Heart and Sole, Chapter 5
Alice hates the Red Queen’s castle. Every corridor looks exactly like the one Stayne had cornered her in and the memory makes her skin crawl. Every carpet looks exactly like the one in the Red Queen’s throne room, upon which the Hatter had clinked and clanked in his chains and had knelt with grim determination - and then sudden, mind-racing panic when he’d spotted Alice there! - and confronted his fate. Every door looks exactly like the one that had led to the Hatter’s hastily assembled workshop and that memory makes her heart race.
She takes a deep breath, recalling the speed with which his hands had worked, his fingers tucking and trimming nimbly. She remembers his bout of madness and then his expression (which had sought something from her that, even now, she feels she had not properly given him) and she recalls his smile when she’d daringly placed his hat upon his head. At the time, she hadn’t expected a kiss in return, for she had not meant the gesture to be coy as it often is Above, but if she had been the right, proper sized Alice, would he have leaned in and pressed his smiling lips to hers?
She will never know.
In general, it’s best to avoid corridors, carpets and doorways due to the memories they call forth. Alice makes her way back to the garden, which is now a graveyard, and wanders among the mounds of freshly-tilled earth. She keeps to the undisturbed strips of grass and does her best to allow the silence and peace of this garden of souls to settle her mind.
The moon is still bright tonight despite the fact that it has been nearly two weeks since the eve of Frabjous Day, but perhaps the moon is bright every night here? She supposes she could ask, but wonders if it might be better to simply let Underland show her the answer to this mystery, night by night, until she understands. And there are still so many things that she doesn’t understand. Most of them have something to do with the Hatter.
He’s out here, she knows. She’d seen him leave the castle kitchen at the conclusion of their argument, had watched him storm down the hall toward the nearest entrance to the garden courtyard.
“Give him a moment,” the White Queen - arrived just that afternoon in her white carriage and with several dozen soldiers - had advised when Alice had attempted to follow him.
Alice had nodded, frowned, and wondered why he again appears to be upset at the thought of Alice taking on more responsibility. Of course she hadn’t wanted to accept the Queen’s invitation to tour Underland and look in on its still-recovering citizens. Of course she’d wanted to stay with the Hatter. She’d wanted to help him pull down the castle walls and fill in the moat. She’d wanted more sunsets spent standing atop the parapet, gazing out at the Crimson Sea and the setting sun. But the queen’s seemingly off-handed comment - “A champion has many duties.” - had rather made the choice for her.
Spying the Hatter’s figure in the light of the moon, she meanders toward him. Her heart pounds. Oh, how she doesn’t want to quarrel again. In fact, they’d been getting along so well this week! Until the White Queen had arrived, that is.
She recalls the whispered Hatter-ish riddles and her own Upland-made stories they’d shared by candlelight after dinner, one evening after the next, chasing away each other’s ghosts with laughter and cold tea. Yes, when the sun had set and the day’s work had been done at last, she’d had him - this crazy, mad, wonderful companion - all to herself. There had been no more shouting, no more furious tirades. She’d assumed that they’d resolved the issue of what Alice ought and ought not do. It had certainly seemed distant then!
But oh how close it is now.
She dejectedly wonders if they are destined to repeat their arguments time and time again, until the end of Underland. Have the two of them been cursed? Or is this only as complicated as a garden-variety bad habit-in-the-making?
Pausing beside the Hatter now, Alice studies his profile, notes the tension still stringing him taut, and sets aside all her questions and accusations and whispers, “You know I wish I could stay…”
“Then stay,” he whispers back so simply.
In answer, Alice reaches for his hand. She half expects to be rebuked, but his fingers clutch hers with nearly painful strength.
“I’ve lost so many friends, Alice,” he breathes, choking on the words. The graves surrounding them attest to the truth of that, speaking eloquently with their silence.
She considers advising him to not push away the few friends that remain to him. She nearly tells him not to worry; nothing will happen to her during the White Queen’s tour. She almost asks him why he is consumed by fear now when the battle has already been won. “I’m your friend,” she wants to say but the words - so inadequate compared to what she really feels for this man - get tangled up in her throat.
“I’m considering things that begin with the letter M,” Alice says instead.
After a moment, the Hatter giggles helplessly and queries, “Muffins?”
