Heart and Sole, Chapter 3
“Well, now, what’s this?”
Alice glances up at the familiar purr and watches as the air swirls and spins, coloring into a floating cat. A Cheshire Cat.
“Surely I am not seeing a frown,” he drawls playfully, smiling as ever.
“Of course not,” Alice replies, irritated with herself. It’s bad enough that she’d made such a ninny of herself at the ball the night before. There’s no point in compounding the issue by moping about it!
“Ah, yes,” Chessur purrs, twirling in the air so that he is floating on his back. His bright eyes blink once lazily. “I am mistaken. From this perspective, it’s clearly a smile.”
The teasing startles a laugh out of her and Chessur turns right-side-up on a victorious grin of approval.
“Did you barge into my room uninvited so that you could cheer me up?”
“As delightful a happenstance as that is, no,” he admits. “I barged into the room you are using in the White Queen’s castle so that you could grow up.”
“I beg your pardon?”
The cat ignores the burgeoning tone of offense in her voice and muses aloud, “A certain cat with evaporating skills happened upon a discussion taking place downstairs in the queen’s office, in which an Alice was mentioned and her future was being discussed… and decided.” His grin widens. “I just thought you’d like to know.”
And then, with a flick of his tail, disappears.
Alice stares at the place where he’d just been hovering and blinks once, twice, and then launches herself off the window seat and dashes for the door. Her heart pounds and she races down the pristine hallway. Alice swallows against the bitterness of burgeoning betrayal in her throat. Had she not - just a few days ago - faced this very situation at the Ascots’ summer home when her future had been decided without her consent or input? That sort of thing wouldn’t happen here, in Underland, would it? After all, the White Queen had given her a choice, had seemed to support that choice…
Last night, as Alice had stood in awkward, fidget-filled silence beside a very dashing - too dashing, according to the bread-and-butter butterflies Futterwhackening in Alice’s stomach - Hatter (who had been surveying the festivities with an air of satisfaction and peace), the White Queen had drifted over and gently observed, “Alice looks lovely, doesn’t she?”
The Hatter had returned his attention to Alice who had desperately hoped she wasn’t imagining the warmth and enthusiasm in his gaze. “Delightfully so!” he’d concurred.
Twirling her lacquer-tipped fingers in the air, the queen had continued, “I shall have to rely on you to lead Alice through our customs.”
“Oh, yes! Of course. You may rely on me, your Majesty. Alice,” the Hatter had lisped at her, making her feel slightly - and embarrassingly - faint. “Would you care for a tour of the ballroom?”
“A tour?” she’d repeated stupidly.
“Or have your feet already been properly introduced to the premises?” His brows had lifted in inquiry and Alice had had to fist her hands to keep from tracing them with her fingertips.
The White Queen had thoughtfully answered for her. “A grave oversight on my part.” The admission had been made without the slightest effort on the queen’s part to manufacture the required remorse. “Would you…?”
“Certainly!” And then the most wonderful, magical thing had happened. The Hatter had held out his arm for Alice to take. “If it pleases you.”
She’d nodded vigorously and shakily slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. They’d wandered in a seemingly aimless path through the throng of celebrants. At one point, the Tweedles had bounced over to them in their squeaky shoes, showing off their smart tailcoats. Nivens had generously complimented Alice’s footwear. Chess had grinned at her and purred, “What have we here? A matching set?”
“We’re not matching…” Alice had protested weakly, hoping with all her might that the Hatter hadn’t overheard that catty rumble.
“Hmm. Not yet at any rate.”
Oh, yes, her face had certainly flamed at that remark. She’d bitten back her protests: yes, she likes the Hatter very much but there’s no rush and, actually, she’s not sure what she’d do if he blatantly returned her affection. Pretending to study the sea of courtiers and craftspeople in attendance had given Alice a moment to cool her cheeks.
Then, suddenly, the Hatter had squealed with delight and surprise.
“What is it?” Alice had replied, following his gaze toward the orchestra of platypuses and noting the very interesting happenings taking place in the ballroom in the process: lady after lady had taken the initiative and approached a gentleman, curtsying deeply.
The Hatter had explained, “It’s been quite a while since they’ve played the Lady’s Favorite!”
“Is that what…?” Alice had started to ask as she’d watched one gentleman accept a lady’s invitation to dance. “Lady’s Favorite?” she’d echoed, her mind racing and heart pounding. Could this be her chance to show the Hatter the depth of her regard for him?
“Yes, yes!” the Hatter had replied. “Remarkable that her Majesty would request this song.”
When Alice had glanced back at the orchestra again, she’d seen the queen nodding in time to the long, opening strains of the melody. And then, inexplicably, the White Queen had looked in Alice’s direction and raised her brows expectantly, nodding meaningfully toward Hatter.
Oh!
“Oh, um,” Alice had mumbled, suddenly breathless with panic. “Hatter…?”
“Yes, Alice?”
Hoping she wasn’t about to make a monumental mistake, she had dropped into a deep curtsey.
In that moment, all of Underland had seemed to stop. She’s felt the eyes of everyone present watching her, gaping in silence. Nerves thoroughly wracked, Alice had frantically wondered if Time had suddenly decided to go on a holiday! But the Hatter’s happy giggle had saved her, unlocking her lungs and releasing the tension in her shoulders.
“It would be my pleasure, Alice,” he’d burred softly and the world had started turning again. Time resumed marking the seconds.
Alice had held out her hand as the other women had done and the Hatter had taken it and walked out onto the dance floor with her.
Alice had never been so nervous at a dance. In fact, she had never even asked anyone to dance, most especially not to a dance that she has never done before. When she’d confided this to him, he’d reassured her as he’d placed his hand - so warm! - on her waist, “All you have to do is lead. I will follow.”
Oh, how her heart had pounded then! Why she’d been so busy grinning and brimming with happiness and excitement and enchantment - for he had enchanted her! - that she’d nearly forgotten about the dance entirely. Nearly.
She’d stumbled into a waltz and the Hatter, true to his word, had followed her steps and it had been the most wonderful, the most magical, the most thrilling moment of her life! To share the dance floor with him, to be the only two people in the world, to make that little world all by themselves…!
It had ended too soon. And when the Hatter had glanced toward the beverage tables, Alice - still giddy - had stood on her tiptoes, intending to deliver a swift kiss to his cheek. But he’d turned then, looked back at her, and Alice’s momentum had delivered that kiss not to the safe haven she’d intended. No, their lips had crushed together awkwardly, hers slightly pursed and his in mid-word.
Even now, the memory immolates her with shame. She’s sure she hadn’t imagined hastily subdued giggles and chuckles from the courtiers, perhaps even a Chess-toned groan of disappointment.
It could not have gotten any worse. Except it had.
The Hatter had smiled, patted her shoulder gently, and trilled happily, “Yes, yes, you are natural leader, Alice. But, of course, I knew you would be. Well done! Are you ready for some tea?”
