Tarrant fic OUT OF MIND YET INSIDE IT 02/02

[solanyxe]

Alice in Wonderland 2010 fanfiction
Spoilers: the movie
Title: OUT OF MIND YET INSIDE IT
Summary: Underland is too big to fit inside one single head. Tarrant-centric, leads to Tarrant/Alice.
Pairings and characters: Tarrant, Tarrant/Alice, various characters from Underland,…
Word count: ~14.600 in total, ~5.000 for this part
Rating: PG -13
Warnings: death of an original character (in the past), brief mention of a railway accident, somewhat strained family relations
Other 1: Tarrant’s head is a bit messy, so the text might appear messy as well.
Present tense indicates the present, past tense the past events.
The cursive style indicates the events that happen in Underland.
I know some find it painful to read anything in cursive style, so I included the fic in PDF format HERE, where I used a different font instead of cursive. (I spent a lot of time trying o find a font that would be distinguishable enough from Calibri yet wouldn’t be completely atrocious for the eyes.)
Other 2: This was supposed to be a video, but it expanded and became a fic instead. I think I’ll still do the video eventually.
Other 3: Apologies for any possible historical inaccuracy and remaining mistakes.

PART 1 is HERE

The FOOTNOTES are HERE.

---
The Attic
---
Days later, when he feels better, Tarrant goes up to the attic.
It’s dusty; dust everywhere. Although he opens the window, the small and crammed place remains submerged in darkness.
Tarrant knows what he is looking for, however. The writing desk is covered with boxes and even one chair, and he starts to remove the furniture that stands in between him and the writing desk.
He starts opening the drawers. “I know I haven’t thrown it away. No, I’ve put it here somewhere.”
One of the drawers is locked, and Tarrant laughs until he takes in the detail that he has no idea where the key is.
“Key,” he says. “Key, key lock, writing desk, writing tools, drawing tools.”
He sighs and goes downstairs into his room. There he observes his writing desk - the positioning of drawers is slightly different than the one in the attic.
“Key, drawers, writing tools, key.” With those words, he opens the drawer that mimics with most precision the position of the locked drawer. His fingers rummage through quills, bottles of ink, wooden rulers, brushes, scribbled pieces of paper, and newspaper scarps. At last he catches a small metal key.
“There you are.”
It’s cold to the touch, and as Tarrant rolls in his fingers, it leaves traces of smell on his skin. He inhales the smell on his fingers, trying to remember the day he last used the key.

He was sad and upset. The sky was spotless blue, and Tarrant’s mind was the greyest cloud before the storm. Nothing he had done seemed to matter; he wanted to burn everything. Instead he locked it in a place he wouldn’t likely visit again.

Tarrant rushes back to the attic, coughing a bit.
The key turns and clicks in the drawer’s lock as a clock that began ticking after a long time. There is a sketchpad inside the drawer.
“The raven is like a writing desk,” he murmurs and pulls the sketchpad out. “Both store things that are half-forgotten. And treasures, both store treasures.”
After closing the widow, Tarrant returns into his room and climbs into the bed. The pad is full of drawings and notes. Some are older, some newer.

There’s a rabbit in a waistcoat.

---
Nivens McTwisp
---
McTwisp tapped impatiently with one leg and pointed at his pocket watch. “You are a little slow, you know. Could you run faster, perhaps? We don’t have much time.”
Tarrant glanced around. “I still don’t understand. I never thought a rabbit hole could be so big. And has doors.”
“Rabbit hole.” McTwisp rolled his eyes. “My goodness. He calls Underland a rabbit hole.”
“Underland?” Tarrant yelped. “Do you know if my father is here?”
“No, I don’t. The White Queen asked me to bring only you; I know nothing of your father. I don’t wish to hurry you up, but we are indeed late.” The white rabbit looked at his pocket watch again. “Late, late. It’s impolite to be late, and I am the most polite rabbit in Underland. I should say that I used to be the most polite, as I will be late to the meeting with the Queen. And someone who leaves the Queen to wait does not deserve the title of the most polite rabbit in Underland. I would still be the most polite rabbit from your land, but that’s hardly an honour worth mentioning. The things those rabbits do; they have no shame.” McTwisp grimaced in horror.
“What do I have to do, then?” Tarrant said.
“Just go through one of the doors,” said McTwisp.
Tarrant blinked. “But there’s only one door, and it looks a bit small.”
“No, there’s another door. There. This is the Hitherdoor and there is the Thitherdoor. Pick one and let’s go.”
“What’s the difference between them?” If he had to choose, Tarrant wanted to know what his choices consisted of.
McTwisp sighed, brining one hand to his face. “And that’s why I’ll be late. One door is hither and the other is thither.”
“But if I’m closer to the Thitherdoor, shouldn’t it be named Hitherdoor? And the door that is Hitherdoor is actually thither and should be called…”
“Yes, precisely. That’s why the sign says ‘Hitherdoor’ on both.” McTwisp pointed to the letters on the door. “It depends entirely on where you stand. You can never stand closer to Thitherdoor than you stand to Hitherdoor. Isn’t that obvious?”
Tarrant thought about it, and he had to admit that there was a certain logic in that. More logic than in many other things he had had to listen.
“Which door will it be, then?” said the rabbit.
Tarrant wasn’t willing to decide yet. “Then why does it matter which door I choose?”
“In one case you choose the door that’s closer, and in the other case you choose the door that’s farther. There’s also the Yonderdoor, but that’s yonder still. I think this should be quite obvious to anyone. Again, I don’t wish to hurry you, but I don’t like being late. Which door?”
“The Hithermostdoor, then? If it exists.”
“Of course it does,” said McTwisp. “We can finally proceed. Drink this.”
“What is it?”
“Pishsalver - you’ll need it.”
As Tarrant drank the content of the vial, the rabbit hit a knob on the floor, and they both fell down again.

Tarrant looks at the next sheet of paper and smiles bitterly. There’s a woman in a long gown, sitting in front of a castle.

