s gone. He shudders violently and renews his wild struggles. Alice ducks under his flailing arm and tries again.

“Tarrant!”

No response.

“Don’t make me slap you, Tarrant Hightopp!”

He blinks.

“Look at me, you stubborn milliner!”

Another blink. A bit of a twitch, too. Alice reaches for his left hand and interlaces their fingers, turning their hands so that her heart line is in front of his face.

“Shush,” she murmurs. “Look at me. I’m here...”

For a moment, it seems as if he’d heard her. And then: “ALICE!” His mindless, desperate cry rings out.

With a sigh, Alice gets up, throws the largest and most dangerous pieces of broken crockery onto the rug as well as her weapons and every other sharp object in the room with the exception of one. Gathering up the rug, she tosses it out into the hall. She considers dragging the mirror out as well, but as she’d rather confine the struggle to this room, leaves it. After all, it won’t do for Tarrant go tearing after it and end up fighting her in the narrow corridor, where his strength and longer limbs would give him a definite advantage.

Decided, Alice says, “Mirana, I want you to go.”

“But, Alice, he’s gone completely mad!”

“I can see that.” Alice holds her broadsword in her hands and ties the scabbard securely to the hilt so that it can’t possibly be unsheathed.

“What... are you going to do?”

Alice looks up and gives the queen what must be a predatory grin. Mirana looks a bit taken aback. “I’m going to fight as hard as I must... to win. I’ve a promise to keep.”

Mirana’s eyes widen in comprehension. “You might... Or rather, he might... do you serious harm.”

“He might,” she agrees as Tarrant renews his struggles and screams. “And I might do him serious harm. But, one way or another, we’re going to sort this out right now.” Alice Kingsleigh hadn’t turned her back on her family and her home to let Tarrant Hightopp throw their future away to madness now!

Slowly, Mirana nods. “All right,” she agrees. With one last desperate look back into the room, she exits and closes the door behind her.

“May I be excused now?” Chessur drawls.

“Yes, I’ll take it from here.”

And then Alice is alone... with a crimson-eyed, fever-mad hatter.

With Chessur no longer between him and the wall, Tarrant falls back against it and seems dazed by his sudden freedom. Alice takes a chance and approaches him. His irises are still red, but she doesn’t try to hide from him. She waits for her movements to capture his attention, but that dazed look lingers. Laying her sheathed sword on the foot of the bed, Alice kneels down next to him. She slides her left hand into his hair at the back of his skull and asks, “Why is a raven like a writing desk?”

“I...”

Alice sees a flicker of coherence. Despite her reservations, she feels the tiniest spark of hope...

“I haven’t...!” That’s all he manages before he lunges for her.

“Botheration!” she grits out, grabbing his arm and, with a foot braced against the base of the bedpost, twists it behind his back. The hand not held securely between his shoulder blades scrabbles at the floor.

“ALICE!”

“I’m right here, Tarrant. Right here...” She presses against him, her shins across the backs of his thighs and her pelvis against his buttocks. “Remember? We fought like this before...”

He groans. “Alice...!”

Hmm. A bit of an improvement, she thinks, hearing something other than desperation and panic in his voice. She leans down and, daringly, nuzzles through his hair to his ear. “Come back to me, Tarrant...”

His breaths lift her up and down over his back and shoulders. Alice begins to get impatient as the silence stretches. “Don’t make me bite you, Hatter.” Daring once more, she sets her teeth gently against his neck. He groans.

“Break?” she asks.

A heartbeat... and then another thumps in her chest and then – wherever Tarrant finds the leverage, Alice doesn’t know! – she’s tumbling off his back as he’s rising from the floor, looming over her.

Feeling the first spike of alarm since his first blood-curdling cry, Alice reacts. She hooks her feet behind his knees, grabs the legs of the armchair for anchoring, and pulls. He crashes to his hands and knees but she’s already scrambling away and gaining her feet. Before he manages to stand back up, she uses the bedpost to slingshot herself around and shove him back to the floor. He lands hard and she sits down on the small of his back this time. Catching his forearms in hers, she presses them down against the floor and hopes he tires himself out sooner rather than later or this really could become... painful.

“Are you all right?” she asks, struggling for a normal tone.

He doesn’t reply. Tarrant merely rolls his head to the side and shudders.

“I came back,” she tells him, trying a different strategy. “I did go through the looking glass. Do you know why?”

Nothing.

“I went to see my mother. She got the letter the day before yesterday about my ship. I went to see her while she was sleeping... to tell her good-bye. Do you know why I did that?” she asks softly, rubbing her thumbs back and forth over his jacket-covered arms. “I told her good-bye because I’ve chosen you. I’m staying.”

Still, no response.

“Is that what you wanted? That I’d stay in Underland... with you?”

He drags in a breath that’s much deeper than the others he’d been taking.

“Tarrant? Talk to me. What color do you think your eyes are now?”

“Alice...?”

Her eyes close in relief. Never has she been so happy to hear that whispered lisp. “Tarrant? Break?”

He shakes his head as he trembles with another shiver. “No’yet.”

Alice complies. She stays right where she is and murmurs to him, “It’s all right. I’m not leaving. I’m staying. It’s all right. I’m keeping my promise.”

Perhaps five minutes pass this way and then he takes one more deep breath. “I’m fine now,” he tells her.

Still wary, Alice moves off of him as gently as possible. He doesn’t move, though, so Alice circles around and, crouching down searches his expression. “Tarrant?”

His eyes flick briefly in her direction and she lets out a sigh of relief: his eyes are green. Finally. She holds out her hands to him. “Come on. Up you go.”

After a moment, he extends one hand and she urges him to his feet. Gently she pushes him back a step until he sits down at the foot of the bed. Alice pushes the sword out of the way – What a relief that she hadn’t had to use it to defend herself! – and lets out a great sigh. Sliding her arms around him, she prompts, “Tell me what’s wrong. I’m here. I’m fine. You’re fine...”

“No... no! I’m not fine.” He gulps and stares at his hands where they rest, palms-up on his knees. “Monster,” he croaks on a breath of sound. “You’ve seen... Couldn’t stop myself... I could have... I wanted to...”

“What did you want?”

He closes his eyes. “No, no. I still... still...”

“All right, you still want to. What is it you want?”

His hands reach as if to grab her, but at the last possible moment, he turns them on himself. Grasping his jacket lapels, he twists them mercilessly. In a strangled voice, he confesses, “You. I must keep you, Alice. I will do anything, go anywhere, become anyone, but I must keep you!”

Alice presses a hand against his cheek and the brief flash yellow-orange-red fades back to bewildered green. “If you keep me, then... that means I can keep you, too?”

The disbelief she sees in him hurts.  But, really, what had she expected?  She’s never told him that she... that he...  

When he absorbs her words, a brief flicker of delight crosses his face. “Aye...” he replies hesitantly.

She smiles and runs her fingers gently through his hair, trying to tame it. She wishes it were this easy to soothe his soul.  She says, “So, I’ll keep you and you’ll keep me... agreed?”

Tarrant returns her smile now and leans his forehead against hers. He breathes deeply for a moment, his eyes closed. When he opens them, they're the most beautiful, rich, infinite blue she's ever seen.  He murmurs, “If I’m not mistaken, that was iambic pentameter...”

Alice laughs. “It was, wasn’t it?”

And finally, his arms come around her. Alice leans against his shoulder and, still smiling, sighs: everything is fine; everything is finally as it should be.

 

*~*~*~*

 

“Why didn’t you ever release the queen from her promise?”

Tarrant looks up from his tea. It’s Saturday, again, and nearly brillig. The previous three days had been wonderful: better than he could have imagined! (And that’s really saying something!) For one thing, Alice had gone through the looking glass, she had looked at her old life, and she had bid it farewell! Tarrant had never expected – although he’d hoped! – that she would choose him and it made every day that much sweeter.

Another thing that adds to Tarrant’s joy is undiluted relief: he’d indeed faced his own personal demon and he had not hurt Alice in the process! He’d feared that he might be capable of so many horrid, unforgivable things, but he hadn’t done any of them. Alice hadn’t let him. He’d like to think that he wouldn’t have hurt her, regardless, but he’s more than happy with how things had turned out, in the end.

And the third thing that makes Tarrant extremely happy is the fact that his heart line – he can only guess as to Alice’s – crested over his shoulder sometime last night and is nearing the center of his chest. Very soon, it will be time to consider the third and final exchange. He tries not to think about it too much. Especially when Alice is asking him questions.

“I beg your pardon, Alice. My mind was galumphing about.”

Alice smiles. “I can picture that quite vividly.”

He giggles.

“I was wondering why you never released the queen from her promise... Not to bring me back into Underland?”

“Oh, well...” Tarrant studies the ends of his cravat for a moment.

“Yes?”

He looks up and into Alice’s expectant expression which is much closer than he would have expected normally – she’d moved her chair closer to his today! They’re nearly sitting side by side at the round table! Tarrant tries not to think of the fact that her knee is only a twitch away...

Clearing his throat, Tarrant offers her a proposition, “You have one question you’d like to have answered and I have two. Shall we trade?”

“Two answers for one? That’s not fair,” she protests, just as he’d hoped she would!

“A fair trade? You Uplanders have some odd ideas...”

Alice considers her response carefully. “All right, I’ll give you your answers, but, someday, I might have another question for you and you’ll answer it free of charge.”

“I thought you didn’t excel at business practices, Alice,” he teases her.

“Going once... going twice...”

“Agreed! Now, for my questions!”

“Excuse me?!”

He grins. “You didn’t specify that I couldn’t have your answers first!”

She arcs a brow. “Well, you can ask, I suppose. I won’t promise to answer them yet!”

Thrilled, Tarrant quickly calms himself by repositioning his teacup on its saucer and then centering the saucer in front of him. “Ahem. Right. Yes. My first question: Alice...” he begins, suddenly somber. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going back through the looking glass to say good-bye?”

Alice’s smile fades and Tarrant nearly regrets asking the question in the first place. If it weren’t for the fact that he needs to know the answer very badly, he would have withdrawn it.

After a moment, Alice tells him, “Perhaps I wasn’t.”

Tarrant blinks. “I beg your pardon?”

“I wasn’t sure I was going back to say good-bye... I could have told my mother I’d been rescued during the storm... I could have gone back and stayed...”

Now, Tarrant regrets asking that question very much, indeed.

“But,” Alice continues, “when I went through the looking glass, my first thought was that despite the familiarity, it wasn’t anything like Mamoreal and... when I was telling my mother about this place and my friends and... you...”

At this point, Alice blushes so enchantingly that Tarrant retracts his desire to retract the original question.

“I realized I wanted to stay in Underland.”

“With me, Alice?” he dares to clarify.

“Yes, with you.”

Tarrant is beside himself with glee. He struggles to keep his seat – a bit of Futterwhacken might help alleviate his excess energy, but it would be rather rude to interrupt teatime with it! Impulsively, he collects Alice’s hand and brushes a kiss over her knuckles. “I’m glad,” he manages through his smile.

“Yes, I can see that.”

Tarrant grins like the Cheshire Cat.

“And your other question?” Alice wonders, not reclaiming her hand.

Tarrant brushes his thumb over her knuckles. Studying Alice’s smaller hand in his, their fingertips both callused and rough in certain places, their hands both scarred, he admits, “I nearly don’t want to ask this one... but I must.” After all, the response to his first question had turned out rather wonderfully and he’ll be pressing his luck to hope for as much with the second.

Alice waits.

He draws in a deep breath and stutters, “Well, you see, during the first exchange... that is, in my workshop... but you’ve been to my workshop many times... yes, well, on this particular occasion your heart-line finger had been pricked and I was wondering...” Tarrant turns in his seat and clasps her single hand in both of his. Swallowing, he forces himself to ask, “I was wondering Alice, if... did I prick your finger?”

She frowns. “You don’t remember?”

“Not... no, not clearly.”

Alice places her other hand on top of his. “It was a pin in your cuff. It was an accident. Providence.”

And just that easily, the remaining shadows scatter.

Slumping slightly, Tarrant releases the breath he’d been holding. “Oh...”

Alice raises a brow. “And now will you answer my question?”

“Oh, oh, yes. Of course...” Tarrant glances away, frowning. How to make this sound less than horridly, unforgivably slurvish?

“You didn’t want me to come back?” Alice asks suddenly.

Tarrant lifts his gaze, shocked, appalled! How could Alice think...?!

“No!” He gentles his voice. “No... I was... trying to say this in a way that might not make you think... too poorly of me...”

“Tarrant?”

He winces. “I did want you to return. Desperately.” Oh, what will Alice think when she hears his answer?! Tarrant closes his eyes and just says it: “I wanted you to come back to me. Not to, for, because of, due to, as a result of... anyone else.” The last part is said in a shamed whisper.

When he feels Alice’s hands gently pull from his grasp, he lets them go. A moment later, he startles when Alice gently grasps his wrists and pulls his arms wide and then – once again! – slides into his lap. She wraps his arms around her waist and frames his face between her palms.

Amazed, he can only watch and listen.

“When I was apprenticing with the trading company, I imagined, every day that I’d go somewhere exotic and amazing. And then, when I got there, I looked for you. I looked in each and every face for... something that would remind me of you. I thought of you every day. Sometimes it seemed like every hour. By the time we sailed for England, I had a plan: to go back down that rabbit hole and find you.” Alice searches his face. “I was coming back to you.” Tarrant feels a tentative smile stretch his lips. Alice’s expression softens, “I went through the looking glass, said my good-byes and then I came back to you. You’re not a bad person for wanting that,” she tells him. Then, a mischievous light enters her eyes and she shrugs. “You might be a bit... mad...”

“Bonkers?” he asks, hopefully.

“Off your head,” she confirms. “But you know something?”

Tarrant waits, entranced. Alice doesn’t disappoint him.

Leaning close, she confides, “I still think all the best people are.”

And then she kisses him.

 

*~*~*~*

 

“Are you sure you don’t want a ceremony?” Mirana asks for, perhaps, the tenth time that morning.

Alice shakes her head. “No ceremony, Your Majesty.”