When he’d offered her his arm, she’d taken it, but the gesture had been automatic. She’d been too… struck dumb to do anything else. His words had been like treacle in her mind, miring her thoughts which had been whirling about so happily just a few moments ago.
She’d forced a smile onto her lips and had done her best to ignore the fact that he had not mentioned the ill-timed kiss. He had not acknowledged it at all. It had not even been worth commenting on.
Chessur would be disappointed to see her upside-down smile reappear, but she can’t help it.
Thankfully, she doesn’t have to think about it at the moment. She slows to a brisk stride as the open door to the queen’s library comes into view and voices can be heard from within.
“Hatter, I must insist that this be Alice’s decision.”
“I must rudely disagree, your Majesty. Alice should not see something of this magnitude.”
“It is endearing how you seek to protect her from unpleasantness,” the queen acknowledges, not minding the Hatter’s rudeness at all. “However, she has already fought and killed on our behalf-”
“All the more reason to shield her from this!” he argues back in a tone that is alarmingly high pitched with tension.
Alice pauses on the threshold and takes in the scene before her. The queen is seated at her desk with a tea service nudging her elbow. The hatter is pacing back and forth in front of the room’s large, arched window. Clearing her throat, she steps into the room uninvited and asks, “Shield me from what?”
The Hatter turns toward her and her breath catches at the sight of him. He’d donned his dark suit again and, truly, the mash of colors suits him so much better than white. Even the sight of his stockings - blatantly mismatched - makes her heart swell painfully.
“Alice! Thank you for attending this meeting!” the White Queen praises, looking truly pleased.
Not sure of what to say, Alice merely returns her gaze to the Hatter and waits.
When the clock continues to tick and tock with the Hatter clearly not volunteering either further greetings or information, the queen delicately clears her throat and offers, “Tea, Alice? We were just discussing the situation at Salazen Grum.”
“What situation?” Alice asks, frowning at the Hatter.
When he still refuses to explain, the queen interjects yet again, “There is quite an unpleasant mess at my sister’s former castle which requires immediate attention.”
As the words register, Alice looks away from the Hatter and regards the White Queen who is giving her a very significant look. “If you recall, Alice, you alluded to this not long ago over my alchemy table…?”
The Hatter twitches and Alice nods, remembering: “You can’t imagine what goes on in that place…”
She thinks of the heads in the moat and her stomach rolls as she realizes that - just as Marmoreal and the Jabberwocky and the Hatter are real - so are all the corpses floating in the moat of the Red Queen’s former castle. Her knees weakening, she reaches for the cup that queen offers her and sinks down into the nearest chair. One sip and then another heats her suddenly cold lips, streaks down her throat and settles her unruly stomach.
“So, we must bury the dead,” Alice deduces.
The queen nods with a sad smile. Even her ever-air-born fingers wilt into weak fists. “Yes. It’s the right thing to do.”
Which means it’s something a champion would do. Or at least see to. It is not said, but Alice understands that this is her responsibility. She whispers thickly, “When are we leaving?”
“No!”
She startles at the Hatter’s sudden exclamation. Turning in her chair, she finds herself confronted by a man’s silhouette, his face darkened by the light from the window behind him, his body fairly vibrating with tension. A very imposing figure, indeed. Imposing, but he’s no Jabberwocky.
Alice sets her teacup on the edge of the queen’s desk and stands. She feels suddenly ashamed of herself for forgetting about all of the people who had died, who she hadn’t saved - hadn’t arrived in time to save!
“Yes,” she informs him, her shame heating until it becomes anger. Alice welcomes it, lets it fill her, fuel her.
“Ye d’nae need teh see whot’s a-muck a’Crims,” he growls darkly.
Tilting her chin stubbornly, she retorts, “I already have. How do you think I got into the castle in the first place? I couldn’t have simply strolled across the drawbridge!”
He stares at her. She cannot see his eyes well, shaded as they are beneath his hat, but his Adam’s apple bobs above his collar.
“I’m going,” she reaffirms. Glancing over her shoulder, she asks the queen, “When are we leaving?”
The White Queen gives her a wan smile. “Just as soon as you’re ready, Alice.”
The Hatter shakes his head and takes a step toward her. “Ye’ll nae gae, Alice. ‘Tis nae place fer-”
“The White Queen’s Champion?” Alice interrupts. She gives him an expectant look. “I ought to be there, Hatter. And I will be.”
She looks at the queen once more. “I’ll be ready in an hour, your Majesty.”
And then she turns on her heel and marches out of the door and back to her borrowed room to prepare a change of clothes.
*~*~*~*
It’s tradition, taking a stroll through the country estate’s rose hedges before departing for the city. Hamish takes a deep breath, enjoying the clean air and the clear sky above. London has been well and truly conquered by man and man’s industry - even on rare sunny days, the light is diffused and weak. Not here. Here, man is the guest of nature rather than its master.
It’s a refreshing change, if rather counter-productive.
Hamish sighs as his mood suddenly shifts with the recollection of the proposal he’d delivered over breakfast yesterday. Hamish cannot recall the last time one of his ideas had been so enthusiastically received by his father, and certainly not an idea pertaining to business. It would have been amusing if it hadn’t stung so much. Expanding trade to China hadn’t been his idea, after all. It had been Alice’s.
He’d always thought her odd, over-imaginative, given to flights of fancy, counter-intuitive. Foolish.
Suddenly, the memory of his talk with Helen Kingsleigh revisits him:
“And just why would you feel compelled to ask for Alice’s hand, Hamish?”
“As a man of sound judgment and solid character, I feel Alice could only benefit from our union, Madam.”
He pauses in the middle of the path, takes a deep breath, and sighs it out. It will do no good to deliberately upset himself. Still, it is a bitter irony, indeed, that he has benefited from Alice and not the other way around. Silly, strange, somewhat mad Alice… and yet brilliant.
Yes, he can see now that he’s always been a bit jealous of Alice, envious of her daring. He fiddles with his pocket watch pocket, removing the timepiece but not bothering to consult it, as he recalls his repeated chastisement of her:
“I had a sudden vision of all the ladies in trousers and the men in dresses.”
“It would be best to keep your visions to yourself. When in doubt, remain silent.”
And then:
“Where is your head?”
“I was wondering what it would be like to fly.”
“Why would you spend your time thinking about such an impossible thing?”
He is a grown man, so he shouldn’t feel what he does now in response to that memory, but he can’t help but recognize it: shame. He feels very ashamed of himself for trying to subdue her marvelous spirit out of spite. He’ll not have the chance to apologize now, although the thought of doing so ties his innards up in very uncomfortable knots.
“No matter!” he mutters, scolding himself for dilly dallying. His mother and father will be departing very soon for town, so he’d best finish his walk and return to the house.
Restowing his pocket watch and straightening his waistcoat, Hamish strides forward, steps around the corner of the hedge and-
Stumbles to a halt.