---
The White Queen
---
She was beautiful and kind.
The White Queen knelt, so her eyes were level with Tarrant’s. “I’ve been waiting for you, Tarrant. I hope your travel was safe from any inconvenience.”
“You’ve been waiting for me? Have you met my father?” said Tarrant. There was something gentle and familiar about her, which made Tarrant feel at ease.
Her hand went to her chin. “Your father? No, I’m afraid I haven’t.”
“He’s here in Underland. Could you search for him?” Tarrant remembered he was talking to a queen then, and he quickly added, “If you could, please.”
The White Queen smiled and touched his cheek. “He is not in Underland. If he had ever arrived here, I would have known. Yet he didn’t, and that’s how it is, I fear.”
“How do you know?”
The White Queen, Mirana, led him to a room where a scroll had been stored. “This is the Oraculum. It shows what happens each day in Underland. See, here is today, the Gemeddous Day, the day you arrived.”
Tarrant could recognize himself in the picture.
“This is the Khattuz day, the day you’ll find your hat and become my Hatter. Here is Gribling, the day my champion will return for the second time to Underland. Her name is Alice.”
Tarrant looked closer. “Your champion? But she’s a woman. Why can’t I be your champion?”
“It’s not the appearance that matters in Underland, it’s what you have here.” The queen placed her palm on his chest. “How much you wish for something to happen, and how much you’re willing to do for it. How much you dare.”
She unfolded the Oraculum further. “The Frabjous day.”
The girl was wielding a sword against a dragon, and Tarrant noticed the same dragon was drawn elsewhere, next to the queen.
He pointed to that picture. “What is this dragon? It looks like it’s throwing fir from its mouth. What are you doing here?”
“It’s the Jabberwocky - you shouldn’t concern yourself with this.” With one swift motion, the White Queen rolled the Oraculum close. “Anyway, if your father had arrived to Underland, I would have known, but he’s listed nowhere in the Oraculum. You should think only of why you’re here, though.”
“I want to fight the dragon too,” Tarrant said. “I want to learn how to fight like a knight. I’ll protect you.”
“Hm.” The queen raised her hand in the air. “You’ll need some waxwaffer, if you want to brandish a sword and become a knight. Come with me.”
Tarrant followed her across the white corridors. “What is a waxwaffer?”
“It’s the opposite of toddletarte. The first makes you older, and the second makes you younger. Do you like sweets?”
“Yes, yes. I do,” he said, running in circles around her.
In the kitchen, the White Queen made the waxwaffer, and given the ingredients that went in, Tarrant could hardly believe it tasted good.
His body grew older and stronger at the first bite, his arms became strong enough to hold a real sword. Thus he began his training; from the White Queen’s guards he learned all they had to teach him. When Tarrant wasn’t practicing, he was helping the White Queen in the kitchen or exploring every nook and cranny of Underland.

He trained until the Khattuz Day, when he climbed on the highest point of the castle, on the roof of the highest tower in the castle. He wanted to see how big Underland was, and halfway up the stairs it crossed his mind that the only hat he would be willing to wear was a top hat. It also crossed his mind that the top hat would be waiting on top, a top of Marmoreal, or the name of the hat would make very little sense.
The hat was indeed stuck on a hook above the tiles, asking to be worn. The moment Tarrant touched it and placed it on his head, he knew the hat was made for him. Or he was made for the hat. He knew with absolute certainty that he wanted to make hats.

The White Queen corrected the position of the hat, when Tarrant had climbed down again to show his find.
“It suits you,” the White Queen said. “And you found it on the highest top of Marmoreal? It’s been ages since we had a hatter at court, as nobody was able to find the Hat. Are you willing to become my hatter, Tarrant?”
Tarrant took some time before responding. “Will you not be angry that I won’t become your champion?”
The queen waved her hand. “I’m in greater need of hats than champions now. My champion will come when the time is due.”
“Then I’ll be your hatter.”
The White Queen put her hands on Tarrant shoulders, saying, “Then from today on, you’ll be called Tarrant Hightopp, and you’ll be the Hatter to the queen.”
Tarrant threw his chest out in pride. “I will still help you when the dragon comes.”
“The Jabberwocky? I told you that you shouldn’t worry about it. We should make a celebration now. Everyone in Marmoreal will be pleased to hear that we will have hats again.”

His mother began to cough. Sometimes for a long time, making strange noises, and Tarrant didn’t know what to do. He stuck to her skirt sometimes, tugging it and asking, “Mother? What is it? Mother?” Sometimes he hid in a corner and waited.
“It’s all right,” she said. “You don’t have to worry about it.”
They moved to London soon thereafter, to live with aunt Abigail.
Aunt Abigail was not a pleasant aunt. In comparison to mother, she was ugly too.
“Now you come,” she said. “And you bring the boy. Make sure he’ll make no trouble or...”
“He won’t make any trouble,” said mother.
Aunt Abigail wore a brooch of lacquered wood, shaped as a rose.
“You like it?” she said, when she noticed Tarrant was looking at it. “Its colour comes from the dragon’s blood.”
Dragon’s blood?
In front of Tarrant’s eyes, two eyes popped in the middle of the rose, and the brooch began to change form.
Aunt Abigail frowned. “It’s polite to watch someone in the eyes, when you speak to them, though. You will watch me in the eyes. Do you understand?”
“It moved. The brooch started to move, it was changing into a dragon.” Tarrant glanced at his mother.
“Nonsense,” aunt said. “Brooches don’t move, even less they become dragons.”

Mother spent most days in one room, and aunt Abigail allowed Tarrant only rarely to see her. She didn’t allow him to go outside often either.
“You’ll pick up nasty habits on the street. Not to mention that it’s not safe,” she said. She forbade him to spend time in the kitchen with the staff too.
Instead, Tarrant was forced to attend the lessons of Mr Campbell, who came every few days to teach him things that Tarrant had no wish to learn.