“Oh, botheration,” the queen huffs. But, luckily, she doesn’t seem capable of holding onto a grudge. “I am so happy for the both of you, Alice!”

“Me, too,” Alice admits, perhaps a bit too smugly. In fact, she’s been feeling rather smug all morning: ever since she’d woken up and, upon bathing, had noticed the twining blue lines that had grown up her arm and over her shoulder were now converged to a point over her heart: she is ready for the third exchange.

Alice had gone out of her way to inform Tarrant of this before breakfast, pushing him gently against a wall in an empty corridor and, with a single finger, tracing the lines of red – concealed beneath his jacket, waistcoat, and shirtsleeves – to the point above his heart: the precise location where her own bright blue heart line had stopped.

“Alice...? Yours also...? Is it...?”

“At your convenience,” she’d reminded him. And then, with a teasing smirk: “Mr. Hightopp.”

Alice has been kissed in corridors before, but never quite so... thoroughly. At least none of the latches, keyholes, or doorknobs had complained this time... Which is just as well as she’s not sure either Tarrant or herself would have heard them.

She lets her eyes drift closed as she remembers those breathless kisses, his hands on her waist and then under her vest – so warm against her back! The embrace could have gone on all day (and likely would have!) if not for Tarrant finding some heretofore unrevealed shred of restraint. (Of all the rotten timing!)

“No, not... not... Now is not the time...” He’d breathed against her neck. His teeth had nipped her gently, making her shiver. Alice hadn’t particularly agreed with his assessment of their schedules, but as she’d promised, this would be at his convenience, so she’d kept her mouth shut... somehow.

He’d pulled back, his then-violet eyes sparkling, and had asked with flawless decorum, “Are you free for dinner this evening, Alice?”

Oh, yes, she is absolutely free for dinner. And Fate help anyone who tries to change those plans!

“Ahem? Alice?”

Alice’s eyes pop open. “Oh, what? Sorry?”

Mirana smirks. “You’re going to be utterly useless today, aren’t you?”

“Probably, but at least I’ll be useless with a smile!”

The queen raises a brow. “I sincerely hope your Hatter doesn’t run a needle through his finger...”

Alice wishes she could say (with confidence) that a sewing accident isn’t a distinct probability, but...

Yes, precisely: But...

Alice actually has a rather busy day, alternating between dreamy, distant smiles and sudden, worried frowns. And, then, on top of that, she’s supposed to be thinking about the queen’s travel itinerary!

“Shuchland?” Alice asks, noticing the fact that the writing on the parchment in her hands had been intended for reading. “Are we visiting whom I think we’re visiting?” Alice inquires with a knowing grin.

“Oh, turn that smile off. It’s like having Chessur in the room with us!”

“My apologies, Your Majesty.”

Mirana giggles. “And to answer your question... Is it not only polite to accept an invitation in return for offering one?”

“Of course,” Alice says. “So how’s Dale these days?”

And Alice is highly entertained by the fact that the queen can blush rather well... in certain circumstances. They’d gone over the security details for transporting all of the ridiculous luggage Fenruffle had declared necessary according to his logistics forecast report. They’d also discussed appropriate gifts for their host and his parents. And, upon learning that Dale’s grandfather had, in fact, been a gypsy king from an clan of Outlanders similar to Tarrant’s, Alice considers lions... and Outlanders... and marriage... and children... and finally thinks to ask the most basic of all questions:

“Would Tarrant and I be able to have children, do you think?” she blurts out over the rim of her teacup.

Mirana, in mid-sip, coughs a bit, then sputters a bit more, and – eyes watering – replies, “I think you’ll come to find that there’s a rite for nearly everything in Underland.”

And so there is! Alice thinks, later that afternoon. She skims the passages the queen had recommended – again, blushing – just to be sure that she and Tarrant aren’t going to stumble onto another one of those spur-of-the-moment-rituals-that-is-actually-an-ancient-rite! Well, at least, not until they’re quite ready for that sort of thing!

I suppose I ought to ask Tarrant about his opinion on the matter... She snorts as she imagines that topic smoothly introduced over dinner tonight:

“And so I was reading books on childbearing rites between partners of different origins – Mirana’s recommendation, of course – and I realized I’d never asked you what your thoughts were on starting a family!”

Alice is quite sure Tarrant’s expression would be positively priceless. However, as she’s not all that sure as to which answer she’d rather hear, she’ll just save that bit of small talk for later.

After all, there’s no reason to complicate a perfectly lovely third exchange with thoughts of the future.

On her way up to her room – to get ready for dinner... finally! – Alice almost trips over Mirana. I must make more an effort to watch where I’m going!

“Can I interest you in a gown for this evening?”

“I—what?”

“A dress, Alice. I remembered that you’ve only ever had trousers and such tailored. Now, if I’d had a bit more time I might have been able to commission a truly lovely gown for you, but as that’s not possible, apparently...”

Alice laughs. “Don’t be tetchy with me! And besides, my usual vest and trousers will be just fine.”

“Well, yes, but...”

“But?”

Mirana leans in and, with a wicked grin, speculates, “Unless things become rather... urgent. Your seams might not survive. How long have you both been waiting for this?”

“Ah, good point...”

Sensing victory, the queen ushers Alice over to her bed where Mirana had already laid out several options. “What do you think of these?”

With a slight shake of her head, Alice picks the most comfortable garment and hopes she won’t have to explain to Mirana why a corset and stockings will not be necessary.

 

*~*~*~*

 

This isn’t the first time he’s seen Alice wearing a dress. No, of course not. Why, she’d even worn a dress he’d made just for her. (Although, if he’d had more time and a selection of fabrics and a bit of trimming it might have turned out considerably better...) Despite that, Tarrant can’t help thinking that he’s never really noticed Alice wearing a dress before. Tarrant hadn’t realized he could surpass himself in his skills in noticing Alice. He’d rather thought himself the expert at it. Until now.

“... never mentioned it before?”

Tarrant blinks, gives himself a brief shake, and realizes Alice had just asked him a question.

“I’m sorry, Alice. What was that?”

He sits, with his knife and fork still in hand – still gleaming! – and his untouched plate cooling in front of him. The scent of the dinner he’d ejected Thackery from the kitchen in order to prepare holds no appeal for him. From the moment Alice had arrived this evening, he’d been able to do little else than simply notice her.

And, oh what there is to be noticed!

The gown she’s wearing is a deep blue and it seems vaguely familiar, reminding him of a moonlit masquerade and music drifting on the summer breeze long ago... Alice is even lovelier wrapped up in that blue, but it’s her shoulders – irresistible! – that keep him riveted, for they are completely and utterly bare. Tarrant manages an awkward swallow as Alice reaches for her water glass and takes a sip. Her short hair curls gently at the nape of her neck and he helplessly follows the slope of it down to her collarbone and the tiny hollow at its center. And there, just to the side, he sees the end of her heart line, poised like the trail of a lover’s signature from his quill, over the curve of her breast. The plunging neckline and the insignificant scraps of fabric wrapping around her upper arms in a mockery of sleeves reveals the graceful, unchangeable, unmistakable evidence that she is completely, absolutely, irrevocably his Alice!

As she lowers the crystal stemware, Tarrant notices the shimmering of his silverware in his hands. Trembling, again. Alice’s hand is not very steady, either, he notes as the water sloshes a bit.

“I was saying,” she says, reclaiming her fork in her hand. Tarrant stares – defeated and distracted – at her pale fingers as they wrap around the utensil. “That you never told me you were so skilled in the kitchen. Why didn’t you mention it?”

Tarrant opens his mouth to reply, but – meeting Alice’s gaze – finds he has to clear his throat before any sound will emerge. “I haven’t the slightest idea,” he says, replying only to the question directly rather than the inquiry behind it.

Alice smiles and glances down at her plate, which is noticeably emptier than Tarrant’s. (Oh, he’d hoped she would like it!) He has yet to give a thought to his own meal and with a vision like the one opposite him, he feels no inclination whatsoever to redirect his attention.

Tonight, her skin seems so soft and warm and he knows how her hair smells – he’d sampled its scent as he’d pushed her chair in for her! – and, if he’d had but a moment more, he might have been able to measure the visible curve of her back...

The invitation Alice is wearing teases, tortures, torments...!

The knife and fork quiver again, reflecting the candlelight.

Touch me... the dress seems to whisper.

He clutches his silverware tighter.

As Alice lifts another morsel to her mouth, as Tarrant watches it disappear between her lips, he squeezes his eyes shut briefly and promises himself that he will never as long as he lives invite Alice to a private dinner again!

Yes, this is an unmitigated disaster: he can’t concentrate on anything but that expanse of lovely, marked – his mark! – skin. He can’t speak for the ache that has conquered every part of him. He can’t release his knife and fork, not even to remove the perfectly clean napkin from his lap, for fear a desperate, overwhelming, fevered madness will possess him. And then what would stop him from touching, tasting, taking everything he desires?

There’s a soft clatter as Alice lays her fork down. Unable to resist just one more glance, he opens his eyes.

“I have a proposal,” she offers tentatively.

“Ah...?” At least his nod is coherent, he muses darkly.

“Tonight, let’s bow to the logic of Underland and have dinner... afterward.”

If Tarrant had kept a clock in his parlor, he’s sure the sound of its ticking and tocking would have been exceptionally noticeable. Almost as magnificently noticeable as Alice! He stares, comprehending her words but fearing to understand completely, quite obviously tongue-tied. (He’s sure he’ll be highly embarrassed about it later, but he simply doesn’t have the resources to dwell on it at the moment.)

Alice stands, the fabric of her dress brushing against her chair and the edge of the table cloth. He can only watch as she rounds the table and approaches him. When she’s so close he can feel the heat of her arms across his, when her fingers gently grasp his own knife and fork, intending to lift them from his hands, he panics.

“Alice, I...”

Those delightful fingers pause just an instant away from touching his own. “Have you changed your mind?” she asks calmly.

Calm. Yes, calm is good, he tells himself. Draws a steadying breath, only to have Alice’s scent kick the world upside-down.

“Too much,” he tells her, not even considering the possibility that she might not understand. There are no words that can describe his desire. He’s waited for this moment all his life. Ever since that moment when the White Queen had asked his Fa about the heart line... In that moment, Tarrant had realized what a heart line truly meant. And it had not been until well after the deaths of his family, friends, and fellow hatters – when he’d realized that he’d lost this miracle for all time – that he'd felt his heart shatter from desolation and loneliness.

And here Alice is offering it to him before the conclusion of dinner!

He shouldn’t let her take the silverware from his hands, but he watches as they’re laid down upon the table. He shouldn’t let her remove the napkin from his thigh, but that also is set aside. He shouldn’t let her take his hands and urge him up and toward the bedroom.

Oh, how he shouldn’t!

But moments later, he’s there, standing beside his bed and Alice’s hands are working at his cravat.

“This is your new suit, isn’t it?” she asks. “The one you wore to the banquet after each duel?”

Duel... He shivers at the thought, his mind struggling to form coherent thought. Is this another of Alice’s duels? In a way, he hopes it is. He wants her to... well, not fight him perhaps... but he wants her to seek her own pleasure, her own victory tonight as well. Tarrant would give her anything she desires, if only he could be sure the madness would allow it of him.

His cravat is folded and placed on the side table. His cuff links follow. He feels a spike of mind-blanking panic-lust-want-need-MUST-HAVE! as her fingers unbuckle his belt. He fists his hands and clenches his jaw.

The buttons of his waistcoat surrender to her and then the jacket and vest are laid across a conveniently placed chair. Alice places her hands on his arms and guides him back a step to the bed. He sits, dazed, as she pulls off his boots and socks.

“All right?” she whispers.

His fingers curl into the bedding like desperate claws. Tarrant’s entire body is tense, wound, coiled. He manages a nod with difficulty.

She holds his gaze for a moment, cradling his face in her palms, before she smiles softly and turns. “Would you?” she asks over her shoulder.

Tarrant stares at the line of buttons clinging to the curve of her spine. He’s not sure how long he simply looks at those mocking little closures, but Alice doesn’t pull away as he takes one calming breath after another. Finally, when his hands are hands once again rather than frantic claws, his fingers touch the first button and gently urge it back through the button hole.

With the first undone, he pauses, evaluates himself, and determines he might try another... With each button he hesitates, waits for the madness to take him, but nothing of the sort happens. Finally, when there are no more buttons to undo and the sheer fabric of Alice’s chemise is revealed, Alice takes one step away and the dress slides off. She places it beside his jacket and vest on the chair, steps out of her slippers, and pulls something from this left jacket lapel.

Feeling as if he might break into thousands of tiny pieces at the slightest provocation, Tarrant returns his hands to the bedclothes and clutches them in his grasp.

Taking a seat next to him, lovely in only her underthings – the delicate chemise that is far, far too thin for his peace of mind and a layer of petticoats – Alice turns toward him.

“Are you ready?” she asks.

He notes that she doesn’t ask him if he’s sure. There is nothing he is more sure of! She asks if he’s ready. He closes his eyes briefly and prays that the madness will not make an appearance tonight. Tarrant nods and forces himself to look at her.

For a moment, he stares at the fabric pin in her right hand. When he accepts it, their fingers brush and the touch settles him in an unanticipated way. When Alice offers him her heart-line finger, he holds it steady with his hand, leans down to brush a kiss over her palm and then, meeting her gaze, applies the pin... for the last time.

Her breath hitches as the point breaks the skin, but she doesn’t flinch. Tarrant waits a moment, long enough for the bead of blood to swell, and then guides her fingertip to his mouth. He can’t help closing his eyes to savor the third and final experience with her blood. His tongue slides over her skin once, twice. The arm in his grasp shivers. With pleasure, he hopes. The first of innumerable to come...

Opening his eyes, Tarrant feels heat and urgency run riot within him at her dazed expression, her parted lips. Releasing her hand, he offers the pin to her as well as his left hand. Alice is as silent as he had been: she holds his hand aloft, positions the pin, meets his gaze, and pushes it home.

Home.

Aye, he and Alice have that now. Together.

He feels slightly dizzy – giddy! – watching her eyelashes flutter closed, her mouth open and his fingertip disappear within it. The touch of her tongue makes his entire being twitch and the gentle suction she applies makes him tear at the quilt with his free hand.