He stares at the person in front of him, blinking in shock, for this can’t be who his eyes tell him it must be. This young woman in grubby trousers and a dirt-smudged tunic with her long, pale hair tied back and sweat beading across her brow, holding a shovel of all things in her grimy hands cannot be Alice.
This cannot be! Not in the middle of his mother’s rosebushes!
But then she looks up and her brown eyes widen. Her lips part and curve upward.
“Hamish?”
Her smile of welcome warms him even as his confusion still makes him feel adrift. “Alice! What are you doing here?! And why-ever are you digging a hole in the middle of my mother’s rose garden?!”
“Your mother’s…? No, Hamish. I’m not in your mother’s garden. You are in the Red Queen’s courtyard.”
“I… What?!”
Alice sets aside the shovel and pulls a grungy handkerchief from her trouser pocket. Hamish wrinkles his nose as she wipes her brow with the thing, smearing more dirt on herself. “Hamish,” she says, approaching him. “It is good to see you. But how did you get here?”
He glances about, surveying precisely where he is, and frowns. “I haven’t the faintest notion,” he replies, disarmed by his surroundings which are clearly not the maze of rose hedges on the estate. “I was merely strolling through the garden. I turned the corner and then there you were.”
“Remarkable,” Alice murmurs. “I’ve never come to Underland that way before.”
“Underland?”
“Yes, welcome to Underland, Hamish.” She glances around, her smile melting away. “Although, I do wish you’d come at a… happier time.”
Hamish follows her gaze, taking in the rows of very orderly square holes in the earth. He easily counts two dozen stretching off to the left. Turning to the right, he sees several more although they are not yet square. They are messily round and as he watches dirt sprays out of the two furthest edifices which must still be in the process of being excavated.
“Alice… what is all this?”
“A graveyard,” she answers softly.
“For whom?” he demands nervously.
She takes a shuddering breath.
“Alice? Who’s that you’re speaking to?”
Hamish turns and gapes at a rather large rabbit which is probably white under all that filth. The creature gazes back at Hamish, blinking his large, pink eyes and absently dusting off his waistcoat with a paw.
“This is Hamish. Hamish, this is McTwisp.”
The rabbit inclines his head. “Pleased to make you acquaintance, sir.”
Hamish gurgles something. Perhaps a greeting of some kind.
“Alice,” the rabbit continues, “I realize that we have a guest, but we also have a schedule.”
“I know. Just… I’ll be back shortly.”
“Hm. Very well.”
With that, the rabbit dives back into the hole and dirt once again begins spurting upward. The second gravedigger had not paused at all during this exchange and Hamish wonders if there’s a talking rabbit in that one, too.
“Let’s take a walk,” Alice invites quietly, waving her arm toward the castle itself.
Unable to think of any objections, Hamish follows without comment. For long moments, they simply wander the red-carpeted halls. He studies the Baroque buttresses above their heads and the carved mahogany doors in silence. Finally, when his need to orient himself eclipses his shock, Hamish demands, “What is this place, Alice? Where are we?”
Her smile is wry. “Well, at the moment, we’re walking through the halls of the former Red Queen’s castle at Salazen Grum. She’s been recently stripped of her powers and exiled, you see. And for the castle itself, it’s located next to the Crimson Sea, in the land of Crims, in the world of Underland which is through the rabbit hole, on the other side of the looking glass, and - apparently - around the corner of a rosebush.”
Hamish sputters a bit but then latches onto one statement in particular. “Did you say ‘on the other side of the looking glass’?”
“I did. Why-?”
Just then, the clack and clatter of a sewing machine intrudes on their conversation. Alice halts suddenly, her eyes on the single door standing open at the end of the hall. She puts out a hand, signaling Hamish to stop. “This way,” she whispers, nodding to a staircase.
Frowning over his shoulder at the door Alice clearly wishes to avoid, he mounts the stairs with her. It seems like they climb forever. When at last they emerge onto a stone parapet, Hamish gapes at the view of the ocean stretching out toward the horizon. He leans his hands against the edge of the battlement and says, wonderingly, “This… is not England.”
“No, it isn’t,” Alice answers, her tone softened with sadness and strengthened with pride.
“How will I get back?” he asks, truly concerned now.
After a moment, Alice admits, “I don’t know. But I’ve been here several times and a way always presents itself. Whether or not you take it, is up to you.”
“Well, when it appears, I would appreciate it if you would point it out to me, Alice. And, speaking of which, do you know how worried your mother and sister are? Really, you ought to return with me.”
“Maybe I ought to,” she replies, turning toward the sea and allowing the wind to blow the escaped strands of hair away from her face, “but I won’t. I can’t. I’ve made my choice.”
Hamish scoffs. “Your choice! Alice-!”
“No, Hamish,” she informs him, her voice so weighted with authority and… something else that he finds he can’t argue with her. Irritated, he turns away from the view and endeavors to take stock of all that he can see from each direction.
“Hamish…?” he hears Alice say to his back. And then she shouts, “No! Hamish, don’t look that way!”
Contrarily, he speeds up, reaching the edge of battlement as Alice’s dirty hand grips his very clean shirt sleeve. First, he sees only a desolate, rolling desert. Dead trees hunch mournfully beside dried-up river and creek beds. Beyond those, a frightful canyon rises out of the earth and thrusts toward the cloudless sky.
Yes, this is clearly not England.
And then he looks down.
For a moment, he doesn’t comprehend what he sees. Man-sized, animated, white chess pieces appear to be working in the castle moat, pulling round-ish objects from it and placing them in a line upon the ground. It’s not until a pair of these strange beings hauls what appears to be a torso with its arms and legs attached out of the muck that he realizes what it is he’s seeing.
He gags, pivots away from the scene and scrambles for a handkerchief which he presses to his too-warm, too-wet, and suddenly too-sour mouth.
Alice, however, merely releases his arm and stares downward.
He cannot fathom how she can stand the sight of all those heads, decayed and rotting and-!
If bile were not so very insistent on flooding his mouth, he would have scolded her, ordered her away from the wall.
“I couldn’t save them,” she says as he pants quietly into the linen held to his nose and mouth. “I was too late.”
Taking a deep breath, Hamish firmly orders his stomach to settle. It does. “What are you talking about, Alice?” he snaps.
“I could have saved them,” she rephrases, her hands fisting on the top of the stone wall. “If I’d only come sooner, killed the Jabberwocky sooner, I could have…” She shakes her head. Her shoulders slump. “I could have saved them, but I didn’t.”
Hamish cannot comprehend her guilt, but that is affecting her profoundly, yes he can comprehend that. “Come away, Alice,” he chokes out. “Let us go back inside.”
She sighs. “Yes, the Hatter will be finished with the shrouds soon. Then they’ll start carrying the bodies to the graves and… yes. There’s work to be done.”