Each time Tarrant saw his mother, she seemed weaker and paler. Sometimes she screamed, and that’s when aunt Abigail screamed at Tarrant, ordering him to wait in his room.
“It’s not a sight for children. Get out! Get out of my way!” she yelled.
He began to suspect that aunt Abigail was hurting mother, made her scream, and he hated aunt for taking mum away from him.

It was then that he began his game with letters and things.
“If I can spot five things that begin with letter L in the room, before aunt enters here, she’ll let me see mum.”
“If I can think of seven words that begin with letter N before that man on the street outside enters the carriage, we’ll go away from aunt in a week.”
“If I can find four red things that….”

As mother and aunt became more distressed, the doctor’s visits became more and more frequent, and one they took mother to the hospital.
She never came back.

In Underland, it was the Horunvendush Day. In the woods, during the festivities, the Jabberwocky burnt everything; nothing remained. The Red Queen laughed as she took Mirana’s crown. Tarrant’s hat caught the flames, but it didn’t burn as everything else did. He put it back on his head, where it belonged, where it would always belong.

Aunt Abigail corrected Tarrant’s collar. She was dressed in black, just as he was.
“You have to be strong now,” she said. “You’re not a little boy anymore, so you must not cry. Did you understand? We are strong, and we don’t cry. Now say a proper goodbye to your mother.”
She pushed him to the dark coffin, where his mother lied. She was white, and she seemed so tiny as though she had eaten a piece of toddletorte or had drunk a vial of pishsalver.

The White Queen had escaped safely to Marmoreal. The castle was still white, and the queen was as young and beautiful as ever.
“Tarrant!” She hugged him and cried. “I feared for your life.”
“What now?” Tarrant said. Although he fought them with all his might, the tears were running down his cheek.
“You have to go back. I can’t, because my sister, the Red Queen, will make an attempt at my life the moment I step out of Marmoreal. I cannot leave.” She brushed his hair. “You must, however. The Red Queen will not rule forever; one day my champion will come and slay the Jabberwocky. That day we will all be free. You must go and make sure that whatever happens, my champion - Alice will survive. The second time she’ll return you must help her find the Vorpal sword. On the Frabjous Day we will become free again.”
The White Queen pressed a kiss to Tarrant’s forehead. “Go now. Be careful and remember me.”
“I will never ever forget you,” Tarrant said. “I will fight the Red Queen, and I will find your champion.”

He hated his aunt with every fibre in his body.
She sent him to a boarding school. He had overheard his aunt and another man about putting him in an orphanage or sending him to sweep chimneys, but in the end aunt Abigail sent him to a boarding school.
“He should at least in part be schooled as a proper gentleman, regardless of his impure blood and my current standing,” aunt said. “He needs not attend university. It would be wasted on someone like him.”
Tarrant attended tedious classes and fought with the other boys. When nobody saw him, he drew, scribbled, and dreamt. Only many years later he returned to his aunt.

“It was cheaper than a rent,” Tarrant whispers to himself. He wonders if he has indeed been too cruel to Abigail. She has provided for him, after all, and for his mother too. He looks at the next sheet of paper to chase his thoughts away.

There’s a tiny creature hiding in a teapot; a dormouse. Tarrant can’t even recall when he drew the picture.

---
Mallymkun
---
Tarrant woke up into the morning chill. Thackery was still sleeping.
After stretching his rigid muscles, Tarrant grabbed for his tea. The bottom of his teacup was frumious, stained with circles of tea residue. Perhaps it wasn’t even his teacup. When had they changed seats last? Tarrant could not remember.
Looking at the teapot, he inhaled deeply. This was probably going to be smelly too, but someone had to check. He pulled the teapot close to him.
“Hey!” came a voice. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Tarrant knitted his brows and placed the teapot back on the table. There was nobody but him and the March Hare at the table.
“You knocked me down! I bumped my head. No, you bumped it!” The owner of the voice sounded rather indignant.
Without thinking too much, Tarrant lifted the lid of the porcelain teapot.
Inside, there was a tiny dormouse, standing in the brownish tea up to her waist. Her clothes and fur were wet, and she was trembling in cold. The tea inside the teapot was frumious too, as Tarrant had suspected.
“Uh,” he said and closed his nose with the other hand.
The dormouse waved her fist. “What were you doing? You could have killed me.”
“Well, madam,” said Tarrant, “I believe this is my teapot. You should get one of your own if you want to take a bath.”
“I didn’t want to take a bath.” The dormouse sneezed. “Are they gone?”
“Who?”
“The feral cats, of course.”
Tarrant let go of his nose and looked around. “I see. No, there are no feral cats here. I think you’re safe now.”
“I could have taken them by myself,” said the doormouse. “But I lost my weapon, and there was too many of those cats. I’m sorry if the commotion woke you up.”
Tarrant shook his head. “You didn’t wake me up, don’t worry. We had too much tea yesterday. Or the day before that, or whenever it was that we were drinking tea. I didn’t hear a thing.”
The dormouse mumbled something.
Tarrant leaned closer for a moment and drew his head away, as soon the smell of the old tea hit his nostrils. “What did you say?”
“I said that I tried not to wake you,” the dormouse yelled.
One of Thackery’s ears twitched, but that was not enough to wake him.
“That’s very considerate of you.” Tarrant took his scissors and grabbed the edge of the tablecloth. “What is your name?” He began to cut.
The dormouse jumped on the table and lowered herself as if expecting that the feral cats would appear any time now.
“Mallymkun,” she said.
“Mally, nice to meet you. I’m Tarrant, the Hatter. I can make clothes too, however.” He tried to look at Mallymkun while sewing and therefore pricked one finger. “Ouch.” To soothe the sting, he took the finger to his mouth and sucked it.
One last seam on the tablecloth, and he offered a white dress to her. “This should do for now.”
“I don’t need it,” Mallymkun said. “I have my own.”
Tarrant didn’t remove his hand. “But it’s wet. And cold.” He brought his face close to her, trying not to breathe, and he wheezed out, “And frumious.”
Mallymkun took the dress from his hand with one forceful tug. “If you insist.” She jumped behind the teapot. “Don’t peek.”
Tarrant tapped his fingers against the table, waiting.
Mallymkun reappeared in a matter of seconds.
“Just the right size,” Tarrant said.
The dormouse stood on the table for some time, and the Hatter smiled at her at almost exact intervals.
“Well, I’ll be going now,” said Mallymkun.
Tarrant stood up. “What about the teapot?”
Mallymkun repeated after him, “What about the teapot?”
“Yes, you haven’t even chosen one yet. I’ve told you that you should get one teapot of your own, haven’t I?” With one hand, he indicated the chinaware on the table.
Mally’s eyes followed the broken teacups and overturned teapots. “I don’t want one that’s broken or dirty. I hope you have at least one clean teapot.”
“Hm. Maybe?” Tarrant said. “There could be one. Take your time. I’m going to make some tea meanwhile. You will join us, won’t you?”
“Since you insist.” Mallymkun sat on the table.