“Alice...”

With aching slowness, she withdraws his heart-line finger, opens her eyes and says, “Yes.”

That’s all he needs to hear.

The passionate kiss and the desperate embrace that follow are tender in their purity, their honesty.  Tarrant holds nothing back from her and is rewarded by the sound of his name, gasped so breathlessly, in Alice's voice.  For this voice, this woman, Tarrant will do anything.  Be anyone.  Tonight, he is her lover. 

These moments belong to them completely for Time is left outside the door of the room.  There is only now and please and give-take-MINE-YOURS-US-ONE!

Alice is HIS now!

Every thought reduces to that one truth.

He concedes to her and she reaches for her own victory. Reaches for it, discovers it, and reveals the way to Tarrant.  In the end, he realizes, in this bed together, pleasure and victory are indistinguishable from each other.

And there is no room for the madness he so fears here!

Shaking and spent, Tarrant studies her closed eyes, the burgeoning smile on her lips – like no other smile he’s ever seen in her features. Her hands drop away from him as every muscle in her body relaxes. Tarrant regards his Alice with reverence. He reaches out and smoothes a few wayward strands of hair – she’ll need a haircut again before the next duel, whenever it comes! – away from her eyes, which she opens slowly.

“Mmmm,” she says, and re-wraps her arms around his neck. “Are you all right?”

Is he all –?!

Tarrant leans down and kisses her soundly. “Aye. You? Did I hurt you?”

Beneath him, she stretches luxuriously. “It was lovely...”

He notices that she hadn’t answered his question but, nevertheless, she appears to be quite... satisfied. Gently, and a bit shakily, he sinks down onto the bed beside her, gathers her into his arms and presses his nose into her hair. On his chest, her fingers trace patterns over his heart.

“It’s revealing,” she whispers and Tarrant looks down to see the emergence of rosy lines, curling and twining in a four-pointed, unending knot.

“We’re bound, now. In heart, by blood.” His fingers trail over her shoulder and down her arm.

She sighs. “So it’s finished, then?”

Tarrant smiles gently. His Champion, always concerned with her duties. “Nae,” he whispers, taking her hand in his and lacing their fingers together. “’Tis only jus’ beginnin’.”

 

 Epilogue

 

Chapter Eight: Poisons [Rated M]

Warning: This entry contains references to sexual situations.  [NON-explicit]

*~*~*~*

Mirana believes in being prepared for any potential eventuality. After her horrible mistake just two months ago, when she’d sent her Champion off to defeat the Jabberwocky in utterly preventable ignorance, she had taken to consulting the Oraculum religiously.

Which is why the entire episode – the abduction, the training, the duel – is so utterly baffling. Before their departure, Mirana had indeed gazed upon the Oraculum. She had very nearly taken it with them, but had left it behind in Absolem’s care again instead.

With half of her laboratory now in Alice and Tarrant’s apartment, awaiting the return of her Champion and her Hatter – fearing one or both of them might be seriously injured – Mirana has nothing left to do except... wait. And think about the Oraculum.

She wanders out onto the balcony overlooking the castle gates and peers through the spyglass but nothing moves on the darkening horizon.

A blue butterfly flutters next to her, landing on her shoulder. She very nearly brushes him off in irritation.

“You were supposed to warn us,” she scolds him.

His antennae uncurl, become rigid with irritation.

Mirana arcs her brows in disbelief. “Are you telling me you didn’t notice that the events foretold had changed?”

His wings beat once, furiously. She can only imagine what he would have said were he still capable of speech. He leaves her shoulder, lands on the balcony railing and begins pacing in agitated steps, his wings held rigidly upright.

Mirana sighs and forces herself to let go of her anger, for it will accomplish nothing. “I’m sorry, Absolem. I know how devoted you are to your position as Steward of the Oraculum.”

He stops pacing, turns to face her and his antennae jab in her direction.

“All right,” she says, meeting his challenge. “How many days ago did you realize Alice and I would be taken?”

Absolem flaps his wings very deliberately once, twice...

Mirana counts them, then counts the days backward. When she arrives at his answer, her eyes widen in disbelief. “Oh! On the fifteenth day of the trip! The day we departed Shuchland...” She frowns, considering the situation. Clearly, the partnership between the three men and the enlistment of the mercenaries had happened at a much earlier time. But why hadn’t the Oraculum foretold their planned attack?

And then Mirana understands: the Oraculum had not foretold it because the day on which it would occur had not been decided yet. And, in fact, the timing of it must not have depended too greatly on the days and events leading up to their departure for Shuchland. So, something must have happened in Shuchland to force their hand.

Something, like... maybe...

She thinks of Dale’s First Claw and, unthinkingly reaches for her neck, but she knows it’s not there. It had been left behind at the inn in the confusion of the impending attack. Sadness and regret steal her breath. She hopes someone has found it, will return it to her...

She sighs and turns her mind back to the mystery of the Oraculum and wonders if the attack had come because Jaspien had heard of her betrothal and had feared Mirana and her realm had been slipping further and further away from him.

Still, she had made no secret of the trip at all before departing. Rumors had been flying across the countryside for weeks beforehand. Many had expected her to leave that land after promising her hand in marriage to the youngest Aven. And yet the Oraculum had not revealed a warning.

“Something must have happened while we were in Shuchland to set all of this in motion,” she finally decides. On the railing, Absolem’s antennae relax into a gentle curl once more. “Although I’m afraid I have no idea what that might be. I shall have to consult with Alice. Perhaps she will have a suggestion...”

Distractedly, Mirana peers once more through the spyglass. Just as she is about to sigh and turn away (again!) a motion catches her attention. She steadies the apparatus with her other hand and gasps as a large, bounding white blur crests over the rise and grows larger and larger in its approach to the castle.

“They’ve returned!” Mirana explains and drifts as quickly as she can down to the main entrance. The Bandersnatch wobbles up the grand, sweeping steps just as the queen swings open the doors. “You’re injured!” Mirana gasps, noting the pink handkerchief stretched taut around Tarrant’s right hand. “And Alice! Alice?!” Mirana reaches forward to help brace Alice against the panting sides of the Bandersnatch when Tarrant lowers her then follows her down in the next instant. All it takes is one whiff of her Champion’s matted hair, one glimpse of the utter pallor of her face, and one touch to her cold, clammy cheeks for Mirana to arrive at a diagnosis.

“Hafflaffen,” she spits out in disgust. “That rotten collection of slime from a listless snail!”

“Your Majesty?” Tarrant asks in a strained tone.

“Later, Tarrant. If you can’t help me get her up to your apartment, then at least help me get her into the kitchen.” She runs her fingers over Alice’s glistening forehead the lifts them to her mouth for a taste. Spitting to clean her mouth, she mutters, “No, not the usual remedy for this... Why must Uplanders be so contrary?!”

Mirana fits herself under Alice’s left side as Tarrant pulls her right arm over his shoulders. Together, they drag Alice into the kitchen. “Pondish, the large bath tub if you please, in the kitchen. Lakerton, heat the water for a very warm bath. Algernon, you may collect my things from Mr. Hightopp and Alice’s apartment and bring them back down here.”

Each creature rushes off to do her bidding. Mirana determinedly puts one foot in front of the other, wishing she had scheduled a bit more exercise into her routine.

“Your Majesty?” Tarrant asks again, his demand to understand slowly eclipsing his exhaustion. At least, that’s what it sounds like. Mirana is glad of it. She’ll need his help.

“Are you otherwise injured, Tarrant? Or is it just your right hand, which, from the swelling, I’d have to say is broken.”

“Aye, ‘tis. And it’s the only thing wrong wi’me.”

“Then I’m afraid it will have to wait until we’ve dealt with Alice.”

“I wouldnae have it any other way.” They take two more steps before Tarrant demands, “Who poisoned her?”

“Are you sure you want to know now?” she asks. “I need you to focus or Alice’s health will be in serious jeopardy.”

He nods once. Mirana notices his jaw is set. “Ye can tell me. I’ll only wonder if ye don’t.”

“Oshtyer,” she informs him, reaching out and pushing open the kitchen door. Pondish had worked fast and Mirana is relieved to see the old, battered bath tub set up beside the stove where several buckets of water are already heating.

“Arms out, straight in front of you, Tarrant,” the queen orders and leans Alice back against his chest with her arms draped over his. Mirana hurriedly works on the buckles of Alice’s leather armor. The bits that resist too much are sawed through with a root knife. Mirana doubts Alice will want to keep the memories that come with the attire anyway. The queen removes every stitch of clothing from Alice before directing Pondish and Lakerton to fill the bath. She checks the water temperature, adds a bit of cool water, mixes it, then reaches for Alice’s knees. Tarrant gently lowers his wife into the bath.

“Up to her neck,” the queen directs, then hands him a cloth.

It’s only when she turns back around with her own cloth in hand that she realizes why he hasn’t spoken for the last ten minutes. Tarrant Hightopp stares at his wife’s nude body, his eyes a burning acidic orange as he catalogues each and every bruise, both fresh and nearly a week old.

“Tha’bloody cat tol’me they werenae hurtin’er...” he growls.

“I don’t think they did,” Mirana assures him, dipping her cloth in a basin of hot water and wiping at Alice’s face then rinsing it out again.

Tarrant gapes at her for a moment before soaking his own cloth in a bucket near his knee and wringing it out over Alice’s hair. He then wipes the rivulets from her slack face. “But look at her!” he whispers fiercely.

“Tarrant, each and every one of these bruises is a mark of victory. Each bruise she received marks each assault she won. Be thankful Oshtyer was not permitted to have his way or I would be truly fearful to find out how much of our Alice might have survived that place.”

“Tha’bastard will pay...” Tarrant promises silently.

Mirana doesn’t doubt it. “More hot water, please, Pondish. Ah, Algernon, the bottle of citrus extract.”

She pours six drops onto the surface of the water and watches as the faint, lavender-blue oil slick that had begun to shimmer on the surface of the water dissolves.

“What is that?” Tarrant asks as he accepts another steaming bucket of water and continues wiping Alice’s face after rinsing her hair.

“A very good guess,” Mirana admits. “Alice’s biology is different from ours. Had she been born in Underland, I’d merely need to dust her skin with Hafflaffen powder to draw out the poison. Unfortunately, it appears as if her body reabsorbs it too easily once it’s perspired. When she cools, she merely takes in the poison again through her skin, doubling her symptoms. I can only guess how long she’s been exposed, but every cycle of her body trying to expel it and the Hafflaffen re-entering it is like receiving dose after dose after dose.”

Mirana looks up at Tarrant. His face is perfectly white, his mercury stains look like streaks left by bloody tears, and his eyes are pale with fear. She can barely see the dark line of his lips where his mouth has compressed tightly.

“Did everything go as plan? Did she fight?” Mirana asks because she cannot believe Alice would have had the strength to manage that portion of the plan.

“No and yes,” her Hatter answers. “She fought... she fought like th’world was ending.” He swishes the cloth in his own bucket of citrus-treated water before collecting more hot water with it and treating Alice’s face again. “My fault,” he whispers. “Chessur did his part. Thackery’n’Mally did theirs... But she di’nae stop fighting... Nearly killed Aven’s Champion.” Tarrant’s eyes flash, but he doesn’t become distracted. “’Twas th’promise she made me that nearly killed her.”

Mirana doesn’t say anything to prompt a full confession. He delivers it nonetheless.

“Alice promised to fight as hard as she must to win. Promised me that on th’second day of her training. And I kept sending her heart line messages to fight an’ to win all through th’battle an’...” Mirana glances away as Tarrant’s face twists into the most horridly miserable grimace she’s ever seen on him. “’Twas I who almost killed her. Alice...”

“Tarrant, you could not have known how that promise would react with Hafflaffen in Alice’s system. No, listen to me!” When Tarrant lifts pale orange eyes of self-loathing to her gaze, Mirana informs him quite firmly, “There was no way to know. None at all. Now, does this water feel cool to you?”

He tests it and nods.

“Lakerton, the other tub, if you could? Pondish? Yes, more water on the stove. Thank you.”

And so the night continues. Mirana and Tarrant haul an unconscious Alice from her current, cooling bath and into another hot one, over and over and over again. Despite Alice’s wrinkling, pink skin, the surface of the water continues to shimmer with the pearlescent gleam of the poison still escaping from her body. Hours later, when Tarrant truly looks as if he’s going to collapse at any moment, Mirana hands her cloth over to a severely uncomfortable Algernon and instructs him to keep rinsing Alice’s hair and face.

“Come here, Tarrant. We must deal with your hand.”

“But, Alice...”

“Is breathing easier and, last I checked, her pupils weren’t so dilated. We have time. Sit.”

He does.

Mirana cuts off the thoroughly soaked handkerchief and regards his swollen hand. “Definitely broken. How did this happen?”

“Oh, um, well...”

“Did Alice do this to you?” Mirana asks suddenly, horrified at the possibility.

Tarrant clears his throat and looks away. “No, I... no.”

“Fine,” the queen huffs. “Don’t tell me. We’ll just never mind the cure and leave it like this.”

Tarrant winces. “I struck Avenleif. In the face.”

“Which part?” Mirana asks with clinical detachment.

“His great, furry nose,” he growls.

“With your fist?”

“Aye.”

“All right. Wait here a moment.” Mirana gets up and considers her stock of remedies then selects one bottle, a jar of powder, and a medicinal compress. Resuming her seat, she takes Tarrant hand in hers and narrates: “One drop of Green Envy for each knuckle, a sprinkling of Vengeance, and a bandage soaked in Rational Thought.” She glances up as she presses the compress to the back of his pale hand. “I’m assuming you found out about Avenleif’s... feelings for Alice and that’s what brought on the sudden urge to break your hand against his nose?”

Tarrant bows his head. “Aye...”

Mirana gently lays his injured hand down on the table and pats his other. “Don’t blame Alice, Tarrant.”

His head snaps up. “What? Why would I? I don’t...”

“Just so,” Mirana replies, seeing the truth in his eyes. “Alice kept her heart line a secret because the dear was driven to distraction wondering if someone might try to harm you while she was away.” Mirana sighs. “I almost wish Stayne could be killed all over again for making her fear for you so much.”