They make their way back downstairs in silence. When they arrive on the ground floor, Hamish notes the utter silence in the hall. He glances up toward the room Alice had wished to avoid and gasps when he sees a man with wild orange hair upon which has been perched a very dark and tattered top hat and-
The man seems to sense his gaze. He pauses in the act of leaving the room, his arms piled high with folded sheets. No, not bed linens. These are the shrouds Alice had mentioned which means this man - the very man Hamish had seen dancing with a white-gowned Alice through the looking glass yesterday morning - is the Hatter.
Only a moment behind him, Alice enters the hall and then glances in the direction in which Hamish faces, frozen with realization. Beside him, Alice stiffens. Down the hall, the Hatter stiffens. Then, with a toothy smile and a flash of eyes that couldn’t have changed color just then, the man pivots very deliberately on the heel of his battered boot and strides toward them.
“Alice!” he calls out, lisping her name. “What have we here?” Stomping to a halt directly in their path, the man muses aloud, “I’ve never seen a dodo of such stature!”
Hamish feels his eyes widen and his face heat. Why of all the impertinent-!
“Hatter, this is Hamish from Above.”
“From Above?” the Hatter echoes. “So you’ve dropped in for a visit, just like our Alice?”
Noting the proprietary tone in the overly pale and dreadfully orange man’s voice, Hamish mulishly thrusts out his right hand. “How do you do?”
The Hatter, however, makes no move to grasp the offered hand. Instead, he stares at the sleeve of Hamish’s shirt, thrust forward as it is with his gesture of greeting. Hamish glances down and notices four very distinct streaks of dirt on the fabric in the exact shape and size as Alice’s fingers.
Rounding on her, the Hatter growls, “Where woul’ye ha’found sae much earth in th’ library tha’I asked ye teh clean aut?”
Fire flashes in Alice’s eyes. “You mean the library that you ordered me to clean out, which was ridiculous! McTwisp and Thackery needed help. You can’t expect a rabbit and a hare to dig dozens of graves all by themselves!”
Quick as a serpent’s strike, the Hatter’s hand darts out from under the mound of fine wool and grasps Alice’s wrist. “Ye should’a heeded me, lass. These hands’re no’meant fer gravework.”
“Well, that’s all they’re good for at the moment.”
The man’s eyes flash, simmer red-ly then fizzle to a disturbing yellow. “A champion’s hands’re meant’eh save lives-”
“I’ll decide what my own hands are good for, thank you very much!”
Alice twists her wrist from his grasp and the motion alerts Hamish to the fact that he has - thus far - been very remiss in his duties as Alice’s friend. He steps between them and, glaring down his nose at the Hatter, drawls, “Alice, simply say the word and I’ll handle this for you.”
Alice asserts from behind his shoulder, “I do not-!”
“Oh, handle this will ye?” the Hatter snarls. “An’ jus’who d’ye think ye be to auwr Alice?”
“I’m Miss Kingsleigh’s fiancé,” he proclaims vindictively, thrusting up his chin.
The hall echoes with the resulting silence.
Surprisingly, the Hatter takes a step back and nods. “Then I’m puttin’ ye in charge o’ makin’ sure she d’s a’she’s been told!” He glares past Hamish’s shoulder, presumably, at Alice. “Nae muir gravework!”
And then he utilizes the worn heels on his battered boots once more, pivoting smartly and marching down the hall.
Hamish glances over his shoulder at Alice and catches her expressive flinch when the door at the end of the hall slams shut. Taking a deep breath, she spears him in place with her dark gaze and informs him in a dangerous tone, “You are not my fiancé.”
For a moment, he can only stare as Alice storms down the hall, back in the direction of the grave-filled garden.
“Alice!” he hisses, thoroughly irritated. “I just interceded on your behalf! Why, that man was clearly mad and you-”
“That’s why they call him ‘the Mad Hatter’!” she calls back over her shoulder.
“Alice-!”
His additional protest is cut off as Alice pauses in the archway leading outside, turns back to him and nearly shouts, “And yes, sometimes he’s mad! We all are here! Crazy, mad, wonderful-” Hamish startles at the sight of tears gathering in her eyes. “All the best people are!” she concludes and sits down on the step in the sunlight.
Hamish regards her for a moment as she rubs the back of her hand over her cheeks. He recalls the moment he’d witnessed in the mirror and the emotions that had been utterly clear on Alice’s face. Her adoration as she’d twirled in the Hatter’s arms, her humiliation when their lips had met in that clumsy kiss, and her crushing disappointment when the Hatter had merely given her a pat and a seemingly flippant response. When Hamish hears Alice sniffle, he moves forward and seats himself on the step beside her.
“Alice, I… I’m…” He flounders for words.
“Damn it, Hamish. Take your own advice for once,” she huffs. “When in doubt, remain silent!” And then she leans her head against his shoulder.
He suspects that there are muddy tears staining his shirt sleeve, joining the streaks of dirt she’d left from her hand, but he doesn’t care. Sighing, he leans his cheek against her head, not understanding when that only makes her sob harder.
He closes his eyes and gathers his wits. He can still think of nothing to say, so he does as she’d asked. He says nothing. The sound of graves being dug, of the wind in the trees, assails him. A breeze blows past them, tickling his nose. Hamish does his best to manfully restrain the sneeze he feels coming, but he can’t.
“So-“ He would have apologized properly for the wholly inappropriate interruption if he’d had time, but-
“Ah-choooo!!!”
Hamish scrambles for a handkerchief to tend to his suddenly leaking nose - blasted allergies! - but when he opens his eyes, he finds himself standing in the intersection of two paths in his mother’s rose garden. There is no Alice leaning on his shoulder, no strange castle surrounding him, no graves being dug…
For a second, Hamish simply gapes at the utterly dull and familiar hedges.
What had just happened? Had he daydreamed again?
A cold trickle tickles his upper lip and Hamish hurriedly applies his handkerchief to his nose, blowing it soundly. Nose tended, handkerchief inspected, folded, and tucked away, Hamish eyes his path suspiciously, wondering if he might walk right into the Hatter should he take a single step…
“Hamish!”
His heart leaps into his throat, his head jerks around and for one wild instant he wonders if that’s Alice standing there at the other end of the hedge row…
But no. Not it isn’t. Of course not.
He takes a steadying breath before replying. “Mother?”
“We’re ready to leave,” she informs him, and then she waits right where she is, clearly expecting him to accompany her back to the house forthwith. Gritting his teeth, he admits that there’s no point in lollygagging around here. Alice - or his vision of her - is long gone.
“Yes, my apologies for the delay,” he offers, walking toward her.
Her sharp gaze moves over him and her nose wrinkles. Hamish follows her gaze and feels his heart stop in his chest.
“And now you’ve made us even later,” she informs him waspishly. “Come and put on a clean shirt before we leave.”
She turns and, skirts swishing, makes her way toward the house. Numbly, Hamish follows. His mind is only capable of one thought at the moment, one task. It is thoroughly preoccupied with the fact that there are dirty streaks on his white shirtsleeve, dirty streaks in the exact shape and size of Alice’s fingers.