The next Tarrant’s drawing depicts a boy with too long hair. He is not a boy, however.

---
Alice
---
He was Alice, Alice Kingsleigh. The Hatter knew she was the White Queen’s champion right away. A small girl. Tarrant suspected too much toddletorte had been involved, yet he was soon forced to note that the way Alice toddled (her feet and mind alike) through Underland was too pristine to be caused by any cake.
Alice was not Mirana’s champion yet, as it was not the right day yet, but she would become the champion in future.

He didn’t speak of this to Alice, of course; Tarrant was merely trying to be a good host. He offered her tea, jam yesterday and even jam tomorrow, and he made sure she was safe from the bloody Red Queen. Surprisingly, Alice could keep herself safe without any help, even at Crims, in front of the ugly Big Head.

Proud and curious, Alice always knew who she was, whereas Tarrant’s memories had long begun to fade into confusion.

“How much you wish for it, how much you’re willing to do for it. How much you dare.” Mirana’s words echoed in his mind. It was clear that Alice was much more than Tarrant in that regard. Before he knew it, he started to care about the little boy… little girl for different reasons than saving Underland. Her muchness had sat on his head as firmly as his hat, refusing to let go.

Before leaving, Alice promised to remember and to return again, and Tarrant went back to waiting.

“I won’t wait anymore,” Tarrant says.
What he is supposed to do, he doesn’t know, however. In four days, he resumes his work.
He tries to settle whatever there is left to settle between him and his aunt - he will probably have to move out.
“That night when I said I would leave and that you…” Tarrant begins.
Aunt Abigail barely deigns him with a glance. “You were obviously gravely ill and out of your sane mind. Why else would you have blabbed such rude and nonsensical things? I already forgot your rudeness entirely. We shall not speak of that again.”
“As you wish, aunt.” Unsure of how to continue, Tarrant goes to work.

Days follow as usually, but Tarrant can’t stop himself from thinking that something should change now, something should happen.
He feels bald without his hat, but buying a new one would be as useless as trying to buy a new head.
And Alice - was she real or part of his imagination? If she is real, a girl of flesh and blood, is her name truly Alice?
He turns his head after every blonde he encounters - none is Alice.
Alice Kingsleigh.
Where could Tarrant even start looking for her? In which town, or perhaps which colony? How could Tarrant know where she lives? How could he know if she wears the same face as in his dreams?
Maybe he should resign himself to waiting in Underland for her return.

Tarrant can’t wait anymore, though.
The problem lies within the fact that he can’t wait, and at the same time he can’t begin searching. If Alice is revealed as an empty phantom from his dreams… No, that can’t be true.
Then again, if Alice exists, and Tarrant indeed finds her, will she think him mad for intruding from dreams into reality? Will she remember Tarrant at all? Will she say he can’t be the Hatter for he doesn’t look like him at all?
Besides, if Alice had wanted to be with him, she wouldn’t have left Underland, is that not obvious enough?
On the other side, Alice said she would not forget him, so he should trust her word.

Weeks pass, months pass by, and nothing has changed yet.

---
The Harbour
---
The harbour is crammed with people; those who are embarking on the ships, those who are left behind and are now waving their goodbyes, the dockers who carry boxes and sacks. Tarrant watches the ships with envy, as he inhales the air that reeks from the grey water.
To sail away into an unknown world and see things that others do not, not merely in a dream but in each and every reality. Who needs wings to fly, when there are sea roads to glide upon?
“I’d like that,” he whispers to himself. “One or the other or preferably both.”
He always has.
A butterfly flutters in front of his face, its blue wings teasing Tarrant’s mind.
“Absolem?” says Tarrant.
Without a reply, the butterfly flies toward one of the ships, yet Tarrant doesn’t have the time to see which, because his eyes stare open wide into the waves of his memories.

---
The Caterpillar
---
He was not supposed to go there; he was not supposed to leave the house. That made the decision only firmer in Tarrant’s head. Sneaking out of the house unnoticed was not too difficult, as long as he returned soon, and it’s not like talking to the old man would bring harm to anyone.
The man used to loiter on the streets, occasionally stop to lean a wall, and smoke his pipe. He would stare in front of himself, mumbling as if conversing to a person only he could see.
Whenever Tarrant noticed the man through the window, he tried to sneak outside, for he knew the man had a secret. Sometimes, Tarrant suspected that the man was not even human, but a creature which came to London for a mysterious purpose. His gait was strange, the backs of his hands were covered with anchors and signs, and Tarrant hadn’t heard anyone talk the way this man did. On top of that, the man, if he indeed was a man, had travelled all the seas.