“Milliner.”
“Maiden?”
“Marzipan.”
He sighs happily, his grip at last gentling on Alice’s hand. “Ah yes. A milliner, a maiden, and marzipan muffins.”
Smiling, Alice cheekily wonders, “Would that happen to be an invitation to tea?”
“Well, since you rhymed so nicely…”
Biting her lip to hold back her laughter, Alice playfully bumps his shoulder with hers. “You won’t forget, will you? I may be gone awhile…”
“How could I forget?” he chides her gently, squeezing her hand once.
For a moment more, Alice simply enjoys having him here, next to her, holding onto her. But of course - like all the other warm moments they’ve shared that have ever renewed Alice’s hope and affections for him - it must end.
“Come, Alice. It’s late and your start on the morrow will be as well if you don’t retire soon.”
Alice accepts his offered arm and lets him escort her to the room she’d claimed during their stay here. He lisps her a “good night” and “pleasant dreams” and then heads for his own room. As she closes the door, Alice dares to think that perhaps she had made him feel better just now. Perhaps this business of saying the Right Thing is not as difficult as she’d always thought.
Turning on a sigh, Alice moves toward her bed and pauses at the sight of the white doublet, tunic, and breeches laid out upon it. Yes, on the morrow, the White Queen’s Champion will accompany Underland’s reigning monarch. She’s excited about the journey, but unhappy about leaving the Hatter. The emotions swirl within her as she lies abed, staring up at the ceiling until her exhaustion at last overcomes the confused and anxious churning of her stomach and she sleeps.
The next morning, she rushes through her bathing and dresses quickly, hoping to catch a moment with the Hatter before her departure. Unfortunately, the instant she opens her bedroom door (her pack of well-used and very abused clothing tucked under her arm), her escort announces with much authority, “Well it’s about time yah done woke up! C’mon, Champion, yah’ve got a carriage teh catch.”
“Mallyumkun,” Alice begins. “How are y-”
“Irritated!” the dormouse shouts.
Deciding it might be better to not ask after the reason for her aggravation, Alice merely allows the dormouse to lead the way.
“I got ‘er!” Mally calls, racing into the castle’s central courtyard.
Squinting against the glare of the sun, Alice jogs to keep up. The morning light reflects off the white armor of the assembled guard and her own uniform, making her eyes water. As Mally leaps up the carriage steps and bounds inside, Alice focuses on the man who is standing at the door, presumably holding it open.
“Hatter,” she breathes, hating herself for sleeping so late and forfeiting the chance to spend just one more private moment with him.
He smiles. “Alice.” And then he holds out at handkerchief-wrapped bundle to her. As she unfolds a corner of it to peek at the contents, he lisps, “I’m afraid it’s not marzipan nor a muffin-”
Alice feels a wide grin stretch her lips as she identifies a squimberry scone. Looking up at him, she dares to reach out a hand and dust off the bit of baking flour that’s stubbornly clinging to his bowtie. “Well,” she replies, “we’ll save those marzipan muffins for next time, shall we?”
“Most certainly!”
“I’ll be looking forward to it.”
“Looking back to it,” he corrects her and she grins as that distinction does, indeed, make perfect sense. It maybe forward in the future, but it’ll likely be back at Marmoreal when they meet again.
Before she can reply, he half-steps forward - just as he had on the battlefield not two weeks ago - and lisps softly in her ear, “Fairfarren, Alice.”
Leaning her cheek against his, she closes her eyes, breathes deeply, allows her heart to race and words to tangle in her throat as his scent - a little flour-dusty and a little soapy and utterly him - destroys her composure.
With a dumb nod and stupid smile, she forces herself to climb into the carriage. In the next instant, the door closes and Alice watches the Hatter’s flippant wave as he signals for the driver to begin their journey. Alice can’t help watching the Hatter through the window, even giving him a small wave before the carriage rolls across the drawbridge and onto the dusty road.
When she finally turns back around in her seat, she takes in Mally’s disgruntled scowl and Mirana’s knowing grin, and blushes furiously.
“Wipe tha’ luv-sickly look off yer face!” Mally scolds.