“Ye’re not th’only one who’d like to see him dead all o’er again,” Tarrant agrees.

Mirana continues, “On the last day of our stay, I persuaded Alice to wear... oh, uhm, well, to reveal her heart line as we were among friends. Until then, until Avenleif saw it, Alice had no idea of his intentions. Truthfully, neither had I, but I was... distracted...”

“It’s all right,” Tarrant tells her, surprisingly maintaining his grasp on calm rationality despite his obvious exhaustion. “He knows Alice is mine now.”

Mirana nods and drifts back over to her supply chest. “We’ll have to splint that hand,” she warns him. “I know you won’t like it, but Green Envy is notoriously unreliable when combined with Rational Thought.” Tarrant manfully endures the wrapping of his right hand then helps the queen move Alice again into another tub of steaming water.

When dawn finally peeps in through the Witzend-facing windows, Alice groans a bit in protest when they switch her baths again and the cool air touches her skin. When they settle her into the next tub, she manages to open her eyes for the briefest moment. “Buttered fingers,” she murmurs before falling asleep. Finally.

Mirana sighs with satisfaction. “This might be the last bath,” she dares to tell her Hatter.

“And she’ll wake up cured?”

“Let’s hope so. I’d still recommend a hot bath every other hour whenever she can manage it. We don’t want a relapse occurring.”

He nods. Mirana notices how utterly exhausted he looks – his face is too pale and his hands shake with a fine tremor and his shoulders slouch – but she can’t help but be cheered by the spark of hope in his once-again green eyes.

“I’ll have Algernon make up one of the guestrooms on the ground floor. It’ll be easier to manage the baths she’ll need.”

He merely nods again and, slumping down to the floor, curls his arm right arm across the back of the tub and gently cradles her flushed face in his left. Brushing his thumb over a the nearly-healed bruise that had been the first of many Alice had had to endure, he rasps, “Could we apply a bit of lotion to these bruises?”

“Not for a few days,” Mirana replies regretfully. “It may interfere with her body’s efforts to push out the poison.”

“I don’t want her to see these. Be reminded,” he explains.

Mirana considers that. “I think she’ll want them. She’ll want to watch her body defeat those memories. After all, we did have the hardest time convincing Alice Underland and all of us were, in fact, real.” Mirana considers her Champion and the man utterly devoted to her and her happiness. “It’d be cruel of us to take that hard-won reality away from her and replace it with shadowy nightmares that she cannot fight.”

Tarrant lowers his forehead until it rests against the side of the tub and sighs.

“Your room will be ready soon,” she promises.

Within the hour, Mirana helps Tarrant tuck Alice into bed before ordering him to lie down with her. As he sits on the edge of the bed and begins removing his shoes, the queen moves to the door, closing it only when she hears both boots hit the floor and the soft sigh of the mattress as he lies down on it.

“No one is to disturb them, Propinton,” she instructs the lock.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

With a satisfied nod, Mirana heads for the stairs and her own room and a bit of rest before lunch... however, the clamor and clanking of dozens upon dozens of footsteps draws her back to the main entrance.

Seeing her, the Bandersnatch rouses and she pats him. “Alice will be fine; you did well getting her back home so quickly.”

The beast sighs and closes his eyes, immediately falling into a light doze. Mirana wishes she were that lucky. But she waits on the front steps and, smiling, welcomes her army home and announces their success. The celebration will have to wait for another day, but that’s no reason to withhold a well-deserved congratulations for a job well done.

 

*~*~*~*

 

Alice dreams of floating adrift in a hot sea, of the spray of an ocean that smells like Orashes against her face. She dreams of an armchair that wraps itself around her back and shoulders and a glass of warm soup that tilts against her lips. She dreams of a whispering wind that somehow knows her name and combs her hair. She dreams of the gentle, tickling brush of cherry blossoms against her face.

Tarrant...

Yes, she’d left him under the boughs of one of the cheery trees lining the white stone drive leading to the castle, to Mamoreal, to home...

Just a little further...

She pushes against the Bandersnatch – not now, Bandy! – and throws herself through the so, so soft drooping branches of the trees. The wind sighs to her against her ear. She’ll have to ask Mirana to teach her the tree language they speak; it sounds so heavenly, so familiar... Like the pale line of a man’s jaw, like the dark gap between his two front teeth, like the half-lidded gaze of radiant green she knows to expect just as he wakes from a sound sleep...

Tarrant?

Where is he? Why does he insist on waiting for her under that tree? The tree she’d left him beneath? Why can’t she remember which one it is?

Oh, botheration. This could take days!

She strains but the warm presence of the Bandersnatch holds her back, slows her down.

“Let go!” she demands. Tarrant?

And just like that, she’s free. Alice experiences an instant of relief, of freedom, before the avenue lined with cherry trees fades before her eyes...

“No!”

... and a rough hand gently smoothes her hair away from her face.

“Alice? Have you decided to wake up now?”

Her lashes flutter but don’t open. Too heavy. “No,” she groans. “Looking for... Let me look...”

“You’ll have to open your eyes for that, my Alice,” the man’s voice whispers.

She frowns. He sounds concerned and hopeful and does she hear a slight lisp...?

No, she decides. There is no lisp waiting for her there. After all, she has yet to find Tarrant, and he’s waiting for her somewhere – here! – among the cherry trees.

“Can’t... late...” she murmurs, desperately trying to call back the pearly avenue. “Promised...”

“Hush,” the voice bids her. “You’re fine. Everything’s fine. Open your eyes, now. Come home to me, Alice...”

Home! Tarrant!

She moans and pushes through the darkness. She expects to encounter the hard, linen-like texture of the tree bark, but finds actual linen beneath her hands. Linen and something firm but not so very unyielding as a tree. Something much warmer and alive than even the warmest of sun-kissed patches of bark.

Is this...? Am I...?

She can barely form the thoughts, so afraid of being broken – shattered, destroyed – over them when they turn out to be false, a dream, a delusion...

“Alice...?”

The voice sounds concerned now, dejected, lost. She doesn’t like that sound so much. It calls to her, makes her ache. She turns toward it, inhales, and promptly sobs.

Tarrant!

The scent of him surrounds her and she burrows into it, seeking him, for surely he must be nearby!

Her arm winds around a man’s waist. Her face brushes then presses against the fabric of his shirt. Oh, if this is only a dream it will kill her to wake up!

But it must be, for Alice can remember only the darkness and horror and fear and what-have-I-become?! of Causwick Castle. She recalls a vague sense of traveling, of the wind on her face, and the impression of square stones on her memory, but it’s so dim, so fleeting...

This can’t be real...

“It is. I am. You are. Alice...”

The same rough hand gently brushes against her cheek. The second sob that escapes her is muffled against his chest.

The voice deepens, softens, rumbles, “Open yer eyes an’see what ye smell, lass...”

Alice freezes.

Lass.

Suddenly, she knows she is not dreaming. She is...

Lass!

... inside the cruelest of nightmares...

Lassling!

... and she...

... she...

“Don’t touch me you filthy OUTLANDER!” She shoves him away with all her strength, propelling herself backward, tumbling over the edge of something. She strikes the floor and, heart racing, panic cresting like an ocean wave over a tiny vessel, Alice rolls to her feet and grabs the first thing she can find – a water pitcher, which she smashes against the table. It shatters and splashes water over her legs and feet but the handle she still holds is now connected to a large, jagged piece. She turns toward her assailant – how many times has she told them she’s NOT A PLAYTHING?! – and evaluates his weaknesses.

His neck, his belly, his...

Something about the man makes her pause. He’s still lying on the bed (What was I doing in his BED?!) vulnerable, open... Too vulnerable, too open.

Alice is confused. Where is the laughter? The grating cackle of degrading humor? Where are the patently false reassurances?

“Aw, we werenae goin’teh ‘urt ye, Lassling. ‘Twas jus’a’bit o’fun...”

“I’ll show you something I think is fun...” she hisses through her teeth.

“You sure there be a woman under that snarl?”

Alice growls, “If you’re keen to check and you don’t mind a bit of pain, be my guest!”

But no braying laughter echoes in the room. No sudden movements. Alice listens to her own breathing, hating the harsh pants. And her heart... it feels as if the force of its beating ought to shake her apart, knock her off of her feet. She grips the shard of china in her hand and wills herself to focus!

This is not the time for WEAKNESS!

Bit by bit, Alice feels her breaths quiet, her heartbeat calm. Unfortunately, she also begins to feel unbelievably, incredibly weak.

NO! Stay standing, you twit!

“Alice...?”

She shivers, shakes her head, blinks at the broken pitcher in her grasp, the sharp, white fragments scattered on the wet floor.

“Alice...?” Again, that hesitant voice – that torturous lisp – comes again!

“What?” she demands, desperately trying to stay strong, in control! She will not succumb to their trap!

There’s a moment of hesitation and it’s that beat of uncertain silence that rocks her to the core, upsetting her fragile balance. For they have never hesitated. They do not know how to hesitate. It’s not in their nature...

“Why is a raven like a writing desk?”

The shard shakes in her hand but she can’t still it. Her whole being feels like it’s about to crash apart in jagged, razor-sharp pieces.

“... no...” she moans. How had they discovered this? How had they learned of it? And why do they use it against her now? She is one of them! She is strong! SHE HAS BEEN SUCCESSFUL IN DECIEVING THEM!

“No, no, no... Stop. Just... just...”

There’s a clatter and the feeling of falling. She thinks she hears a sharp oath and the rustle of cloth and then the floor – wet and jagged in odd places – crashes into her. Her eyes close and she welcomes the darkness before the pain manages to catch up to her.

 

*~*~*~*

 

He expects death, for that is the manner in which his crimes must be atoned in Shuchland and King Aven has never been one to show mercy. Not for treason. Not for betrayal. Not for an Aven who has turned away from the royal family.

Leif closes his eyes.

The king’s anger permeates the nearly empty hall. Only the Aven family’s unfailing pride prevents this trial from being made public. No Aven is ever subjected to public humiliation and ridicule. Leif can’t help but feel relieved at this. Perhaps Alice will never hear of his death, will never know what he’d done, will never guess the reason behind it...

Alice. He wishes he could have seen her one more time. He wishes she could have seen him one last time so that she might see all that he feels for her, all that had been concealed beneath his shock and disappointment and loss when he’d watched her walk away from him, from Avenfaire, from Shuchland.

If he had known it would end like this, he would have gone after her. He would have confessed his feelings and damned the consequences.

Now... now he will never know if his love might have been enough to bring her to him.

Leif keeps his gaze lowered. He knows he ought to look up and daringly meet the king’s eyes. Death would be instantaneous for that insult. But he allows them to expound on his faults, on his transgressions, on the methods of punishment he has earned. It’s a small comfort that the duel had been a draw, that the rule of Shuchland remains within the capable paws of King Avenglen. There is only one comfort Leif can take from all of this: Alice is free of Jaspien.

But is she alive? Or had the Hafflaffen killed her before she could be cured?

But is she safe? Or is that madman even now loosing his temper upon her?

Leif knows he will die with these questions unanswered.

You did this to yourself.

Yes. Yes, he had.

And now you’ll pay for it.

Yes. He undoubtedly will.

He tries not to listen too closely as Champion Avenresh – Leif’s own uncle – insists on being given the privilege of hacking off his nephew’s mane, carving out his tongue, taking off his hands and feet... All that before allowing Leif to die a coward’s death – a slit throat...

The very idea... Leif grits his teeth to control the convulsion of disgust and horror. But he had known the consequences of his choice... and he’d made it anyway. Not for the first, second, or even hundredth time, he wishes he could be disgusted at himself. Swayed by a woman. A blood-bonded woman, no less!

He tries to shame himself with his actions, but how can he feel shame when he thinks of her? How can he feel shame when there might exist the smallest chance that she still lives? That she will be strong enough to leave that mad bastard and find happiness?

Two fortnights ago, Leif would have spat in the face of any fortune teller who may have predicted the situation he now finds himself in.

It’s just as well I make it a habit to stay clear of those useless mystics.

But still, knowing the future would not have prevented this. He might have insisted on accompanying Alice back to Mamoreal. And if he had, he would have fought to the death to keep her from being taken. Or, he might have locked her away in the castle to keep her away from that hatter. If he had... well, all the roads Leif considers still lead him here, to this moment, to the forfeiture of his life.

Avenresh steps down, having aired his grievance and expounded on the offender’s earned punishments. Leif knows what comes next. The crimes have been counted. The injured party has spoken out. Now, the king will announce the verdict.

Leif grits his teeth and forces himself not to tense up, not to resist.

You’ve earned this. You’ve shamed them. Shamed yourself.

Even if it doesn’t feel that way, he knows it must be true.

As the king moves to stand, there’s a sudden movement. Out of the corner of his eye, Leif thinks he sees his liege stand and take the floor. A blaze of panic bursts from his heart.

No, no, you idiot! Sit back down!

“My King, I request permission to speak before sentencing,” Prince Avendale says in a clear, sure voice.

Leif holds his breath. Shut up, Dale. Don’t you dare...!

The king nods and relaxes back onto his throne.

“I petition that the crimes filled against Leif –”

On his knees on the cold, sandstone floor, Leif flinches. No longer is he a Champion. No longer is he an Aven. He is not even an Oben once more. He is nameless, without a family, lacking even a homeland.

You knew this would happen when they caught you!

Yes, he had. But he couldn’t have run away after that duel. Not with those mercenaries getting to their feet and looking hungrily across the battlefield at Leif’s people. He’d almost hoped for their charge. He’d almost hoped to kill a dozen of them before being cut down himself. But no, it hadn’t happened that way.

You don’t deserve such an honorable death.

He knows.

“ – the crimes Leif has been charged with must be reconsidered,” Avendale continues, “as he was acting in accordance with the wishes of his liege.”

Leif cannot stop his paws from curling into fists on his thighs.

You stupid cub! Say no more! Lie no more for me!

The silence is so heavy with accusation and shock and disappointment, Leif wonders if he might be crushed beneath it before Resh can indulge in his chosen method of torture and execution.