“Here again, ye bubba?” the man said, his words stretched in his usually unusual way.
The blue and white stripes of his smeared shirt were stretching above his fat stomach, as circles of a caterpillar’s body. His hair and beard were as grey as the clouds from his pipe.
“You never told me what you’re doing here,” Tarrant ventured. “Only that you travelled the world.”
“I’m aonly watin fae the ship. Huv ye seen her?” The man waved one hand.
Tarrant looks around, for a moment expecting to truly find a ship. “Ship? So you really are a captain? I want to be a captain too. And sail far away. Can you take me aboard your ship?”
The man laughed. "Ye wee dobber. Yer talkin bletherskite. D'ye think ye can be captin so easy? Ye cannae. Ah didnae turn captin, didnae wan anyhow. Naw... An what dae ya need a ship fae?”
The man’s voice grew as he began to pace. From his mouth, the words came running faster and faster - it was impossible for Tarrant to understand any of them anymore.
Finally the man fell silent, cleared his throat, and resumed to smoke his pipe.
“Ye sail yer own way in lyfe, ye dinnae need a ship.” He smiled, showing the gaps between his teeth. “Ye let no gallot tell ye wher tae go. Sail yer own way. Aye, gaun yersel, wee man!"

When the man stopped coming, Tarrant kept glancing through the window for days, hoping to see the familiar figure. He never did, though.
Thus, when Tarrant was alone, and there were screams coming from mother’s room, he tried talking with himself, emulating the old man’s speech.
It was almost as if the man’s strange words held a special power that normal ones did not possess, almost as if they were a magical incantation. Tarrant could feel the force running through his body whenever his tongue moved to pronounced them. The words he couldn’t remember, Tarrant invented anew.

“Gaun yersel!” The words echo in his head. When Tarrant notices he’s still standing at the port, he quickly searches for the butterfly with his eyes. He searches for the ship that the butterfly was flying toward as well.
The ship is but a blotch on the horizon, and the butterfly is nowhere to be seen. Tarrant doesn’t ask himself anymore what happened to the strange old man, and neither he asks himself if that was truly Absolem. He knows the answer.
As Tarrant watches the distancing ship, a resolution starts to grow inside him.

---
The White and the Red Rose
---
He wanders aimlessly through the streets, thinking and rethinking.
A street vendor, a young girl, calls after him, “Flowers, sir? The loveliest flowers.”
Tarrant stops and stares into her.
“Flowers for your madam?” she says.
Tarrant buys a white rose, the rose that he then twirls between his fingers, while he is sitting in a coach. He hasn’t been to St Marylebone Cemetery in long time. The spines graze his skin, forcing Tarrant to rub his itching fingers.
Every rose has its spines; every idea has a drawback.
“That should not stop a madman from pursuing an idea, should it?” he whispers to himself and finds his mouth has already spread into a grin. “Of course not. Although one should say a proper goodbye.”
At the cemetery, he places the white rose next to one tombstone.
“You’re free now,” he says, his fingers brushing the letter engraved in the stone. “Mother, I’m going to sail away and be free too. Father, wherever you are, I bid you farewell too. Fairfarren.”

His aunt is not content. “What kind of nonsense is this? I haven’t raised you so you’d throw your life away on some foolish errand. Travel the world? Too much adventurous sense is what kills men and women. Men and women who could otherwise lead a respectable life. Do you want it to kill you too? And where would you go? How would you live? You don’t expect me to pay for your foolishness? After all I’ve done for you.”
Tarrant decides not to say that as far as his understanding goes, she hasn’t raised him at all. He glances at the red rose brooch on her blouse before looking aunt Abigail in the eyes. “I don’t expect anything from you, aunt. I don’t know where I’ll go yet. There are many interesting events happening in the world, and I’m sure there is a newspaper or two that will be interested in the recounting of those events.”
“You think it will be so easy? You’ll come back crying for help, just as your mother did.”Abigail stares at him, yet Tarrant doesn’t flinch this time.
“Well, go then,” aunt says, sighing. “Go and leave me alone to my old age. I haven’t expected much gratitude from you anyway. I’ve been alone for most of my life, and I certainly don’t need a good-for-nothing to live off me. I’ll sleep more soundly when I know you’re not around to make me worry. Go.”
“Thank you,” says Tarrant, and to his astonishment, he means it.

---
Horizons
---
Two weeks to New York or months to Bombay?
Tarrant has been undecided whether to sail west or east for quite some time. Unless he waits a bit… His mind comes upon a perfect and impossible plan.
Molly and Tuck don’t believe him at first, and they laugh, but then they see he is serious.
“You’re crazier than me. Good job.” Tuck slaps Tarrant on the back before he can dart away. “Let’s see if we can arrange to sell your nonsense for a good price. I’ll talk to Edmunds, and he’ll talk to Phillips, and then you can make a more official proposal to those in charge here. Just beware of Stanovic.”
“You can’t go alone, it would be too dangerous,” Molly says. “I’ll go with you.”
Tuck laughs again.
Tarrant knows by the look in her eyes that this is as much a joke as his own announcement, or should he say, as serious as his own announcement.
“No, Molly,” he says. “Not this time.”
“Why? I can travel as well as any other man does,” she says.
After a pause, Tarrant says, “It’s something I must do alone. That’s between me and me.” He can’t find any better words to explain, but Molly seems to understand.
“Then you have to promise you’ll write regularly.” She points at him with her index finger. “Or you’ll have to answer to me when you’ll come back.”

Tarrant sails to the Mediterranean Sea, to Egypt. With him, he takes his writing tools, his brushes and sketchbook, and all the madness he possesses.

In little more than one week, his pencils sketch the crowd at the opening of the Suez Canal, while his mouth silently lists the colourful headgear in front of him. Turban, bonnet, top hat, pith helmet, fez, porkpie hat, lum hat…
It’s late autumn, but the sun is warm, scorching here.
Tarrant sketches whatever he can see, the donkeys and the dromedaries included. If he could, he’d draw every smell and sound as well.
At the harbour he draws L'Aigle and other boats.

“People will want to know what the French are up to, won’t they?” Tarrant murmurs as he sends a telegraph to various editorial houses. At least one newspaper will be interested, he knows, but he wants to try his luck with others too.
He embarks on a ship for India in few days.