Impossible.
Or rather, it should be.
Alice glances up at the familiar purr and watches as the air swirls and spins, coloring into a floating cat. A Cheshire Cat.
“Surely I am not seeing a frown,” he drawls playfully, smiling as ever.
“Of course not,” Alice replies, irritated with herself. It’s bad enough that she’d made such a ninny of herself at the ball the night before. There’s no point in compounding the issue by moping about it!
“Ah, yes,” Chessur purrs, twirling in the air so that he is floating on his back. His bright eyes blink once lazily. “I am mistaken. From this perspective, it’s clearly a smile.”
The teasing startles a laugh out of her and Chessur turns right-side-up on a victorious grin of approval.
“Did you barge into my room uninvited so that you could cheer me up?”
“As delightful a happenstance as that is, no,” he admits. “I barged into the room you are using in the White Queen’s castle so that you could grow up.”
“I beg your pardon?”
The cat ignores the burgeoning tone of offense in her voice and muses aloud, “A certain cat with evaporating skills happened upon a discussion taking place downstairs in the queen’s office, in which an Alice was mentioned and her future was being discussed… and decided.” His grin widens. “I just thought you’d like to know.”
And then, with a flick of his tail, disappears.
Alice stares at the place where he’d just been hovering and blinks once, twice, and then launches herself off the window seat and dashes for the door. Her heart pounds and she races down the pristine hallway. Alice swallows against the bitterness of burgeoning betrayal in her throat. Had she not - just a few days ago - faced this very situation at the Ascots’ summer home when her future had been decided without her consent or input? That sort of thing wouldn’t happen here, in Underland, would it? After all, the White Queen had given her a choice, had seemed to support that choice…
Last night, as Alice had stood in awkward, fidget-filled silence beside a very dashing - too dashing, according to the bread-and-butter butterflies Futterwhackening in Alice’s stomach - Hatter (who had been surveying the festivities with an air of satisfaction and peace), the White Queen had drifted over and gently observed, “Alice looks lovely, doesn’t she?”
The Hatter had returned his attention to Alice who had desperately hoped she wasn’t imagining the warmth and enthusiasm in his gaze. “Delightfully so!” he’d concurred.
Twirling her lacquer-tipped fingers in the air, the queen had continued, “I shall have to rely on you to lead Alice through our customs.”
“Oh, yes! Of course. You may rely on me, your Majesty. Alice,” the Hatter had lisped at her, making her feel slightly - and embarrassingly - faint. “Would you care for a tour of the ballroom?”
“A tour?” she’d repeated stupidly.
“Or have your feet already been properly introduced to the premises?” His brows had lifted in inquiry and Alice had had to fist her hands to keep from tracing them with her fingertips.
The White Queen had thoughtfully answered for her. “A grave oversight on my part.” The admission had been made without the slightest effort on the queen’s part to manufacture the required remorse. “Would you…?”
“Certainly!” And then the most wonderful, magical thing had happened. The Hatter had held out his arm for Alice to take. “If it pleases you.”
She’d nodded vigorously and shakily slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. They’d wandered in a seemingly aimless path through the throng of celebrants. At one point, the Tweedles had bounced over to them in their squeaky shoes, showing off their smart tailcoats. Nivens had generously complimented Alice’s footwear. Chess had grinned at her and purred, “What have we here? A matching set?”
“We’re not matching…” Alice had protested weakly, hoping with all her might that the Hatter hadn’t overheard that catty rumble.
“Hmm. Not yet at any rate.”
Oh, yes, her face had certainly flamed at that remark. She’d bitten back her protests: yes, she likes the Hatter very much but there’s no rush and, actually, she’s not sure what she’d do if he blatantly returned her affection. Pretending to study the sea of courtiers and craftspeople in attendance had given Alice a moment to cool her cheeks.
Then, suddenly, the Hatter had squealed with delight and surprise.
“What is it?” Alice had replied, following his gaze toward the orchestra of platypuses and noting the very interesting happenings taking place in the ballroom in the process: lady after lady had taken the initiative and approached a gentleman, curtsying deeply.
The Hatter had explained, “It’s been quite a while since they’ve played the Lady’s Favorite!”
“Is that what…?” Alice had started to ask as she’d watched one gentleman accept a lady’s invitation to dance. “Lady’s Favorite?” she’d echoed, her mind racing and heart pounding. Could this be her chance to show the Hatter the depth of her regard for him?
“Yes, yes!” the Hatter had replied. “Remarkable that her Majesty would request this song.”
When Alice had glanced back at the orchestra again, she’d seen the queen nodding in time to the long, opening strains of the melody. And then, inexplicably, the White Queen had looked in Alice’s direction and raised her brows expectantly, nodding meaningfully toward Hatter.
Oh!
“Oh, um,” Alice had mumbled, suddenly breathless with panic. “Hatter…?”
“Yes, Alice?”
Hoping she wasn’t about to make a monumental mistake, she had dropped into a deep curtsey.
In that moment, all of Underland had seemed to stop. She’s felt the eyes of everyone present watching her, gaping in silence. Nerves thoroughly wracked, Alice had frantically wondered if Time had suddenly decided to go on a holiday! But the Hatter’s happy giggle had saved her, unlocking her lungs and releasing the tension in her shoulders.
“It would be my pleasure, Alice,” he’d burred softly and the world had started turning again. Time resumed marking the seconds.
Alice had held out her hand as the other women had done and the Hatter had taken it and walked out onto the dance floor with her.
Alice had never been so nervous at a dance. In fact, she had never even asked anyone to dance, most especially not to a dance that she has never done before. When she’d confided this to him, he’d reassured her as he’d placed his hand - so warm! - on her waist, “All you have to do is lead. I will follow.”
Oh, how her heart had pounded then! Why she’d been so busy grinning and brimming with happiness and excitement and enchantment - for he had enchanted her! - that she’d nearly forgotten about the dance entirely. Nearly.
She’d stumbled into a waltz and the Hatter, true to his word, had followed her steps and it had been the most wonderful, the most magical, the most thrilling moment of her life! To share the dance floor with him, to be the only two people in the world, to make that little world all by themselves…!
It had ended too soon. And when the Hatter had glanced toward the beverage tables, Alice - still giddy - had stood on her tiptoes, intending to deliver a swift kiss to his cheek. But he’d turned then, looked back at her, and Alice’s momentum had delivered that kiss not to the safe haven she’d intended. No, their lips had crushed together awkwardly, hers slightly pursed and his in mid-word.
Even now, the memory immolates her with shame. She’s sure she hadn’t imagined hastily subdued giggles and chuckles from the courtiers, perhaps even a Chess-toned groan of disappointment.
It could not have gotten any worse. Except it had.
The Hatter had smiled, patted her shoulder gently, and trilled happily, “Yes, yes, you are natural leader, Alice. But, of course, I knew you would be. Well done! Are you ready for some tea?”