“Prince Avendale,” the king finally rumbles in a dangerous tenor, “are you telling this court that you ordered your Champion to interfere with a Champions’ Duel? Are you telling this court that you engineered this betrayal that may have cost your people their sovereign power?”

DENY IT, DALE!

“Yes, I am.”

Leif bites back his roar of frustration and guilt and pain and despair. He knows if he makes a single noise he’ll be put to immediate death and now this stupid, headstrong boy-lion who has yet to grow in a full mane will need him alive for as long as possible, for if there is even the slightest chance of escape, Leif must ensure it for his liege. His vows will not permit him to acquiesce to death for as long as the prince needs him.

Dale, you selfish, idiotic...! Words fail him.

“It displeases me greatly to hear this,” the king replies.

“I could not allow the Champion of my betrothed to be killed by my family,” he says. That and no more in his own defense.

Leif nearly roars at him: Now I will die defending you from your family and you will earn my punishment!

It’s too horrific to contemplate. The waste of life, of happiness, of a future, makes him feel physically ill.

“I will acquiesce to any and all punishments this court deems acceptable,” the prince says in a soft but firm tone.

For a moment, no one says anything at all. And then the queen speaks:

“You do not regret your actions in the slightest?”

From the resonance of her voice, Leif knows she’s struggling with tears, for she knows as well as Leif what fate will befall her youngest son now, what fate must befall him.

The prince replies, “I regret that I did not accompany the White Queen and her guard to Mamoreal. If I, my Champion, and my guard had done so, this tragedy may have been prevented – the White Queen may not have been captured and her Champion may not have been forced to serve their captors. But there is nothing I can do to make that right. That it happened, however, is my responsibility. I was remiss, overly confident, and thoughtless in my duties toward my betrothed. Perhaps my actions – the return of her Champion – have given some comfort to her despite the fact that she will never be fully compensated for her suffering.” The prince takes a deep breath. “I offer myself to the court and await your verdict.”

And when it comes long moments later, it is not the verdict Leif had expected.

In many ways, it is worse.

 

*~*~*~*

 

The next time Alice’s eyelashes flutter, Tarrant is very deliberately sitting in the armchair beside the bed. He resists the urge to lean closer to her, to touch her, to speak to her. The queen had given him very clear instructions regarding this after she’d come to check on Alice and had found Tarrant in the midst of cleaning up the shattered crockery on the wet floor.

He’d considered lying, rhyming – “Och, ‘twas me. Clumsy...” – but the queen had seen the falsehood forming in his eyes.

“The truth, Hatter,” she’d demanded.

He sighs at the memory. It’s impossible to defy a royal decree from one’s own sovereign. Unfortunately.

“Do not let her wake up next to you,” the queen had declared, her eyes swimming with sudden tears. “Alice has been doing her best to protect herself from men and beasts every minute of the day for nearly a week. Many of whom were Outlanders and spoke as such. Watch your voice with her, Tarrant. If you don’t think you can do that...”

“No, no, I will.”

Resisting the urge to lean forward in the armchair to greet his Alice when she opens her eyes, Tarrant’s mouth tightens, his eyes narrow, he nods once.

I will!

He only hopes this will work. He only hopes she will see him this time, understand where she is. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if he has to watch that frighteningly desperate, chilling madness take her again...

Tarrant fists his left hand and curses his utterly slurvish weakness, the weakness that had lead him to initiate the Thrice a-Vow with Alice.

My Alice, I never wanted you to know madness...

But she has known it. Her panic and aggression upon wakening, her complete inability to absorb reality, the flickering of amber-colored rage in her ought-to-be-brown eyes is all a testament to what Tarrant has done to her.

Unforgivable mistakes:

The heart line that has opened her mind to sharing his predisposition to madness...

The promise that had nearly driven her to fight until she died of exhaustion...

Tarrant briefly closes his eyes at the thought of that vow. In the dim hours surrounding dawn, he’d carefully considered the implications of that promise. After Alice had made it, she’d become the Queen’s Champion, had killed Ilosovich Stayne, had been forced to twist and mutilate herself into the sort of creature who could survive amongst a band of hardened, blood-thirsty mercenaries.

If this is what comes from a single, kept promise, Tarrant vows to never let her make another to him!

A small gasp startles him and he sits upright, his eyes opening, hope blossoming within him.

“Alice?” he whispers, dreading the reappearance of the madness, frightened for her.

She stares at him, disbelieving. “Am I... Are you real?”

Grinning, he reaches out to her and offers his hand. With the briefest hesitation, she takes it. He swallows thickly at her touch and forces his native Outlandish accent away. It pains him that Alice is in no condition to hear it now. It pains him to know that something that had given her such pleasure before now causes her unbearable pain.

“Feel that?” he asks.

“No bandages,” she notes. “Or thimbles. Strange...”

“Well, I couldn’t very well take them with me on a rescue mission or there’s no telling what sorts of hats they might have gotten up to.”

She chuckles in that soft, breathless way of hers. Tarrant studies her brown eyes, relieved that she’s really here with him. Present and accounted for.

She remembers me this time!

He watches as she shifts a bit uncomfortably and gives him an apologetic smile. “I’d very much like to hear about that rescue mission... just as soon as I use the lavatory.”

“Of course,” he replies and moves to help her up. “Slowly now. You’ve been very busy expelling Hafflaffen.”

“Is that why I feel as if a herd of gryphons have danced the Futterwhacken on me?”

Tarrant cackles despite himself. “Silly, Alice. Everyone knows gryphons Futterwhacken in flocks.”

Alice snorts and swings her legs over the side of the bed. Gently, Tarrant pulls her to her feet. She sways for a moment, then finds her balance and looks up at him.

“Are you sure I’m not dreaming?” she wonders aloud.

“I’m sure,” he replies, resisting the urge to fold her into his embrace and keep her safe in his arms for all the days remaining within the Oraculum’s roll of parchment. “And before you ask, I’m fairly certain I’m not dreaming us, either.”

“But how do you know?” she wonders curiously.

“You could pinch me,” he suggests.

“No, I couldn’t.” And then she leans forward and presses her lips to his.

The groan nearly makes its way up his throat and past his vocal chords, but he strangles it in his chest.

Control, lad. Control!

Warily, he lifts his hands from her upper arms and wraps his right arm around her waist. His left hand delves deeply into her hair.

Stay with me, Alice. Don’t let me hurt you, remind you again...

Her arms wind around his shoulders and her hands bury themselves in his hair. Tarrant’s blood heats as she presses closer to him, her breasts so soft against his chest and her hips arching toward him so invitingly. His right hand, due to that damned annoying brace, cannot clench in her nightshirt, so he moves his left hand from where it cradles the back of her head. It trails down from her temple, along her cheek, and then his fingertips feather against her jaw. Tilting her head just a bit, he breathes against her neck, nibbles the underside of her chin, presses daring, biting kisses at the juncture where her pale neck becomes an equally invitingly pale shoulder.

“Tarrant...” she murmurs, moving against him. Her hands fist, one in his hair – still too long, but at times like this he can’t bring himself to mind! – and the other in his shirt. “So quiet...” she muses.

He winces but she does not see it, cannot see it. “If one of us is dreaming,” he murmurs against her skin, “I’d hate to wake us up...”

She sighs in agreement. “I’m afraid we’ll have to risk it regardless. I now urgently need to visit the lavatory.”

“Of course! Forgive me!” He escorts her across the hall to the room she requires then waits until she emerges, managing to catch Algernon’s unblinking eye and whisper a request for a meal service. He then helps Alice – looking much more relaxed and refreshed – back into their borrowed room.

“Why aren’t we in our apartment?” she asks and he feels his entire being fill with warmth at the small, simple phrase: our apartment.

“And why is your hand bandaged? What rescue mission? Why don’t I remember leaving Causwick? Did you say something about Hafflaffen? And do we have any Pain Paste for all these bloody bruises?”

Giggling, Tarrant sits her down on his lap in the armchair. “Let’s see... it’s easier to arrange for frequent hot baths on the first floor; I broke it; probably due to too much Hafflaffen; yes, I did say something about that; and no, not at the moment we don’t.” He taps her nose. “I think your curiosity is starting to catch up to you!”

“It already has,” she says with a breathy laugh. “Now stop being so mysterious and tell me what happened. Everything.”

“I will, Alice, just as soon as the tea service arrives.”

Her sigh is wistful, nostalgic. “Tea...”

He grins. “Aye... um, remember you mentioning something about missing it.” Tarrant resists a wince at the small slip and prays to the Fates that Alice hadn’t noticed...

Her eyes remain warm and dark and lucid. “Tea wasn’t the only thing I missed,” she murmurs. When she leans in to kiss him again, Tarrant opens to her readily at the first brush of her tongue. He can’t help the small, breathy moan as she possesses his mouth.

“Hmm...” she murmurs, leaning back for an agonizing moment. “Better. Say that again, Hatter.”

Her teeth scrape over his lower lip, trap it in her mouth and then she sucks on it just so. Tarrant hears himself indulge her request with helpless abandon. She moves in his lap, rubbing against him. He has to clear his throat to keep the Outlandish from pouring out: “Alice? What can I give you? Tea? An epic account of your rescue? Or...” Dare he hope for... “Myself?”

“All aforementioned necessities,” she breathes, lowering her mouth to his neck and nuzzling just beneath his ear.

“And...” He gulps. Control! “What would be your order of preference?”

“You. Tea. Epic-ness.”

He groans again. “Yes...”

And some time later - some blissfully, breathtakingly, pulse-racingly passionate time later! - when Tarrant manages to tumble back into his own topsy-turvy mind, he notices Alice’s hands brushing out his eyebrows, trailing down the length of his nose, rubbing against his lips, lingering under his jaw...

He opens his eyes. “Are you...?”

“Fine,” she tells him, smiling that smile. The one that’s for her lover only. The very best reward he could ever receive for pleasing her yet again. “Ravens,” she whispers.

Tarrant sighs as the last of his reservations evaporate: Alice is truly going to be all right! They are going to be all right! “And writing desks, my Alice.” He rubs his lips against hers in a prelude to a kiss.

“No one has the slightest idea why we say that, you know,” she mutters, closing her eyes and mimicking his not-quite-a-kiss ministrations.

“Not true,” he argues. “We do.” He pauses and says against her willing mouth, “A fact that pleases me greatly.”

She moans her agreement as his tongue gently enters her mouth and savors her.

It’s a while before Algernon is finally permitted to enter the guestroom with the tray he’d prepared, much to the fish butler’s obvious irritation. Tarrant is surprised the creature doesn’t voice his complaint, though, when the Hatter finally opens the door and accepts the covered dishes and tea tray. But, perhaps, it has something to do with the way Alice is lounging across the rumpled bed, wearing naught but Tarrant’s too-large bathrobe and a very satisfied smile.
 

Book 2 Chapter List

Chapter Two: The Laird and Lady of Iplam [Rated M]

( You're about to view content that the journal owner has advised should be viewed with discretion. )

Chapter Eleven: Gathering Allies

 

Tarrant still has no Idea what these things called “patents” are, despite Alice’s explanation.

Alice had been frustratingly vague during the cab journey, talking in circles about these mysterious objects they seek:

“Patents are a record of a person’s valuable ideas,” she’d said, matter-of-factly. “To ensure the rights of the inventor’s intellectual property are respected.”

Tarrant had focused on the first point (of many) that he’d felt required additional clarification: “What sort of record?”

“A written one.”

“An Idea on paper?”

“Yes.”

“Alice...”

“Yes?”

“Ideas reside in the Mind. Necessarily.”

“I know.”

“But...”

“Don’t worry about that now,” she’d gently insisted. “The real question is how to find the Right Idea.”

“I see...” But he hadn’t.

Alice had continued, “Of course, the logical course would be to go to the Metropolitan District Railway offices and simply ask if they’re aware of the idea we’re looking for.”

“And... they would tell us?” he’d wondered aloud, trying to follow his wife’s Logic.

Alice had smirked. “No. I don’t think they would.”

Tarrant had frowned in confusion which Alice had interrupted with a pat on his arm.

“It’s my turn to be brilliant. Have a little faith, Hatter.”

“I have considerably more than a little!” He’d actually been a bit miffed at the implication that his devotion is somehow not absolute.

“I misspoke,” she’d quickly admitted, possibly because his sudden irritation had raced along the heart line. Yet another Emotion had Shared itself, and again without his consent! But, in his defense, it has been years and years since Tarrant has had a reason to keep his feelings to himself! He’s simply out of practice!

‘Twouldnae be b’cause ye’re terrified o’ this place wi’out yer Alice at yer side?

No, no, of course not!

So, ye’re no’tryin’ teh remind her teh keep ye in mind, on her mind, at all times?

Well... um...

Tha’s what I thought... In seven years, ye hav’nae come as far as ye thought ye had, eh, lad?

Remembering that brief, internal discussion, Tarrant sighs: he supposes not. He Depends upon Alice far, far too much sometimes. For more than just his sanity.

“What I meant to say,” Alice had thankfully continued. “Is to have a little more patience.”

“...Oh.”

Oh, indeed. And it’s patience he truly needs!

Was that...? Yes, I believe it was: iambic pentameter!

It’s a shame he can’t share it with Alice at the moment.

He glances at his wife as she shakes her head at yet another small-ish card she’s presented with. Perhaps this is the patent? But, no, it can’t be, as it’s not the One they seek... Still, it would be Helpful to know what the blasted thing is supposed to look like! Imagine an Idea on paper! He huffs.

Are patents the paper or the Idea? How can an Idea be confined to a few scraps of paper at all? And what has an inventor’s Rights anything to do with the number of thimbles under the pincushion?

Although the concept Escapes him (but, when Time allows, he’ll be sure to Capture it later!) and even seems to Escape the junior clerk who had been relegated to assisting them, Alice appears to have the situation well In Hand.

“No, no,” she insists with a thinning patience Tarrant can sense – itching! – along his arm beneath his layers and ever-present glove. (At least he’s not the only one with difficulty corralling wayward Emotions!) Her voice, however, remains pleasant enough. “I require civil engineering patents. Regarding subterranean tunnel construction.”