During the days, Tarrant watches the endless waves from atop the deck and sketches what he sees. During the nights, he drinks tea from an endless number of teacups. He makes hats too, in a renewed studio inside the old mill, hats that Bayard and sometimes Thackery deliver to the court. Tarrant’s fingers are always restless, working. Still he thinks of Alice.

Upon reaching India, Tarrant compares the new wonders to those he knows from Underland. The taste of the teas and fruit, the colours of the garments, the diversity of the architecture. Dormice with swords or the rats in temples… The Marmoreal castle or the Taj Mahal…
Which is more improbable? Which is more real? Which deserves more to be called a dream?
He travels by train, by foot, and by donkey. Although Tarrant doesn’t know exactly where to or for what purpose he is travelling, he does try to sell his articles regularly, and he sends letters to Molly. Otherwise he has no aim.
It’s the same as making hats; he lets his mind and hands roam free, and the hat takes shape - the perfect shape - right in front of him.
Thus, after more than a month of exploring India, he embarks on a ship again, almost on a whim.
To Hong Kong, China.
And why not?

---
Hong Kong
---
He spots her from afar in a crowded street of Hong Kong. He’s been here for three weeks. He loses only a second pondering on what she’s doing here, what his Alice could possibly be doing here. Tarrant knows he isn’t dreaming, which means Alice can’t be a vision either.
He rushes after her, making his way through the crowd of Chinese and Western men.
“Alice,” he calls, “Alice!”
She turns her head around, searching for his voice, but she doesn’t see him yet.
He speeds up and catches up with her.
“Alice?” Tarrant’s voice is breaking from the run. Finally he can take a decent look at her - she’s different yet somehow exactly the same. Golden tresses, dark eyes, the muchness.
“Yes, you’re Alice, you’re absolutely Alice,” he says more to himself than to her.
There is no sign of recognition in her eyes, and Tarrant remembers that he doesn’t even have his hat - of course she’d look strangely at him.
His right hand waves above his hair. “I couldn’t bring it with me, I didn’t know how.” His eyelids narrow as he tries to think. “I still have it with me, just not here.”
He has no idea what else to say, thus he simpers to her. He has found her in the least probable place on Earth.

The man next to Alice coughs. “Alice? Who is this… young gentleman? Do you know him?”
Tarrant’s eyes skim from Alice back to the man - he hasn’t even noticed him before. Now Tarrant watches him with a sting of envy, knowing that the man, whoever he is, is not too old for Alice to discard him, and likewise not too dull in the head to discard Alice.

Alice tilts her head and looks at Tarrant. “I don’t know.” She makes a step closer to him. “Who are you? Do we know each other?”
“Ah,” says Tarrant, trying to keep his face impassible. He knows her, but apparently Alice doesn’t know him. Again.
“No, we do not know each other,” he whispers.

She said she wouldn’t forget. She promised. It was a lie, of course. Wonderful, impossible, and painful lie. She had forgotten before, why should this time be different? Lie, lie, lie.
He doesn’t know where to look anymore. If he finds three things on the street that begin with letter M before Alice speaks again, she’ll remember him.
Tarrant thinks he can hear his heart in his throat. His mind refuses to find anything. Letter M, letter A, letter D, what does it matter? Alice doesn’t remember.

“As this seems to be a misunderstanding, dear Alice, shall we go?” the man says.
Alice doesn’t speak yet, she waits moments, long moments in which Tarrant should say something, but his mind offers him nothing more than the knowledge that his pocket watch in Underland has began ticking. Tick-tock, tick-tock, and Alice will go away.
“Yes, let’s go, then,” she says. Her feet began to walk, but her face is still turned toward Tarrant. Before Alice shows her back to him, he lunches forward. “Wait!” he says.
He grabs her pale hand, and her fingers lay meekly in his palm for a while, before he realizes his blunder.
He releases her and mumbles his apologies.
The man’s brows furrow. “What is this about? You shouldn’t importune…”
“Have you found out?” Tarrant says, looking Alice straight into the eyes. “Have you found out why a raven is like a writing desk?”

Alice gasps, or smiles perhaps. “No, I haven’t.”
“I have,” Tarrant says, noticing that he’s started to simper as an idiot again. “I have unravelled the riddle.”
She comes close to him, close enough to be indecent, and there’s muchness shining all over her, and Tarrant must fight the urge to be far more indecent.
Instead, he raps his index finger against his temples and smiles. “The raven is a like a writing desk because they both share the same dream. The same memory.”
Shaking her head, Alice gives him a chiding look. “You know that makes no sense? This answer makes no sense whatsoever.” Her lips stretch in a smile. “Then you truly are the Hatter. I knew it. Only the Hatter would find that kind of answer.”
Alice draws back and says, “This is Nigel Watts, my co-worker at Ascot Co., and this…” She motions to Tarrant. “… is an old friend I met back in England.”
Tarrant smiles to Mr Watts, remembering to introduce himself only when Alice shows with her eyes to do so.
He covers his mouth with a palm of his hand, whispering, “Oops.” Then he says aloud, “Forgive my utter lack of manners. I’m beyond myself with surprise over this… unexpected encounter. Tarrant Alden.”
He shakes hands with Mr Watts.
“I’m here as an independent journalist, or whatever else faith will bring in this strange land,” Tarrant says.
“A journalist?” says Alice. “Then you must have many tales to share.”
Tarrant gulps. “Nothing worth mentioning, I’m afraid.”
“Well, I would equally like to hear. Will you join us? It’s never too late for high tea.” Alice’s grin is a combination of chastity and impropriety that makes Tarrant’s heart ache with longing and expectation.
“I’d be glad to.”