When he’d offered her his arm, she’d taken it, but the gesture had been automatic. She’d been too… struck dumb to do anything else. His words had been like treacle in her mind, miring her thoughts which had been whirling about so happily just a few moments ago.
She’d forced a smile onto her lips and had done her best to ignore the fact that he had not mentioned the ill-timed kiss. He had not acknowledged it at all. It had not even been worth commenting on.
Chessur would be disappointed to see her upside-down smile reappear, but she can’t help it.
Thankfully, she doesn’t have to think about it at the moment. She slows to a brisk stride as the open door to the queen’s library comes into view and voices can be heard from within.
“Hatter, I must insist that this be Alice’s decision.”
“I must rudely disagree, your Majesty. Alice should not see something of this magnitude.”
“It is endearing how you seek to protect her from unpleasantness,” the queen acknowledges, not minding the Hatter’s rudeness at all. “However, she has already fought and killed on our behalf-”
“All the more reason to shield her from this!” he argues back in a tone that is alarmingly high pitched with tension.
Alice pauses on the threshold and takes in the scene before her. The queen is seated at her desk with a tea service nudging her elbow. The hatter is pacing back and forth in front of the room’s large, arched window. Clearing her throat, she steps into the room uninvited and asks, “Shield me from what?”
The Hatter turns toward her and her breath catches at the sight of him. He’d donned his dark suit again and, truly, the mash of colors suits him so much better than white. Even the sight of his stockings - blatantly mismatched - makes her heart swell painfully.
“Alice! Thank you for attending this meeting!” the White Queen praises, looking truly pleased.
Not sure of what to say, Alice merely returns her gaze to the Hatter and waits.
When the clock continues to tick and tock with the Hatter clearly not volunteering either further greetings or information, the queen delicately clears her throat and offers, “Tea, Alice? We were just discussing the situation at Salazen Grum.”
“What situation?” Alice asks, frowning at the Hatter.
When he still refuses to explain, the queen interjects yet again, “There is quite an unpleasant mess at my sister’s former castle which requires immediate attention.”
As the words register, Alice looks away from the Hatter and regards the White Queen who is giving her a very significant look. “If you recall, Alice, you alluded to this not long ago over my alchemy table…?”
The Hatter twitches and Alice nods, remembering: “You can’t imagine what goes on in that place…”
She thinks of the heads in the moat and her stomach rolls as she realizes that - just as Marmoreal and the Jabberwocky and the Hatter are real - so are all the corpses floating in the moat of the Red Queen’s former castle. Her knees weakening, she reaches for the cup that queen offers her and sinks down into the nearest chair. One sip and then another heats her suddenly cold lips, streaks down her throat and settles her unruly stomach.
“So, we must bury the dead,” Alice deduces.
The queen nods with a sad smile. Even her ever-air-born fingers wilt into weak fists. “Yes. It’s the right thing to do.”
Which means it’s something a champion would do. Or at least see to. It is not said, but Alice understands that this is her responsibility. She whispers thickly, “When are we leaving?”
“No!”
She startles at the Hatter’s sudden exclamation. Turning in her chair, she finds herself confronted by a man’s silhouette, his face darkened by the light from the window behind him, his body fairly vibrating with tension. A very imposing figure, indeed. Imposing, but he’s no Jabberwocky.
Alice sets her teacup on the edge of the queen’s desk and stands. She feels suddenly ashamed of herself for forgetting about all of the people who had died, who she hadn’t saved - hadn’t arrived in time to save!
“Yes,” she informs him, her shame heating until it becomes anger. Alice welcomes it, lets it fill her, fuel her.
“Ye d’nae need teh see whot’s a-muck a’Crims,” he growls darkly.
Tilting her chin stubbornly, she retorts, “I already have. How do you think I got into the castle in the first place? I couldn’t have simply strolled across the drawbridge!”
He stares at her. She cannot see his eyes well, shaded as they are beneath his hat, but his Adam’s apple bobs above his collar.
“I’m going,” she reaffirms. Glancing over her shoulder, she asks the queen, “When are we leaving?”
The White Queen gives her a wan smile. “Just as soon as you’re ready, Alice.”
The Hatter shakes his head and takes a step toward her. “Ye’ll nae gae, Alice. ‘Tis nae place fer-”
“The White Queen’s Champion?” Alice interrupts. She gives him an expectant look. “I ought to be there, Hatter. And I will be.”
She looks at the queen once more. “I’ll be ready in an hour, your Majesty.”
And then she turns on her heel and marches out of the door and back to her borrowed room to prepare a change of clothes.
*~*~*~*
It’s tradition, taking a stroll through the country estate’s rose hedges before departing for the city. Hamish takes a deep breath, enjoying the clean air and the clear sky above. London has been well and truly conquered by man and man’s industry - even on rare sunny days, the light is diffused and weak. Not here. Here, man is the guest of nature rather than its master.
It’s a refreshing change, if rather counter-productive.
Hamish sighs as his mood suddenly shifts with the recollection of the proposal he’d delivered over breakfast yesterday. Hamish cannot recall the last time one of his ideas had been so enthusiastically received by his father, and certainly not an idea pertaining to business. It would have been amusing if it hadn’t stung so much. Expanding trade to China hadn’t been his idea, after all. It had been Alice’s.
He’d always thought her odd, over-imaginative, given to flights of fancy, counter-intuitive. Foolish.
Suddenly, the memory of his talk with Helen Kingsleigh revisits him:
“And just why would you feel compelled to ask for Alice’s hand, Hamish?”
“As a man of sound judgment and solid character, I feel Alice could only benefit from our union, Madam.”
He pauses in the middle of the path, takes a deep breath, and sighs it out. It will do no good to deliberately upset himself. Still, it is a bitter irony, indeed, that he has benefited from Alice and not the other way around. Silly, strange, somewhat mad Alice… and yet brilliant.
Yes, he can see now that he’s always been a bit jealous of Alice, envious of her daring. He fiddles with his pocket watch pocket, removing the timepiece but not bothering to consult it, as he recalls his repeated chastisement of her:
“I had a sudden vision of all the ladies in trousers and the men in dresses.”
“It would be best to keep your visions to yourself. When in doubt, remain silent.”
And then:
“Where is your head?”
“I was wondering what it would be like to fly.”
“Why would you spend your time thinking about such an impossible thing?”
He is a grown man, so he shouldn’t feel what he does now in response to that memory, but he can’t help but recognize it: shame. He feels very ashamed of himself for trying to subdue her marvelous spirit out of spite. He’ll not have the chance to apologize now, although the thought of doing so ties his innards up in very uncomfortable knots.
“No matter!” he mutters, scolding himself for dilly dallying. His mother and father will be departing very soon for town, so he’d best finish his walk and return to the house.
Restowing his pocket watch and straightening his waistcoat, Hamish strides forward, steps around the corner of the hedge and-
Stumbles to a halt.