The clerk fumbles through the long, thin, wooden drawer containing countless small cards. “Um, here’s one for tunnel drilling,” he says uncertainly, lifting out the card for Alice to read while he holds its place open between its fellow cards with his index finger.

Tarrant bites down on a giggle: Indexing with one’s index finger! Of course!

Alice leans forward and scans the card. “No, this looks like ore extraction of some sort. I believe we must be looking in the Mining Section.”

Flustered, the young man replaces the card and fiddles with the contents of the drawer. He draws out a few more cards, seemingly at random, and then turns back to the absolutely intimidating wall of similar, small, wooden drawers and selects another.

“Are these patents?” Tarrant can’t help but whisper to Alice when their... helper’s back is turned.

“No. These are reference cards with brief descriptions of the patented ideas.”

“And are the Ideas themselves here?”

“Yes, but only expressed on paper.”

Again with that odd insistence that an Idea must somehow be connected to paper of some kind!

Tarrant sighs and watches the Concept race over and beyond the horizon of his comprehension.

It takes the excavation of five more drawers, the careful examination of a least two dozen more cards, and three more attempts by Tarrant to define exactly what the nature of these Upland Ideas is before the first tingle of satisfaction dances against his heart.

“Ah...” Alice sighs. “This looks to be the right drawer.”

The clerk looks easily twice as relieved as Alice. Tarrant wishes he could participate in the moment of enlightenment.

There’s a bit more shuffling and sifting through the cards and Tarrant idly wonders what time it is. The large office they’re in is rather rudely lacking in both windows and time pieces. Tarrant muses that perhaps he should have brought his pocket watch after all, despite it being stubbornly broken – In fact, the thing is quite possibly more stubborn than his Alice is! And that’s quite the distinguishing point! – if he’d had it in his pocket-watch pocket, it would have given Tarrant something to legitimately fiddle with every few minutes or so. That’s the least the usal-naught bit of rubbish could do, he’s sure! (Although it would probably complain at being disturbed so much. Still... he’ll be sure to keep it with at all Times from now on!)

 

“Here, these!” Alice says suddenly, holding out five cards to the clerk.

Tarrant experiences the inexplicable urge to shout “Trump!” He refrains, but – thinking of Thackery, confetti, and hairy toes – giggles. Luckily, the clerk had already vanished through a door behind the long counter.

“Entertaining yourself?” Alice murmurs with a tired smile.

Tarrant tilts his head to the side. “A bit. ‘Hare’ and there.”

“I’ll ask you to explain that little nugget of amusement later.”

“And I shall, in exchange, ask for a comprehensible description of these patents we’re seeking.”

Alice’s spine stiffens. If not for the tightening at the corners of her lips – to circumvent a smile! – he’d think she was Upset with him. “My explanation was perfectly sound. You can’t hold me accountable for the fact that your brilliantly mad genius refuses to integrate utterly mundane and tedious, short-sighted Uplander rationale.”

Tarrant grins at her. He’s still horridly confused... however, he doesn’t feel quite so Bad about it now.

The clerk returns and Alice looks over the patents. Tarrant squints at them but he can’t find anything particularly extra-ordinary about them; no, no, they appear to be quite normal sheets of paper with plan black ink. Although perhaps they’re Special because of the abundance of carefully-drawn illustrations and various dimensions provided for each aspect of the figures shown...?

Alice inspects the fourth patent more carefully than the others. Tarrant dares to lean over her shoulder a bit and glimpses a strange diagram of men digging a tunnel while standing on some sort of suspended platform within the very structure they’re excavating.

Alice reads the description of the... Idea carefully. (Hm... perhaps that’s what a patent is? But then, why would an Idea need a description on paper? Could it be because Ideas are wont to come and go as they please? Must be... Oh! That had very nearly been a case of iambic pentameter! Perhaps if I...)

“If you would be so kind as to supply me with this inventor’s information,” Alice says, interrupting Tarrant’s thoughts. “Oh, pardon me. Inventors, plural,” she amends when she flips back to the first page. “I’d greatly appreciate it.”

“My pleasure, madam.”

Tarrant doesn’t doubt it. The lad looks ready to break down in tears of exhaustion from attending to Alice’s demands. Tarrant keeps his thoughts to himself (Thoughts regarding Alice and her wonderfully Demanding tendencies!) as the clerk pens the names and addresses of the inventors credited with the patent. When finished, Alice accepts the card, thanks the lad, and doesn’t wait for him to see them out.

As they step out onto the dusty, smoggy, gritty, soot-blackened street again, Alice raises her arm to hail a passing cab.

“Alice?” Tarrant asks as he helps her into the carriage.

“Yes?”

“Did we find the patent you were looking for, then? Because, I’d just like to point out that, if you were intending to take it with us, we’ve left it behind.”

Alice smiles and reaches out a hand to him. He grasps it and climbs into the carriage after her. As the cab lurches into motion on its way to the Kingsleigh residence, Alice assures him, “We found it. And, while finding the patent was very important, what we really needed were the names and residences of the inventors.”

Tarrant considers this. “And now we’ll fight the use of dynamite?”

“Yes,” she says. And then, will a sly, sideways smile, compliments him, “I enjoyed that lovely iambic pentameter, Hatter.”

He giggles at her answering verse. “For your delight, I’d rhyme with all my might.”

“Writing desk,” she replies, beaming.

“Raven,” he agrees.  Tarrant highly doubts he’ll ever get a satisfactory explanation of what a patent is but, at the moment, he couldn't care less.

 

*~*~*~*

 

“And you feel these young men may have a viable solution?” Lord Ascot inquires shrewdly.

Despite the fact that Tarrant is sure Lord Ascot’s study has not changed since their previous visit, there is something Different about it now. He draws in a deep breath, spies the flash of Muchness in his wife’s eyes and decides the Difference he senses must be the scent of Victory. Yes, Alice appears far too confident and pleased with herself for him to assume otherwise: one way or another, Underland’s Champion is going to use this discovery against the fiends who would carelessly destroy their world. And when that threat has been countered...

They’ll return... home... to Mamoreal... together... and everything will be... perfect!

Tarrant smiles at the Thought.

Alice nods, “After speaking with the Misters Greathead and Barlow at length over dinner last night, I’m sure of it. Not only is it completely undisruptive of existing structures above the tunnel site, but – considering the frightful price of dynamite, it will be less costly as well!”

Tarrant thinks Lord Ascot might have clapped his hands in glee if the man had been capable of using them both.

Alice leans back a bit, her expression taking a turn for the hesitant. “But before I go into the details on the process, I’d like to make a suggestion, sir.”

“Yes, my dear?”

Tarrant watches as Alice gathers her thoughts and explains, “Given the considerable upheaval we might be causing to the project plans, I’m sure the project planners will require a considerable amount of... placating before they’ll agree to seriously consider implementing a new tunneling method, and one that’s been developed by a pair of young, inexperienced, assistant engineers.”

Townsend frowns. “Pardon me, Alice, but it sounds as if you have some doubt regarding the method.”

“No,” she replies with absolute conviction. “I believe this will work brilliantly, sir. However, I believe we will hear that particular objection more than once over the next few days.”

“Hm... I’m sure you’re right. So, let’s return to the topic of your suggestion. What ought to be done about the resistance we’ll no doubt encounter? You aren’t about to suggest I throw even more money at them, are you?”

Alice grins. “Only after a fashion. I think they might be sufficiently swayed to your way of thinking with a bit of flattery.”

“Such as?”

“A soiree. Commemorating the accomplishments of those involved with the underground railway.”

Lord Ascot throws back his head and laughs. “My dear, you are a wonder, aren’t you?”

“Do you think you and Lady Ascot could organize a function of that magnitude so soon? Perhaps before Saturday?”

“Alice, dear, Lady Ascot organizes the utterly civilized and bloodless coups of major London charity societies in her sleep!” The image that conjures in Tarrant’s mind is... vivid. “A soiree will be sorted out over dessert tonight!”

“However,” Townsend continues with a measuring look at both Alice and Tarrant, “you do know what would be required of the both of you should we continue with this mad plan to woo the un-woo-able city commissioners and railway administrators?”

Alice sighs. “I do. I’ll have the appropriate garments ordered right away.” She turns to Tarrant and he feels his brows draw together in concern at her remorseful expression. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to force a tailcoat on you.”

“A... what?”

“A jacket of the foulest sort,” Townsend contributes cheerfully. “As are the trappings made to be worn under it. Meant to force a man’s body into the figure and form the queen most admires. Thank the saints I’ll have the excuse of this bloody chair to explain my lack of participation in that trial!”

“And, I’m afraid...” Her gaze flickers aside to his hat which is resting on the sideboard beside hers. (No, he still hasn’t permitted any butler to relieve him of it!) She sighs with regret.

“It’s fine, Alice,” he hears himself say. “I wouldn’t want the other hats to feel out of place were mine to attend.”

Townsend laughs and Alice gives him an apologetic smile. Tarrant almost feels encouraged enough to allow one of the bland and inferior creations of the Upland haberdashers to touch his head. Almost. Perhaps he won’t wear a hat at all...

When the discussion turns toward the project plan and Greathead and Barlow’s engineering innovations, Tarrant excuses himself:

“I think I’ll step across the hall and see if I might intrude upon your mother and Lady Ascot for tea, Alice.”

Alice pats his arm. “I’m sure they’ll be able to tell you all about the typical tortures of a soiree. You’ll be sufficiently horrified by the time Townsend and I are finished here.”

Lord Ascot laughs. “How true, Alice, how true! And, Tarrant, if you would mention Alice’s suggestion – the soiree, I mean – to Lady Ascot and let her know I’ll discuss it with her later?”

Tarrant nods and – a bit reluctantly – quits the room in order to pay a visit to the ladies across the hall. He has to admit that he’s a bit nervous about this soiree event – whatever that is! – but he doubts Helen will frighten him all that much! Well, not Intentionally! She might use that threatening gleam in her blue eyes to warn him against disappointing her daughter, but he doesn’t think she’d be cruel purposefully...

“But, Helen, just look at the man!”

Only a step away from the door to the conservatory, with his arm extended toward the latch, Tarrant pulls himself up short. (Or, rather, tall. One generally grows taller when effecting a sudden stop rather than shorter!) He stops and discovers he can do little else other than listen to the sounds of teatime and obvious disgust and derision. (A very unflattering combination, he notes!)

The thin door is no barrier at all to Lady Ascot’s harsh and relentless criticism: “That horrid hat! And his hair?! What sort of society permits men to wear their hair in such a barbaric fashion while allowing young ladies to chop theirs off! Why, Alice looks as if she’s sold that beautiful hair of hers to a wig-maker for a shilling!”

“Geraldine...” Helen attempts.

“Now, I realize that you’re thrilled to have your daughter back after all this time, but honestly Helen, how can you have that man in your home? He can’t possibly be at all suitable for a woman of Alice’s bloodlines! Some standards must be observed if you hope to keep your daughters above the line!”

“Gerry, while I appreciate your... suggestions. My daughters’ standings in Society will climb or fall not because of Tarrant Hightopp but because of that blighter of Margaret’s!”

“Good gracious, Helen. Whatever is wrong with Lowell? He’s charming; he’s wealthy; he comes from a long line of highly respected—”

“One can only trade on the blessings of one’s forefathers for so long,” Helen replies wearily. “Lowell is quickly wearing through his.”

Lady Ascot sighs. “I thank the Lord every day that Townsend and I were blessed with our sensible Hamish. I do not envy you that barbarian for a son-in-law!”

“Geraldine! How many times do I have to tell you?! Tarrant is a man of unsurpassable character. He dotes on Alice, which is far more than Lowell is capable. Not all of us are concerned with wealth and titles! A man is merely a man and his title merely that, a title, and cold comfort during the hardships life is wont to throw at us! Do try to keep that distinction in mind!”

Realizing he’s not only still standing beside the closed door but also eavesdropping on a private conversation, Tarrant backs away with no thought in his head aside from avoiding the active loathing in the conservatory. He glances toward the study door and winces. If he returns now, he’ll have to explain to Alice why he hadn’t been able to join her mother and Lady Ascot for tea...

“It’s hard to believe they’re the closest of friends, isn’t it? Or, they are when they choose to be, rather.”

Tarrant turns with a start and sees none other than Hamish Ascot, attired in what must be the Upland version of active wear, standing only a few paces away. He studies Hamish’s expression – resigned, exasperated, haughty – as the man considers the closed door.

“It’s the way of well-bred women to provide an animated account of a man’s faults,” the man who had once asked Tarrant’s Alice to marry him continues. “An obligation, even.”

The man’s watery blue eyes focus on Tarrant, on his unremarkable suit and long hair. “In your case, you could only benefit from the criticism.”

Tarrant’s eyes narrow. “Maybe so,” he replies, struggling against his inclination to burr and brogue at the man. Alice had explained to him that Outlandish would not be looked upon Well at all Up Here. “It should be every man’s ultimate goal to emulate a fine gentleman such as yourself.”

Hamish blinks at that.

Tarrant is almost proud of himself for having successfully beaten down the sarcasm and snarl that had tried to claw their way out of his throat. His only thought as he’d done so had been the hopeful avoidance of causing a Scene in the home of Alice’s former employer. He might not be sure about a lot of things Up Here, but he knows how disappointed Alice would be in him were he to embarrass her here.

Still, despite the effort, he hadn’t expected the younger Ascot’s shoulders to un-tense or his expression to un-freeze. Odd.

With a look that is more considering than patronizing, Hamish muses, “Perhaps it would be my duty to assist you with that goal, then.”

Tarrant struggles with forming a refusal that is bland enough to satisfy the minimum requirements of common decency. It’s a far more difficult task than he’d thought it would be.

Hamish breaks the awkward silence. Abruptly, he says, “I’m just now heading out to the range. Would you care to join me, Hightopp?”

The invitation is a surprise and that is the only reason Tarrant doesn’t refuse it outright. And it’s a lucky thing he doesn’t, for when the shock wears off an instant later, Tarrant receives a surprising visit from Rational Thought:

Given his other available choices, Tarrant concedes that spending an hour or so in the company of Hamish Ascot might not be the worst decision he could make. “If I won’t be intruding,” he manages.