They walk on the streets of Hong King, politely discussing uninteresting subjects that two gentlemen ought to discuss in a presence of a lady. At the first occasion, when the crowd divides them from Mr Watts, Alice pulls Tarrant aside and whispers, “So your name is truly Tarrant? You look… different, but somehow I can still tell it’s you.”
“Yes,” Tarrant whispers.
“I knew you were more than a part of my dream,” Alice continues. “You had to be. And now I found you.”
Tarrant shakes his head. “Alice, I think you got this the wrong way. I’m quite certain I found you before you found me. Your ideas are always upside down.” He moves his hands to correct his hat and finds only air. “I keep forgetting about my hat. I must find a way to bring it here.”
“But I found you first in Underland, when you had your tea party,” says Alice.
“Well, then we’re even. I offered you tea in Underland, and now you’ll offer me tea in Overland. Or should it be Aboveland?”
“Don’t you think you’ll get away with just tea.” Alice giggles, and Tarrant thinks of many indecent things he should not do. Not yet, at least.

“There you are. I didn’t notice when you’ve stayed behind,” says Mr Watts as he finds his way back to them.
“Yes,” says Tarrant. “It’s the throng on these streets, terrible thing. We nearly lost you but not quite.”
He thinks that he would love to lose Mr Watts, but he can’t say that aloud.
Mr Watts sighs. “Tea, then? There’s an agreeable teahouse right here. As agreeable as it can be in a place like this.”
Alice says, “Yes, tea.”
Tarrant whispers, “Not just tea.”
Judging by the way Alice glances at him, she has probably heard.

---
More than Tea
---
The room is adorned half in British style and half in Chinese; Chinese bed with some kind of wooden canopy, an ordinary writing desk, then a chest with drawers, each full of meticulous and exotic intarsia, a porcelain vase with traditional oriental motifs next to a statuette of a round Englishwoman.
It fits together as a fish with wings, which means it fits perfectly, at least as far as the standards in Underland go.
“It’s more difficult than I’ve imagined, the trading business,” Alice says.
Tarrant lifts his eyebrows. “More difficult than slaying the Jabberwocky?”
“Almost,” she says, laughing. “One needs to be wise if he wants to trade without losing, and I fear I’m not wise enough. I wish I was.”
“Wise?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think it’s a simple as that,” Tarrant says. “Do you mean clockwise or counterclockwise? There is a difference. ”
“Perhaps counterclockwise, and most surely contrariwise,” Alice say. “But how do I do that?”
Tarrant furrows his brows, thinking. At the end he has to grin and admit, “I have no idea.”
Alice’s lips spread in a smile, and she grabs the chair that’s next to the writing desk.
Tarrant sits on the bed, because Alice has sat in front of him, on the only chair in the room. His fingers fidget as if they had a mind of their own. This is the ‘not just tea’ part, and while Tarrant knows a great deal about tea, he knows far less about ‘not just tea’.
“Nice bed,” he says, trying not to think of the implications. Sitting on a lady’s bed in her room, with no one but the lady present, came with certain implications, after all. Someone might misunderstand. Tarrant might misunderstand. Unless Alice has the same intentions he wishes she has.
“It’s a nice bed, a lovely bed, an outright charming bed,” he mumbles, “but a little small, I fear.” His fingers entangle. “For someone who likes to drink upelkuchen as much as you do, that is.”
Alice smiles. “I haven’t drunk upelkutchen since I left London.”
“What about pishsalver? You could fit a whole army on your bed if you had a vial of pishsalver. Perhaps not a whole army, but most certainly you and me. Well, we could probably fit even without the pishsalver, but the pishsalver would make it easier, but only if finding pishsalver was easy. I’ve never been able to make a proper pishsalver outside Underland, and neither have I been able to make it inside Underland, now that I think of it.”
“Hatter!” Alice says and takes hold of his hands to stop his rambling.
“I’m fine,” says Tarrant. “Although I miss my hat. One can’t well be a Hatter and not have the Hatter’s hat. I wonder if there’s any way to bring anything up from Underland.”
Alice makes a nod. “There must be a way. I’ve brought these scars from Underland.”
“Scars?”
“Yes.” Alice taps one arm. “The ones I got from the Bandersnatcher.”
Tarrant tilts his head, watching the white fabric that covers her arm. “Scars,” he repeats.
“I can show you, if you don’t believe me. Help me unbutton this thing.”
Before Tarrant can say anything, Alice turns around and lifts her hair.
“Well,” says Tarrant, unsure how he should continue and most assured on how he’d like to continue.
He unfastens the first four buttons, starting at the neck and going downwards. The skin on her back is even paler than her face, and it looks soft, but Tarrant doesn’t dare touch it.
Alice doesn’t wear a corset, and Tarrant smiles. If he had had any doubt before, now he’d be absolutely certain this is Alice, for this is something peculiar to THE Alice alone - her apparel and appearance are never what one would expect.
Tarrant is at the button number six, when Alice turns to face him again. She pulls the right sleeve of her blouse down, revealing her shoulder and part of her arm.
Her dark eyes flit from her arm to Tarrant’s face and back.
Tarrant moves closer and feels the marks with his fingers; there have been three long gashes, the new skin is still a bright pink and is protruding slightly.
“It must have hurt. I should have noticed, I should have, but I have not.” He presses a kiss on the first scar, then on the lower one, and the one that lies lower still, and there are no more scars left. Thus he kisses them again, from the bottom up, and his mouth trails slowly upwards to savour the clear skin.
Only when his lips meet her neck, Tarrant surges back.
“Pardon.” As he speaks, the taste of Alice’s skin rolls sweetly on this tongue.
“Tarrant,” Alice says, her voice low and uneven. “It’s not something you should beg your pardon for.” Her hands reach back and slowly undo the remaining buttons. Alice keeps her head lowered for a while, and when she finally looks at him again, her gaze is as much as question as it is a statement.
Tarrant gulps. “I’m not the real Hatter here. I have never made a hat here. I couldn’t make a hat if my life depended on it. I could write you a hat in more ways than one, if you wish, though.”
Alice pulls the sinking blouse back to her chest. “Write me a hat? What do you mean?”
“Yes, yes, it’s quite easy.” Tarrant stands and walks to the writing desk. There he borrows a quill and a sheet of paper. His mind runs amuck, every thought colliding with Alice while he scribbles.
“There.”