The White Queen wags a pale, lacquer-tipped forefinger at the self-appointed captain of the White Guard. “Tsk tsk tsk! Absence makes the heart grow fonder!”
Amazingly, Alice feels her blush heat even further. In all honesty, she isn’t sure if her heart can grow any fonder of the Hatter. “Shall we go over the agenda, your Majesty?” Alice asks a bit desperately, eager to refocus her companions’ attention.
“Alice, my dear champion,” the White Queen sighs, a whimsical smile curving her dark lips, “whatever makes you think we have one?”
Alarmed, Alice glances at Mally, who shrugs helplessly.
Alice sighs. Oh, yes, it’s going to be a very noticeably long while before she sees the Hatter again, much to her dismay.
*~*~*~*
The wharf office had not been located where Hamish had expected it to be. He blames this inconvenience on the directions his father had absentmindedly given him over dessert the night before rather than any mental unsoundness on Hamish’s part. True, he hadn’t sought out a physician’s counsel after that very odd scene in the dining room, but he’d been glancing in mirrors, turning corners, and opening doors with one eye open for the past month and the wariness seems to be worth it. His stomach may be tied up and twisted in constant knots of tension, but he remains firmly in the here and now of London.
Unfortunately, it is the here aspect of that proposition which is giving him the most trouble.
“Blast,” he mutters, glancing around for perhaps the twentieth time since disembarking from Mark Street Station. The narrow, twisting streets crowded by low, squatting buildings do not lend themselves to assisting visitors with orienting themselves. He’s doubly irritated because he can hear the bustle of a wharf-side street very nearby, but he cannot locate it! And, unfortunately, the denizens of this neighborhood do not give the impression that they’d obligingly direct him toward his intended destination.
He glances to his left and sniffs disdainfully at the shop which claims to be a purveyor of teas. Oh, he doesn’t doubt that they serve custom, but he suspects that it’s not the sugar cubes that draw in the crowds.
It’s hard to imagine anyone spending any length of time voluntarily in this particular neighborhood. Not only has the soot from the industrial houses settled on the clapboard storefronts, clay roofing tiles, and greasy, muck-caked cobblestones, but the entire place reeks of a stomach-lurching combination of rotten fish guts and human waste. Hamish does his best to time his breaths with the northerly wind, which manages to shove the stink back toward the Thames where it belongs.
Keeping a very close eye on his pocket watch and billfold, Hamish strides as quickly as he dares upon the slippery street, his head tilted at a purposeful angle. It is because of this very display of aloofness that Hamish very nearly tips over the cat which darts across his path.
Cursing, Hamish spins adroitly (thanking his fondness for the Quadrille as he does so), his folio case nearly slapping a filthy, drunken sailor in the vicinity. The man laughs at Hamish’s near fall, mocking him with a bit of hand-flapping and a few wobbly-kneed steps. “Di’the li’l puss giv’yah a start, gov?”
Ignoring the man, Hamish glares after the cat - either naturally grey or eternally soot-stained - which trots pompously toward an alley. It pauses on the corner and turns, looking back at Hamish and studying him with shockingly bright green eyes, eyes that are nearly a variety of blue. And it is because Hamish is still staring at the beast that a movement at the other end of the alley catches his attention. A driver’s shout echoes over the din of the street at midmorning and what appears to be a very large wagon - and not an alley’s dead end - rolls away, revealing a street bustling with commerce beyond.
Hamish breathes a sigh of relief as he realizes that he must have turned too soon after the tube station for this road at the other end of the alley looks like East Smithfield, where the wharf offices are located.
Although the alley is a bit dingy, it is passable so Hamish makes a sharp turn and hurries toward it. He glances down at the cat as he passes. Rather than scamper off to annoy some other passerby, it turns it’s wide, round face up to him and-
No. No, no, Hamish tells himself firmly. That fat, grey-on-grey tabby cat had not just smiled at him.
“Impossible,” he mutters, shaking off the very notion as he clutches his walking stick tightly and wastes no time in leaving that gutter-crowd and their sordid street behind him.
Emerging in the wonderfully sane atmosphere of commercial enterprise, Hamish dodges several piles of equine progress and turns westward. After only a short walk, he spots the wharf office placard and breathes a sigh of relief. He pauses to let two boys hauling a crate on a handcart pass and then jogs up the steps. As he opens the door, Hamish feels the weight of a gaze upon him, burning into his back.