“Not at all,” the man replies in that insufferably superior air of his.

Swallowing down a sigh, Tarrant falls into step beside him.

The Range, Tarrant discovers, is a wide yard some distance from both the manor and the stables. The journey is accomplished in stiff, awkward silence. As they approach a scenic spot – a small cottage with a wide veranda and a tea table with three chairs circling it – Hamish removes the large, wooden case from beneath his arm. Tarrant watches him set the thing down on the wrought iron tea table.

“Have you any interest in hunting sports?” Hamish asks.

As the man opens the lid, Tarrant sees something that sets his heart racing. Within, somehow obscenely nestled in fine, dark green velvet, is an object which – despite the Wrongness of its shape and size – reminds him of the revolving (no, no revolver! That’s the correct name for it!) that Alice insists on carrying with her in her business satchel.

“... No,” Tarrant hears himself reply on a strangled whisper. He clears his throat. “The hunting of others is not encouraged by my queen.” Nor should it be!

Hamish lifts out the stretched-too-long revolver-like item. Perhaps it’s an older, warped cousin of the gun in Alice’s bag...

“It’s the mark of a superior mind to recognize one’s place in the world. And it’s a man’s duty to assert his will over nature,” Hamish lectures as he opens the... thing in his hands and slides a single slender, brassy object into it. “Many prefer to use pistols in games using targets, but I find the rifle a better fit.”

Tarrant watches him pat the thing wedged in the crook of his arm. “A more... noble instrument, requiring fortitude and discipline to master. Anyone can lift and shoot a pistol,” the man says with a slight sneer, “but few have the patience and temperament of mind to develop any skill with a rifle.”

With a tight nod, Hamish pivots on his heel and steps out from under the veranda. Tarrant follows him warily. They circle around to the back of the too-beautiful cottage and Tarrant finds a counter set up along the length of the structure. Hamish steps behind the long, high table and reaches up toward the cottage’s eaves. There, he grasps an old bell and rings it forcefully. Tarrant resists cringing as the racket echoes across the lawn and into the forest beyond.

Hamish must have noticed the confusion Tarrant had manfully kept from voicing because he says, “It alerts any and all in the immediate area that the shooting range is in use. It would be most irresponsible to allow an accident to occur.”

Tarrant nods.

Hamish gestures down the length of the yard then, toward the edge of the forest. “Our targets are there.” Tarrant leans over the high table and peers at three covered bales of straw. The fabric stretched over them has a smallish red spot in the center of each.

The sound of the rifle being snapped back into its long, straight shape draws Tarrant’s gaze back to Hamish. The man lifts the object to his right shoulder, aligns it with the targets beyond, peers down the length of it, cradles it in much the same way the newlywed lads had accepted the hand and arm of their new brides when they’d danced the Wedded Step...

BANG!

Tarrant jumps as the thunder clap destroys both his musings and any similarity of this ritual to the one most sacred to all Outlanders.

Hamish lowers the rifle, a satisfied smile on his face. “You see there? A good shot. Not my best, but it’s been too long since I’ve made time for a bit of practice.”

Fisting his hands to stop the unsettling shiver that trembles just beneath his skin, Tarrant glances across the field at the targets and can just barely make out a small, dark spot very near the red spot on the taut, white cloth. For a moment, he doesn’t know what that signifies...

But then...

Then...!

Tarrant looks from the rifle in Hamish’s hands to the small box of brass objects – “bullets” Alice had once called them, he remembers! – to the black spot on the target and...

It’s a Weapon, he realizes. Of course, he’d known it was dangerous! He’d known by the way Alice had treated the revolver that such things were dangerous. He’d known both this rifle and the revolver were weapons, but... but...

Ye di’nae realize it coul’kill ye dead in naught but an instant, di’ye lad?

No, no, he hadn’t.

Dear Fates, the Power of these machines! The terrible Possibility they embody...! Why, one would not even need to look one’s enemy in the eye to kill him. And so ruthlessly, callously, coldly...!

“Don’t have firearms in your country, do you?” Hamish assumes more than asks.

“No, and that’s a lucky thing,” Tarrant admits. Or, dearest Fates, what would have happened on that Frabjous Day? Would there have even been a Frabjous Day at all with a weapon like this under the command of the Bluddy Behg Hid and that monster, Stayne?

Hamish objects. “Lucky? How do you imagine that, sir? Why, without firepower, how do you defend your country? With sticks and stones?”

Hamish’s sneer pulls a snarling grimace out of the Place within him where Tarrant had locked up all those hotheaded Reactions. In the next instant, Hamish’s rifle is tumbling to the table and Tarrant has the man spun around with the knife from Mamoreal at his pale, quivering throat.

Tarrant answers. “Th’ hard way, Ascot. Th’ honorable way,” Tarrant hears himself reply in a guttural tone. “Th’ way ‘twas meant teh be b’twix twine men. S’tha’when his blood i’spilt on th’grauwnd, it satisfies yer thirst f’r vengeance...”

Tarrant closes his eyes, forces the memories of battles fought long ago back to the depths of his mind, and allows the concerned warmth he feels from Alice to calm him. In the next breath, he’s himself again; he replies to her, reassures her, and apologizes for interrupting her meeting.

He takes a step back from the still-frozen form of Hamish Ascot and tucks the knife away. Yes, he knows he ought to apologize. But for what? Hamish Ascot had tried to Impress him with that rifle. Tarrant had reciprocated in his own fashion. However, it seems they’d only succeeded in terrifying one another.

Tarrant gives the startled man a wry grin and says in a droll tone, “And that’s how we fight wars where I come from.”

“Barbaric!” Hamish declares, reaching for his familiar security crutch – that blasted rifle!

Tarrant snorts a brief giggle at the pun.

“You’re mad!” the man declares in reply to Tarrant’s inappropriate humor.

“Absolutely!” he agrees, grinning with delight.

He almost expects Hamish to threaten him with the rifle or stomp off toward the house, but he does neither. He blinks like a flunderwhapped borogove.

“Mad...” Hamish muses and then his expression sours. “I suppose that’s what she sees as one of your better qualities!”

Tarrant feels his right eyelid twitch. Alice. This man is talking about my Alice! Tarrant replies with as much self control as he can scrape together with his clawing, imaginary fingers, “She’s told me just that on countless occasions.”

Hamish’s hands tighten around the rifle, but Tarrant doesn’t worry about the fact that the man’s still holding it. After all, Tarrant still has his knife and in such close quarters, he’s fairly confident that his dagger gives him an advantage over Hamish and his long-barreled firearm. But it won’t come to that, he’s sure.

Are ye?

Yes.

“You’re just as utterly mad as Alice is,” Hamish informs him. His sour expression tightening, the younger Ascots declares, “Which I suppose means you manage to waste valuable time contemplating gentlemen in dresses and ladies in trousers!”

Tarrant giggles. Hamish looks completely offended by the sound. Tickled to his toes, Tarrant tells him, “Not only that, but when the occasion calls for it, the men of my homeland don the skirts, and the ladies the trousers!”

Hamish’s grimace smoothes away and Tarrant is shocked to hear a snorting, nasal-y chuckle squeak out of the man. “That must be a rather remarkable occasion, Hightopp.”

“It was,” Tarrant replies, remembering Frabjous Day, his kilt, Alice’s armor, the sounds of battle...

“I’m sure Alice was thrilled to take part,” Hamish interrupts the dark parade of memories. “She enjoys any excuse at all to indulge her contrary nature.”

Tarrant can’t disagree with that, oddly enough. Alice’s contrariness transcends Worlds. Contrary to her core, his Alice is! “Yes, and I believe she always will.”

Hamish looks up and Tarrant finds himself on the receiving end of the man’s evaluating stare. Tarrant can only guess what the man sees in his expression, for if it reflects what Tarrant feels, then there must be love, devotion, respect, admiration, frustration, and acceptance written on his face for the world to see.

And, perhaps, Hamish does see all of those things. The man seems to relax completely for the first time in Tarrant’s presence. “You really are the right man for Alice,” Hamish says softly and Tarrant thinks he sees the lingering pain in those watery blue eyes evaporate. “It’s just as she said,” he concludes.

A little puzzled, Tarrant watches as Hamish turns away and looks out over the range. He sighs and Tarrant imagines a great weight leaving him. The man sets the rifle down on the table and, suddenly, turns back toward Tarrant with a real smile.

“I never congratulated you, sir, on your nuptials.” Hamish thrusts out his right hand. Offers it. Tarrant gapes. “My best wishes for your future, Lord Hightopp. For both you and your wife.”

A bit numb – startled! – Tarrant accepts the handshake. “Thank you, Lord Ascot. On behalf of my wife and myself.”

Hamish nods once in that uniquely decisive manner of his, as if something of great importance had been settled... finally. “Now, as we’ve tramped all the way out here, can I interest you in a try with the rifle?”

Before Tarrant can reply, Hamish soldiers on. “You’ve Alice to look after, you know, and as effective as your skills may be in your country, here we use firearms. You wouldn’t want to be tested and found lacking when I’m offering to educate you free of charge, now would you?”

Well, when it’s put that way...

“That would be unforgivable,” Tarrant replies.

Hamish beams.

“And, should you discover the curiosity for it, I should be pleased to show you what to do with a broadsword, a claymore, or a knife, Ascot.”

The man barks out a laugh. “Perhaps I shall take you up on that, Hightopp.”

And then he places the rifle in Tarrant’s hands and begins his lecture on the proper handling of it. Tarrant ignores the way his skin crawls at touching such a beast of a machine. He focuses on Alice, on his promise to keep her and their littlin’ safe... protect them. Even the prideful note in Hamish’s voice serves as a good distraction and Tarrant finds a smile tugging at his mouth.

Yes, oddly enough, Alice’s former Intended is not nearly as intolerable as Tarrant had first thought.

It must be the nature of Uplandish things, he muses, sighting as Hamish had instructed him. Nothing is what it appears to be...

And when he pulls the trigger and the butt of the weapon nearly knocks his shoulder out of its joint, Tarrant can’t help but feel an odd sense of satisfaction...

... and he wonders if this sensation is anything like what Alice feels as she continually discovers the mysteries and complexities of Underland.

 

*~*~*~*

 

Alice stares at Hamish. Or perhaps she gapes. Gawks.

“What?” he asks with a defensive sniff, taking the seat opposite her in the carriage and closing the door firmly.

The driver slaps the reins and the horse steps into the street. Still, Alice can’t quite gather her thoughts. “What’s happened between you and Tarrant?” she manages.

Surely, that... that display in the foyer of her mother’s home had not been... real! In no conceivable version of events would Tarrant and Hamish speak to each other in perfectly civil, friendly tones and then giggle like naughty boys at the mere mention of the word “skirt”!

Or, at least, she’s pretty sure that had been the catalyst. What had she said? How had Hamish started it? Oh, yes:

“Alice, you’d better not indulge in any fancies regarding the commandeering of today’s meeting. We can’t know that these stodgy businessmen have the fortitude to withstand such a shock.” He’d held out his hand. “I’ll review your notes and make sure they’re addressed in due course.”

With a resigned sigh, Alice had handed them over.

“Alice?” Tarrant had wondered aloud, blinking at her.

She’d shrugged helplessly. “Well, he’s right; I’m the one in the skirt, after all!”

What had been so blasted funny about that?

“Hamish,” she prompts him. “Why are you and my husband sharing jokes now?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. He’s an amiable sort, once you acclimate yourself to his oddities.”

“I... you... he...” Alice exchanges her stare for a glare. “When did you decide oddity was amiable. Last I knew, you barely tolerated it!”

Hamish leans back against his seat, radiating smugness. “We spent an hour out on the range the other day.”

Alice is back to gaping again. “The day before yesterday, you mean? The other day at your father’s country estate? The shooting range at your father’s estate?” She can remember hearing the muffled sounds of rifle fire. Lord Ascot had dismissed the racket with a word: “Hamish.”

“Yes.”

“You taught Tarrant how to use a GUN?!”

“Goodness, calm down, Alice. We’re supposed to comport ourselves as professionals this morning!”

She slaps aside his scolding. “Well, we’re not there yet, are we? Plenty of time to be upset and unreasonable!”

“Just as long as you recognize your own faults,” he comments.

“No, I’m upset. You’re unreasonable! A gun, Hamish?!” The very Idea of Tarrant holding such a foul, ruthless, underhanded piece of weaponry in his hands offends her!

He gives her a stern look. “The man needed to know, Alice. He’s too innocent for this world. Carries a bloody knife around under his jacket. What good will that do against the weapon of choice in this country? Honestly! I thought you would have seen to that during the voyage here if not before!”

Alice shakes her head, unable to understand him. “Why would you bother? Has Tarrant managed to endear himself to you as well?”

Hamish harrumphs. “Of course not! However, between your husband and that useless lush of Margaret’s, I can bloody well see which one would step forward to protect you and your mother and sister. You and I both know Lowell would never raise a hand to fight for anyone but himself. And yet Hightopp, who has enough decency to make an effort on your behalf, isn’t aware of half the dangers out there!”

“Crime is very uncommon in the city,” Alice counters weakly, her mind working furiously at the implications of Hamish’s fierce opinions.

“It only needs to happen once for it to be too late,” he argues back obstinately.

Alice studies him as he determinedly glares out the window at the passing scenes. Finally, she says, “Thank you, Hamish. For showing him how to protect us.” She has to fist her left hand to keep it from settling over her stomach.

He gives her a bland smile. “I understand that the duty will never be mine, but I am not so low as to deny Hightopp the means to fulfilling his obligations to you, Alice.”

“And I appreciate that.” And, after she finishes with this bloody business meeting today, she’ll be asking Tarrant why he hadn’t mentioned this to her earlier!

Again the interior of the carriage is as silent as it can possibly get while in use on London’s streets. After a few moments, the void of words seems to be too much for Hamish.

“I’m sorry for my behavior, Alice, when you arrived at the office.”

She turns back to him, surprised. “It’s fine,” she tells him. “You’d just suffered a terrible shock. Looking back on it, I feel ashamed of myself: what if your father had been there and I’d given him heart failure!”