Alice looks at the paper, her blouse still trying to drift down, her shoulders still bare.
“See? I can’t make a real hat,” Tarrant says. If someone gave him silk to make a hat, he would ruin it with his hands. The same way he would ruin it, was he ever to hold Alice.
“I’m not what I… I ought to be.” He lets the paper fall on the desk. “I’m not the Hatter.”
“Nonsense.” Alice springs up. “That’s like saying I’m not Alice.”
Tarrant shakes his head. “No, no, you are Alice. You’ll always be Alice - you couldn’t be anything else. Yet for me…” He tries to speak of his wandering mind, which he controls only occasionally, of the voices and images that toss him about without ever landing him on the solid ground. He tries to speak of his anger and desperation, of his aunt, and of his silly desires, but all he manages is, “It’s impossible, impossible for me to be what you need. It’s impossible for us.”
Alice’s palms cups his face as they had once before. “Hatter,” she whispers. “It’s impossible only if you believe it is.”
He stands and waits, watching her in the eyes. Alice might me right. No, she is most certainly right.
After minutes, Tarrant licks his dry lips. “You know, Alice, I think this is the most sensible thing you’ve said ever since you’ve agreed to slay the Jabberwocky. The phrase sounds oddly familiar, however.”
Alice smiles. “An old friend told it to me once. He’s very dear to me, so dear that one could say I’ve gone mad.”
“Completely bonkers?” Tarrant says.
Alice nods. “I’m afraid so.”
“Then that makes two of us.” Tarrant leans forward and presses a quick kiss on her lips, which she then returns.
Alice’s fingers tremble when she unlaces his neck cloth, and his fingers might be trembling in equal measure when he finally frees her from the blouse. Walking is a difficult feat, when interrupted by kisses and clothing that refuses to disappear.
The bed is indeed too small for two, yet Tarrant doesn’t mind. Alice doesn’t seem to mind either.
As Tarrant touches her skin, he doesn’t think anymore that this is an opportunity he shouldn’t have because he’ll squander it in the worst possible way. Apparently, Alice thinks that he has something to give, and that he is in turn worth receiving as well. Beyond that, Tarrant’s thoughts merely echo what his hands and lips entrap.
Alice, her lips, Alice, her neck, Alice, fingers, breasts, Alice,… Every inch of her skin… Alice

---
Worth Having
---
That night, the Hatter wakes because someone is shaking him. Unwillingly he lifts his head, noticing that he had fallen asleep during a tea party yet again. There are more comfortable beds than a chair, his aching muscles tell him.
He gazes upon the rude person who disturbs him in the middle of the night.
In the dim light that is coming from the old mill, he can make out a face.
“Alice?” he whispers and rubs his eyes. “I had this dream…”
He receives a kiss on the nose in answer.
“Naughty,” says the Hatter, grinning.
Alice sits on the nearest chair. “I had a dream too.”
“A mad dream, I hope.” Tarrant moves his face closer to her. “It’s the only dream worth having, you know.”
“It was a dream well worth having,” she whispers. It seems to Tarrant that there is colour rising on her otherwise pale cheeks, but it’s difficult to tell in the dusk.
She brings her hand close to his, the entwining of their fingers hidden in the night.
“See? I told you I’d be back again before you know it,” she says.
Tarrant looks crossly at her. “I had to endure a great deal of waiting, Alice.”
There is silence for a while, and then she speaks again. “Yet I was back before you knew it. You were sleeping, so you couldn’t have possibly known.” She draws in a shallow breath. “I wasn’t able to find the way back.”
“We shall talk of this again. Of this and of many other things. Yes, there are many things we will talk about.” Tarrant puts a finger on her lips and whispers, “There will be time for all that. Now, however, it’s time to celebrate.”
He removes his finger and blinks, forgetting what he was set to do. It takes him a few moments to recollect his mind, and then he steals a kiss. Borrows a kiss, to be more precise - Tarrant has all the honourable intention of returning it to Alice later on.
Mallymkun and Thackery are still asleep, so Tarrant plays a tune with a spoon and a teacup. He steps on the table. “Alice has returned!”
From a teapot, Mally’s head peers up. “What is this noise?”
“Alice has returned!” The Hatter says.
The March hare twitches his ears. “Alice?” he yells. “The right Alice?”
“Alice?” repeats Mallymkun.
Tarrant descends from the table and gives the teacup and the spoon to Alice. “The perfect occasion for a midnight tea party. We simply must have one, with fresh tea, milk, scones, tarts, and such… we must.”
Alice points up with her index finger. “We should also think of how to bring your hat up there.”
“Yes, yes, we should; a true Hatter can’t live without his hat. Nevertheless, thinking comes more easily with tea, so we should think of tea first.” He motions with his hands. “Come, come now, my dear Alice, I will dance the futterwacken again, and I can teach you too, if you desire. Yes, yes. Bring the lamps and the candles outside! The lights! I haven’t had a midnight tea party in a while.” He stops to think. “Since three days ago, I believe.”
Alice giggles, while the March Hare runs to bake the scones, and Mallymkun grunts.
“I’ll make the tea,” Alice says.
Mally jumps down from the table. “Then you’ll need my help.”
Tarrant smiles at the dormouse.
“She can’t be trusted to make tea on her own. I wouldn’t trust her,” Mallymkun says, as if presenting an apology.
It’s not hard for the Hatter to guess that he and Thackery are not the only ones to be glad about Alice’s return.
An idea comes to his mind. “Yours is sound reasoning, Mally.” Before Alice could feel offended, he adds, “Yes. We should pay close attention to her. I know I will. Very close attention.”

They walk together toward the old mill, where Thackery is already baking scones and throwing the kitchenware around.