He stares at the person in front of him, blinking in shock, for this can’t be who his eyes tell him it must be. This young woman in grubby trousers and a dirt-smudged tunic with her long, pale hair tied back and sweat beading across her brow, holding a shovel of all things in her grimy hands cannot be Alice.
This cannot be! Not in the middle of his mother’s rosebushes!
But then she looks up and her brown eyes widen. Her lips part and curve upward.
“Hamish?”
Her smile of welcome warms him even as his confusion still makes him feel adrift. “Alice! What are you doing here?! And why-ever are you digging a hole in the middle of my mother’s rose garden?!”
“Your mother’s…? No, Hamish. I’m not in your mother’s garden. You are in the Red Queen’s courtyard.”
“I… What?!”
Alice sets aside the shovel and pulls a grungy handkerchief from her trouser pocket. Hamish wrinkles his nose as she wipes her brow with the thing, smearing more dirt on herself. “Hamish,” she says, approaching him. “It is good to see you. But how did you get here?”
He glances about, surveying precisely where he is, and frowns. “I haven’t the faintest notion,” he replies, disarmed by his surroundings which are clearly not the maze of rose hedges on the estate. “I was merely strolling through the garden. I turned the corner and then there you were.”
“Remarkable,” Alice murmurs. “I’ve never come to Underland that way before.”
“Underland?”
“Yes, welcome to Underland, Hamish.” She glances around, her smile melting away. “Although, I do wish you’d come at a… happier time.”
Hamish follows her gaze, taking in the rows of very orderly square holes in the earth. He easily counts two dozen stretching off to the left. Turning to the right, he sees several more although they are not yet square. They are messily round and as he watches dirt sprays out of the two furthest edifices which must still be in the process of being excavated.
“Alice… what is all this?”
“A graveyard,” she answers softly.
“For whom?” he demands nervously.
She takes a shuddering breath.
“Alice? Who’s that you’re speaking to?”
Hamish turns and gapes at a rather large rabbit which is probably white under all that filth. The creature gazes back at Hamish, blinking his large, pink eyes and absently dusting off his waistcoat with a paw.
“This is Hamish. Hamish, this is McTwisp.”
The rabbit inclines his head. “Pleased to make you acquaintance, sir.”
Hamish gurgles something. Perhaps a greeting of some kind.
“Alice,” the rabbit continues, “I realize that we have a guest, but we also have a schedule.”
“I know. Just… I’ll be back shortly.”
“Hm. Very well.”
With that, the rabbit dives back into the hole and dirt once again begins spurting upward. The second gravedigger had not paused at all during this exchange and Hamish wonders if there’s a talking rabbit in that one, too.
“Let’s take a walk,” Alice invites quietly, waving her arm toward the castle itself.
Unable to think of any objections, Hamish follows without comment. For long moments, they simply wander the red-carpeted halls. He studies the Baroque buttresses above their heads and the carved mahogany doors in silence. Finally, when his need to orient himself eclipses his shock, Hamish demands, “What is this place, Alice? Where are we?”
Her smile is wry. “Well, at the moment, we’re walking through the halls of the former Red Queen’s castle at Salazen Grum. She’s been recently stripped of her powers and exiled, you see. And for the castle itself, it’s located next to the Crimson Sea, in the land of Crims, in the world of Underland which is through the rabbit hole, on the other side of the looking glass, and - apparently - around the corner of a rosebush.”
Hamish sputters a bit but then latches onto one statement in particular. “Did you say ‘on the other side of the looking glass’?”
“I did. Why-?”
Just then, the clack and clatter of a sewing machine intrudes on their conversation. Alice halts suddenly, her eyes on the single door standing open at the end of the hall. She puts out a hand, signaling Hamish to stop. “This way,” she whispers, nodding to a staircase.
Frowning over his shoulder at the door Alice clearly wishes to avoid, he mounts the stairs with her. It seems like they climb forever. When at last they emerge onto a stone parapet, Hamish gapes at the view of the ocean stretching out toward the horizon. He leans his hands against the edge of the battlement and says, wonderingly, “This… is not England.”
“No, it isn’t,” Alice answers, her tone softened with sadness and strengthened with pride.
“How will I get back?” he asks, truly concerned now.
After a moment, Alice admits, “I don’t know. But I’ve been here several times and a way always presents itself. Whether or not you take it, is up to you.”
“Well, when it appears, I would appreciate it if you would point it out to me, Alice. And, speaking of which, do you know how worried your mother and sister are? Really, you ought to return with me.”
“Maybe I ought to,” she replies, turning toward the sea and allowing the wind to blow the escaped strands of hair away from her face, “but I won’t. I can’t. I’ve made my choice.”
Hamish scoffs. “Your choice! Alice-!”
“No, Hamish,” she informs him, her voice so weighted with authority and… something else that he finds he can’t argue with her. Irritated, he turns away from the view and endeavors to take stock of all that he can see from each direction.
“Hamish…?” he hears Alice say to his back. And then she shouts, “No! Hamish, don’t look that way!”
Contrarily, he speeds up, reaching the edge of battlement as Alice’s dirty hand grips his very clean shirt sleeve. First, he sees only a desolate, rolling desert. Dead trees hunch mournfully beside dried-up river and creek beds. Beyond those, a frightful canyon rises out of the earth and thrusts toward the cloudless sky.
Yes, this is clearly not England.
And then he looks down.
For a moment, he doesn’t comprehend what he sees. Man-sized, animated, white chess pieces appear to be working in the castle moat, pulling round-ish objects from it and placing them in a line upon the ground. It’s not until a pair of these strange beings hauls what appears to be a torso with its arms and legs attached out of the muck that he realizes what it is he’s seeing.
He gags, pivots away from the scene and scrambles for a handkerchief which he presses to his too-warm, too-wet, and suddenly too-sour mouth.
Alice, however, merely releases his arm and stares downward.
He cannot fathom how she can stand the sight of all those heads, decayed and rotting and-!
If bile were not so very insistent on flooding his mouth, he would have scolded her, ordered her away from the wall.
“I couldn’t save them,” she says as he pants quietly into the linen held to his nose and mouth. “I was too late.”
Taking a deep breath, Hamish firmly orders his stomach to settle. It does. “What are you talking about, Alice?” he snaps.
“I could have saved them,” she rephrases, her hands fisting on the top of the stone wall. “If I’d only come sooner, killed the Jabberwocky sooner, I could have…” She shakes her head. Her shoulders slump. “I could have saved them, but I didn’t.”
Hamish cannot comprehend her guilt, but that is affecting her profoundly, yes he can comprehend that. “Come away, Alice,” he chokes out. “Let us go back inside.”
She sighs. “Yes, the Hatter will be finished with the shrouds soon. Then they’ll start carrying the bodies to the graves and… yes. There’s work to be done.”