“Still,” Hamish continues, easily as stubborn as she is herself. “I should not have... said those things... accused you of not finishing... things.”

Ah, the proposal. We come to it at last, she muses. “Hamish, I am sorry for how I handled that. Truly, you’d deserved much better from me.”

“Yes, I had,” he agrees a bit pompously. Alice lets it go, however. “Just as you deserved better from me. In my defense, I can only say that I hadn’t understood.”

“Understood what?” her curiosity makes her ask.

Hamish fidgets with his gloves and inspects the head of his walking stick for blemishes. “I hadn’t understood that your refusal had nothing to do with... a lack of merit on my part.”

“No, of course it hadn’t! Oh, Hamish...” She sighs. “I meant what I said then: you are a fine gentleman. Why do you think I even stepped up into that gazebo with you at all, knowing what was about to happen? I knew you were a fine gentleman. With many admirable qualities.”

Hamish smiles. “Just not the ones you were looking for.”

“Precisely.”

He chuckles and Alice marvels at the sight of his mirth. It transforms him and suddenly she’s sharing a carriage with a young, carefree, charming gentleman. The spoilt, petulant, snobbish boy-man she’s grown so used to seeing is oddly... absent. At least for the moment.

“Thank you, Alice.”

“My pleasure, Hamish.”

The Hamish Ascot of old reappears, however, as the carriage slows and pulls over. Alice doesn’t have to twitch aside the curtains to know they’ve arrived at the Metropolitan District Railway’s head offices.

“Are you ready for this, Lady Hightopp?” he drawls, his hand on the polished door latch.

She considers mentioning the fact that she has a revolver in her leather case along with the precious project plan. In the end, however, all she says is: “Whenever you are, Lord Ascot.” In some things, Alice assumes, ignorance truly is bliss.

This careless thought revisits Alice moments later when, upon being ushered into the meeting room to greet the railway’s executive committee, she sees a face that makes her heart race and shock-fear-dread-rage-urgency-bloodthirst! scream down her heart line:

Alice finds herself face-to-despicable face with none other than Underland’s former Viscount Valereth.

 

*~*~*~* 

Book 3 Chapter List


*~*~*~*
 
 

Notes:

 

1. The patent office: No idea where it was or what system was used or if anybody could just come in off the street and look something up. There went that Artistic License again!

 

2. The tunneling technology Alice finds actually exists and was developed and patented in 1870. Until this time, a method called cut-and-cover was employed for digging most tunnels. (Cut-and-cover basically means, they knocked down whatever was standing over the tunnel site, dug a big trench, reinforced and lined it, then built the “ground” back on top of it. A timely and costly technique.) In 1818, a technique that allowed for tunneling under bodies of water was created by Sir Marc Brunel and it was called tunnel shielding. This was used in the construction of the Thames Tunnel (1825-1843) but in 1870 two assistant engineers by the names of Peter Barlow and James Greathead redesigned the system and drastically improved it, making it faster, cheaper, and safer. This became the tunnel shielding system called the Barlow-Greathead Shield. Using this method, the Tower Subway was built beneath the Thames river from 1869-1870 (but, as I mentioned in the previous chapter’s notes, I’m ignoring this).  So, tunneling technology improved big time (from taking 18 years to less than two!) and it is this Idea that Alice uses to counter the proposed use of dynamite to speed up the cut-and-cover method.

 

3. Men in the Victorian Era were actually required to wear a kind of corset, too. (Perhaps the precursor to the cummerbund?) It was a very Uncomfortable Era for EVERYONE.

 
4. And I just gave Lady Ascot a name (Gerladine) since I have no idea what the woman’s first name actually is.  *flashes The License*
 

5. OK, so, I was all set to just let Hamish “fade into the background” of this story when, suddenly, something Happened:

Manny: [busily typing away]

Tarrant: [pitter-patters over and taps on Manny’s shoulder] Excuse me, mistress?

Manny: Yeah? What now? More “quality time” with Alice?

Tarrant: Oh, would you? [gets hearts in his eyes] That would be wonderf—! Oh, er, ahem. Yes, please-and-thank-you! But you see, there’s something else, er, that is... [glances over his shoulder and Hamish shows up] Hamish and I would like to be... friends.

Manny: ... friends? [Looks at Hamish]

Hamish: I would not be opposed to a mutually beneficial acquaintanceship with Hightopp here.

Manny: ... (O.o)... uh, really?

Tarrant: So, can we?

Manny: Um, can you what?

Tarrant: [huffs] Be friends!

Manny: Um... if Hamish promises to behave himself, I... guess so...

Hamish: How dare you insinuate that I would be anything less than a perfect gentleman!

Manny: Buddy, I’m the Writer. I’ll Insinuate all over your lily white be-hind if I feel like it!

Tarrant: She will. She really will. Don’t make her angry.

Hamish: Fine. I’ll agree to act true to my perfectly proper character if you make sure Hightopp here doesn’t go berserk on me. I don’t care if he’s mad; I’m not touching his face to calm him down! It’s just not Done!

Manny: Agreed. OK, boys, congrats. You’re buds now.

Tarrant: Fabulous! Fancy a cuppa, Hamish?

Hamish: If there’s a dollop of brandy in it, perhaps.

Tarrant: You enjoy that Bandersnatch bile?!

Hamish: Hightopp, if you can’t use the Queen’s English I shall have to rethink this male bonding nonsense you’ve gotten me to agree to!

Manny: [watches as they wander off] Those two better not make me add any more chapters... [goes back to typing] ...

Chapter Fifteen: A New Beginning (2)

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Chapter Eighteen: Worth Fighting For [Rated M]

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Chapter Twenty-one: Two Champions [Rated M]

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One Promise Kept Glossary

One Promise Kept Original Outlandish:
Words marked with a (*) were created specifically for yappichick's AiW fan fic Once and Always Champion and are not featured in the OPK series until near the end of Book 3.

Awespicious* – awesome, amazingly fortuitous, fanstastically auspicious

Battenmead – an alcoholic beverage made from Batten (a fruit native to Underland)

Beautrific – beautiful, terrific

Be-giddy – to make giddy or happy

Be-twix – between

Be-well – care; often used in the phrase "Be-well ye!" which is the Outlandish equivalent of the friendly farewell: "Take care!"

Bey-urious – beyond furious

Boggletogs - mushroom sprouts; often used in the phrase "Bulloghin' boggletogs!" to express one's disbelief, annoyance, or surprise

Boisterin' – loud, noisy, lively

Booly-geber – a lustful man, a pervert

Brangergain – to cause a great mess either on accident or intentionally, also used as a curse word

Brevin – short, brief

Bulloghin’ – the state of being enlarged, growing larger

Callaycious – joyous

Callouryin' – amazing

Dearlin' – an endearment, means "dear" or "sweetie"

Enpuffed – to be overly proud or arrogant

Fa – father

Flunderwhapped – gob smacked, shocked, surprised, showing a vacuous expression

Fumptwat – someone who isn’t very bright

Furymanglin’* – outraged

Geminous – precious, gem-like

Glouminous – glowing, luminous, radiant

Gratlin’ – gratifying, rewarding

Greizen’-grommer – a greedy person of few or no morals

Gruffious* – hostile, grumpy, rude

Handimade – work, creation

Hastenly – quickly

Kenfull – compassionate, knowing

Kenment – answer, piece of information, fact, explanation

Littlin' – a baby or small child (too young to apprentice to any trades)

Lovelish – lovely, inspiring great love and adoration

Maigh – Outlandish Mayfair festival, the moment spring arrives

Mam – mother

Merrianglin’ – ticklish, to tickle

Muttermongin' – gossip, a rumor (usually a damaging or particularly mean-spirited one)

Mogh’linyae – “The one who holds my heart”

Numerish – numerous, many

Prechlian – precious, without compare

Regrattlin’* – regretful, uncomfortable, awkward

Shrifty – cheating

Slithy – sneaky

Thrice – three

Thwimble fumpt – coarse language used to express one’s dissatisfaction with the universe in general

Thwumpished – defeated, beaten, bruised

Twine – two

Unshattermade* – to feel complete, whole, calm, collected, and reassured

Usal-naught – useless, without a use (as opposed to “Naught for usal” which means “It's no use”)

Wonderfulously – very, very wonderfully

 

*~*~*~*

 

One Promise Kept Shuchish:

~sh’rya – a suffix, used as an endearment meaning “of my soul”; in Book 2, Chapter 10, Dale calls Mirana “Mi-sh’rya” which would mean: “Mirana of my soul”

Mumma – mother

Orash – a kind of citrus fruit

Orashlach – an alcoholic beverage made from Orash

Papu – father

Sarleh – a traditional women’s dress similar to an Indian sari

 

*~*~*~*

Alice in Wonderland (2010) Outlandish and Underlandian terms:

Battenburg: At the tea party, Thackery offers the Knave a slice of Battenberg.  (Edit: according to a very kind reviewer, orchids_or_iris , Battenburg is an actual teatime treat made with marzipan.  Sounds yummy!)

Bessom: Thackery calls Alice a "wee bessom" when she enters the castle kitchen.  A term of endearment, perhaps.  (I hope!)

Guddler's scuttish, pilgar-lickering, shukm-juggling slurking urpal!  Bar lom muck egg brimni...! - The Hatter rants at Chessur during the tea party.

Lickspittle toadies - The Hatter calls the Red Queen's court this before he rips off Lady Long Ear's left ear to demonstrate their deceit.

Squimberry - The Red Queen's tarts were made with Squimberries.  A kind of berry.

*~*~*~*

Walt Disney's Glossary of Underland can be found here:

Please note: to view the full-size image, you may have to click and wait for it to load TWO TIMES.

 

 

*~*~*~*

 

Wonderland Words by Lewis Carroll:
Quotations taken from Literature.org, Through the Looking Glass, Chapter 6

Borogove - "a thin shabby-looking bird with its feathers sticking out all round -- something like a live mop"

Brillig - "four o'clock in the afternoon -- the time when you begin broiling things for dinner"

Gimble - "to make holes like a gimblet"

Gyre - "to go round and round like a gyroscope"

Mimsy - "flimsy and miserable"

Mome - "(possibly) short for "from home" -- meaning that (something has) lost (its) way"

Outgrabe - from Outgribing which is "something between bellowing and whistling, with a kind of sneeze in the middle"

Rath - "a sort of green pig"

Slithy - "lithe and slimy" and, in addition, "lithe" means "active"

Toves - "something like badgers -- they're something like lizards -- and they're something like corkscrews" and "they make their nests under sun-dials -- also they live on cheese"

Wabe - "the grass-plot round a sun-dial"

 

*~*~*~*

 

Alice in Wonderland Resources

If you're curious (or Curious) as to where I get research material for Alice in Wonderland fan fiction, here is a handy list:


+ The original novels by Lewis Carroll can be found on-line and read FOR FREE at:

literature.org

+ The original movie script (pre-editing) by Linda Woolverton can be downloaded here:

www.simplyscripts.com
(You will need Adobe to read the PDF file.)

+ The official Disney glossary of Underland terms can be found here:

geeksofdoom.com
Direct Link

Various other historical sources:
(This list will be updated as I find more resources.)

www.victorianlondon.org
Charles Dickens' London
www.bartleby.com/
Map of 19th Century India
Maps of Asian Cities, Turn of the Century

One Promise Kept: Book 1

a fan fiction by Manniness
Alice in Wonderland (2010 film version)
 
 
Summary: Alice makes a promise that is kept, but at a great cost. Surviving the consequences should have taught her to be more careful with future promises, but how can she refuse the queen her Champion? Or Tarrant Hightopp his Alice? 
 
Rating & Genre: M (mature audiences only) - Drama, Romance, Action
 
Warnings: Violence, Character Death, Explicit Sexual Situations, Mild Language 
NOTE: A alternate version of Chapter Twelve is available for readers under 18 years of age.  It does, however, contain sexual content, but it is not explicit.
 
Acknowledgments & Spoilers: Basically, this story follows the 2010 film version, however, wherever possible, I have tried to remain faithful to the spirit of the works of Lewis Carroll.
 
Manny's Comments: I adore a strong, resourceful Alice and a sensitive, intuitive Tarrant. I hope I've managed to capture those aspects of their character clearly! Thank you for reading and fairfarren!
 
Disclaimer: Alice in Wonderland and its characters, storyline, setting, and other concepts are the property of Walt Disney Studios, Tim Burton, and Lewis Carroll.  Where I have created original words for the purpose of writing fan fiction, I have stated so in the Glossary of Underland posted here on this Live Journal.  No copyright infringement is intended and no compensation was given to the author for creating this work.  (I just loved the movie too much to let the end be The End.)
 
 

*~*~*~*


BOOK 1
[68,000 words]

~ Glossary of Underland ~
 

Chapter One: A Much Madder Hatter
 
Chapter Two: A Devastating Homecoming
 
Chapter Three: Duties of the Champion
 
Chapter Four: Thrice a-Vow
 
Chapter Five: The Wooing Rites
 
Chapter Six: The Champion and the Hatter
 
Chapter Seven: The Trial of Threes
 
Chapter Eight: The Jabberwocky
 
Chapter Nine: Outlandish Claims
 
Chapter Ten: The Sixth Suitor
[Rated M for violence]
 
Chapter Eleven: Through the Looking Glass
 
Chapter Twelve: Promises Kept
[Rated NC-17 for sexual situations]
Chapter Twelve: Promises Kept
[Rated M for non-explicit sexual content]
 
Epilogue

*~*~*~*

Theme Songs: 
"Syndicate" by The Fray from the album: The Fray
"Mystery of You" by Red from the album: Innocence & Instinct
"The Poison" by All-American Rejects from the album: Almost Alice
"The (After) Life of the Party" by Fall Out Boy from: Infinity on High
"Her Name Is Alice" by Shinedown from the album: Almost Alice
"Where's My Angel" by Metro Station from the album: Almost Alice
"Cat and Mouse" by Red Jumpsuit Apparatus from: Don't You Fake It
"Painting Flowers" by All Time Low from the album: Almost Alice