With a frown, he glances back at the street and-
No, it can’t be.
But it very much looks like the tabby cat from the alley is now perched on a wagon parked on the opposite side of the street. The creature stares at Hamish with its preternaturally green eyes, its tail curling and uncurling around its legs.
Hamish gives himself a shake. The very idea that a cat of all things would start following him around is - “Ridiculous,” he huffs and allows the door to close behind him.
“Good morning, sir,” a clerk greets him solicitously and Hamish further relaxes at the predictable, banal pleasantries. “How may I assist you?”
“I’m here to secure a berth for a vessel,” he begins. The encounter goes as his father had described it would. As he’d already put together all the necessary details beforehand, the arrangements are made smoothly. There’s only one point which makes him pause.
“And the name of the vessel, sir?”
Hamish clears his throat. “The Wonder,” he replies, still marveling that his father had been so enchanted by the name. This had been Hamish’s own idea. He’d rather liked the thought of naming the vessel in memory of Alice’s grand idea but he had been unable to come up with a single name that seemed suitably fantastical. “What would Alice call it, I wonder?” he’d mused to his shoes as he’d tied them on his feet one morning, and then his mind had leapt forward to that very conclusion: Wonder. Yes, as he can only wonder what Alice would think of all this, it is a fitting name, indeed. His father had praised his imagination. Even now, Hamish has to fight the heat rising up from his collar. Rather than an abundance of imagination, the name of the ship is the result of a noticeable dearth of it.
However, this is not the place, nor the time, for imagination. Hamish concludes his business, receives a promise from the clerk to confirm the arrangements and send on the details to him by the end of the week, and then Hamish heads back to the Mark Lane Station. He doesn’t permit himself to glance over his shoulder even though he’d spotted the tabby still waiting for him when he’d exited the office. He tells himself it’s utterly foolish to entertain the thought of a cat following him. And, regardless, the creature won’t be permitted on the train.
When the subway car doors close, Hamish lets out a breath and then chastises himself for letting such a silly notion actually weigh on his mind. It’s a short ride to Charing Cross and an invigorating walk to the company offices just off of Pall Mall.
Not once, does Hamish look behind him.
The morning passes pleasantly enough. He responds to a sizable pile of correspondence before he realizes that lunch time has snuck up on him.
Leaving his tiny office, Hamish nods to the lobby clerk. “I’ll be back shortly.” He reaches for the front door and pulls it open. “There are several letters ready for the post on my desk-”
Suddenly, a streak of sooty grey fur dashes into the lobby, startling a squeak out of Hamish and a paper-rustling twitch out of the clerk. Leaving the door standing ajar, Hamish stumbles after the creature and pokes his head into the hall just in time to see a primly and upright poised cat tail disappear into his office!
“Oh no you don’t!” he growls, charging after the beast. Throwing the office door open wide, Hamish expects to find the cat suitably cowed and huddling under the desk or unlit stove. He does not expect the cat to be curled up on top of his desk grinning at him.
But cats do not grin, he reminds himself.
The assertion pierces his shock sufficiently and he notices precisely what the cat is lying on.
“Get off of those letters!” he hisses, stomping toward the unwanted guest.
And then the cat’s grin widens until it nearly touches each of his stubby, grey ears. His head turns - no, rotates! - once and then-
“Where is it, sir?” the lobby clerk asks, clamoring to a halt on the office threshold.
Hamish straightens, stares at the place on his desk where the cat had just been reclining contentedly. The animal is - inexplicably - gone. Disappeared. Evaporated.
Realizing that the clerk is waiting for a response, Hamish glances around and replies, “It’s not here.” Indeed, he cannot even feel its watchful gaze. “Perhaps it’s down the hall. The apprentices will take care of it.”
“I’m sure, sir,” the clerk says, gladly passing the unsavory duty onto those of less fortunate standing in the company. “Is this the correspondence you mentioned?” he asks, reaching for the stack which is considerably more askew now than it had been when Hamish had decided to go out for lunch.
“Yes.” He turns back toward the hall. Strange, watchful, disappearing cats aside, he’d very much like to get something to eat. Perhaps these visions are related to his empty stomach? If that’s the case, then the remedy will be refreshingly simple.