They make their way back downstairs in silence. When they arrive on the ground floor, Hamish notes the utter silence in the hall. He glances up toward the room Alice had wished to avoid and gasps when he sees a man with wild orange hair upon which has been perched a very dark and tattered top hat and-
The man seems to sense his gaze. He pauses in the act of leaving the room, his arms piled high with folded sheets. No, not bed linens. These are the shrouds Alice had mentioned which means this man - the very man Hamish had seen dancing with a white-gowned Alice through the looking glass yesterday morning - is the Hatter.
Only a moment behind him, Alice enters the hall and then glances in the direction in which Hamish faces, frozen with realization. Beside him, Alice stiffens. Down the hall, the Hatter stiffens. Then, with a toothy smile and a flash of eyes that couldn’t have changed color just then, the man pivots very deliberately on the heel of his battered boot and strides toward them.
“Alice!” he calls out, lisping her name. “What have we here?” Stomping to a halt directly in their path, the man muses aloud, “I’ve never seen a dodo of such stature!”
Hamish feels his eyes widen and his face heat. Why of all the impertinent-!
“Hatter, this is Hamish from Above.”
“From Above?” the Hatter echoes. “So you’ve dropped in for a visit, just like our Alice?”
Noting the proprietary tone in the overly pale and dreadfully orange man’s voice, Hamish mulishly thrusts out his right hand. “How do you do?”
The Hatter, however, makes no move to grasp the offered hand. Instead, he stares at the sleeve of Hamish’s shirt, thrust forward as it is with his gesture of greeting. Hamish glances down and notices four very distinct streaks of dirt on the fabric in the exact shape and size as Alice’s fingers.
Rounding on her, the Hatter growls, “Where woul’ye ha’found sae much earth in th’ library tha’I asked ye teh clean aut?”
Fire flashes in Alice’s eyes. “You mean the library that you ordered me to clean out, which was ridiculous! McTwisp and Thackery needed help. You can’t expect a rabbit and a hare to dig dozens of graves all by themselves!”
Quick as a serpent’s strike, the Hatter’s hand darts out from under the mound of fine wool and grasps Alice’s wrist. “Ye should’a heeded me, lass. These hands’re no’meant fer gravework.”
“Well, that’s all they’re good for at the moment.”
The man’s eyes flash, simmer red-ly then fizzle to a disturbing yellow. “A champion’s hands’re meant’eh save lives-”
“I’ll decide what my own hands are good for, thank you very much!”
Alice twists her wrist from his grasp and the motion alerts Hamish to the fact that he has - thus far - been very remiss in his duties as Alice’s friend. He steps between them and, glaring down his nose at the Hatter, drawls, “Alice, simply say the word and I’ll handle this for you.”
Alice asserts from behind his shoulder, “I do not-!”
“Oh, handle this will ye?” the Hatter snarls. “An’ jus’who d’ye think ye be to auwr Alice?”
“I’m Miss Kingsleigh’s fiancé,” he proclaims vindictively, thrusting up his chin.
The hall echoes with the resulting silence.
Surprisingly, the Hatter takes a step back and nods. “Then I’m puttin’ ye in charge o’ makin’ sure she d’s a’she’s been told!” He glares past Hamish’s shoulder, presumably, at Alice. “Nae muir gravework!”
And then he utilizes the worn heels on his battered boots once more, pivoting smartly and marching down the hall.
Hamish glances over his shoulder at Alice and catches her expressive flinch when the door at the end of the hall slams shut. Taking a deep breath, she spears him in place with her dark gaze and informs him in a dangerous tone, “You are not my fiancé.”
For a moment, he can only stare as Alice storms down the hall, back in the direction of the grave-filled garden.
“Alice!” he hisses, thoroughly irritated. “I just interceded on your behalf! Why, that man was clearly mad and you-”
“That’s why they call him ‘the Mad Hatter’!” she calls back over her shoulder.
“Alice-!”
His additional protest is cut off as Alice pauses in the archway leading outside, turns back to him and nearly shouts, “And yes, sometimes he’s mad! We all are here! Crazy, mad, wonderful-” Hamish startles at the sight of tears gathering in her eyes. “All the best people are!” she concludes and sits down on the step in the sunlight.
Hamish regards her for a moment as she rubs the back of her hand over her cheeks. He recalls the moment he’d witnessed in the mirror and the emotions that had been utterly clear on Alice’s face. Her adoration as she’d twirled in the Hatter’s arms, her humiliation when their lips had met in that clumsy kiss, and her crushing disappointment when the Hatter had merely given her a pat and a seemingly flippant response. When Hamish hears Alice sniffle, he moves forward and seats himself on the step beside her.
“Alice, I… I’m…” He flounders for words.
“Damn it, Hamish. Take your own advice for once,” she huffs. “When in doubt, remain silent!” And then she leans her head against his shoulder.
He suspects that there are muddy tears staining his shirt sleeve, joining the streaks of dirt she’d left from her hand, but he doesn’t care. Sighing, he leans his cheek against her head, not understanding when that only makes her sob harder.
He closes his eyes and gathers his wits. He can still think of nothing to say, so he does as she’d asked. He says nothing. The sound of graves being dug, of the wind in the trees, assails him. A breeze blows past them, tickling his nose. Hamish does his best to manfully restrain the sneeze he feels coming, but he can’t.
“So-“ He would have apologized properly for the wholly inappropriate interruption if he’d had time, but-
“Ah-choooo!!!”
Hamish scrambles for a handkerchief to tend to his suddenly leaking nose - blasted allergies! - but when he opens his eyes, he finds himself standing in the intersection of two paths in his mother’s rose garden. There is no Alice leaning on his shoulder, no strange castle surrounding him, no graves being dug…
For a second, Hamish simply gapes at the utterly dull and familiar hedges.
What had just happened? Had he daydreamed again?
A cold trickle tickles his upper lip and Hamish hurriedly applies his handkerchief to his nose, blowing it soundly. Nose tended, handkerchief inspected, folded, and tucked away, Hamish eyes his path suspiciously, wondering if he might walk right into the Hatter should he take a single step…
“Hamish!”
His heart leaps into his throat, his head jerks around and for one wild instant he wonders if that’s Alice standing there at the other end of the hedge row…
But no. Not it isn’t. Of course not.
He takes a steadying breath before replying. “Mother?”
“We’re ready to leave,” she informs him, and then she waits right where she is, clearly expecting him to accompany her back to the house forthwith. Gritting his teeth, he admits that there’s no point in lollygagging around here. Alice - or his vision of her - is long gone.
“Yes, my apologies for the delay,” he offers, walking toward her.
Her sharp gaze moves over him and her nose wrinkles. Hamish follows her gaze and feels his heart stop in his chest.
“And now you’ve made us even later,” she informs him waspishly. “Come and put on a clean shirt before we leave.”
She turns and, skirts swishing, makes her way toward the house. Numbly, Hamish follows. His mind is only capable of one thought at the moment, one task. It is thoroughly preoccupied with the fact that there are dirty streaks on his white shirtsleeve, dirty streaks in the exact shape and size of Alice’s fingers.
Impossible.
Or rather, it should be.