“Sir?” the clerk says as Hamish takes a step out the door.
He pauses and accepts the letter that the clerk hands him.
“There’s no address on this one.”
Frowning, Hamish looks over the plain envelope. How… odd. He’d addressed each and every letter himself. Or he thought he had.
“How many do you have there?” he inquires.
“Seven,” the clerk takes stock of them and replies.
Seven, which is precisely how many letters Hamish had written and envelopes he had addressed. What he holds in his hand now is some mysterious, unknown, eighth letter. With a nod, he says, “I’ll see to this one, then.” He shifts to take another step, pauses, and requests of the clerk, “I would appreciate it if you would confirm that each letter corresponds to the recipient printed on the envelope.”
“Of course, sir.”
It’s an odd request, perhaps. Certainly, it’s a task that Hamish ought to be able to manage himself but, at the moment, he doesn’t trust his own eyes.
A disappearing, smiling cat, indeed! What nonsense!
Finally escaping the office, Hamish resists looking at the letter in his possession until he has ordered a plate of stew at the small inn and tavern down the street. As he sits and waits, his fingers dip into his jacket pocket and retrieve the envelope. As it’s unsealed, it’s an easy thing to ease out the paper within. He opens it and scans the recipient and addressee’s names.
He frowns.
How very odd. The letter is made out to Alice. There is only one Alice with which Hamish is acquainted and this letter cannot be for her. He has no means of delivering it to her! And besides, he has no reason whatsoever to believe that she would be expecting a letter from a man named Tarrant Hightopp.
With a baffled shake of the head, Hamish tucks the letter - still unread, of course! - back into the envelope. Perhaps he’ll inquire at the post office. Perhaps they have a collection box for misplaced letters such as this one. If this Tarrant Hightopp person does not receive a reply from Alice in the timely manner, he would likely check with the post office and confirm its delivery, at which time they can set this fellow to rights. Yes, a perfectly logical course of action.
By the time his meal arrives, Hamish has already forgotten about strange, smiling, evaporating cats and is much happier for it.
NOTES:
Here's a map of the London Underground 1889 for those of you who are curious:
http://homepage.ntlworld.com/clive.billson/tubemaps/1889.html
She takes a deep breath, recalling the speed with which his hands had worked, his fingers tucking and trimming nimbly. She remembers his bout of madness and then his expression (which had sought something from her that, even now, she feels she had not properly given him) and she recalls his smile when she’d daringly placed his hat upon his head. At the time, she hadn’t expected a kiss in return, for she had not meant the gesture to be coy as it often is Above, but if she had been the right, proper sized Alice, would he have leaned in and pressed his smiling lips to hers?
She will never know.
In general, it’s best to avoid corridors, carpets and doorways due to the memories they call forth. Alice makes her way back to the garden, which is now a graveyard, and wanders among the mounds of freshly-tilled earth. She keeps to the undisturbed strips of grass and does her best to allow the silence and peace of this garden of souls to settle her mind.
The moon is still bright tonight despite the fact that it has been nearly two weeks since the eve of Frabjous Day, but perhaps the moon is bright every night here? She supposes she could ask, but wonders if it might be better to simply let Underland show her the answer to this mystery, night by night, until she understands. And there are still so many things that she doesn’t understand. Most of them have something to do with the Hatter.
He’s out here, she knows. She’d seen him leave the castle kitchen at the conclusion of their argument, had watched him storm down the hall toward the nearest entrance to the garden courtyard.
“Give him a moment,” the White Queen - arrived just that afternoon in her white carriage and with several dozen soldiers - had advised when Alice had attempted to follow him.
Alice had nodded, frowned, and wondered why he again appears to be upset at the thought of Alice taking on more responsibility. Of course she hadn’t wanted to accept the Queen’s invitation to tour Underland and look in on its still-recovering citizens. Of course she’d wanted to stay with the Hatter. She’d wanted to help him pull down the castle walls and fill in the moat. She’d wanted more sunsets spent standing atop the parapet, gazing out at the Crimson Sea and the setting sun. But the queen’s seemingly off-handed comment - “A champion has many duties.” - had rather made the choice for her.
Spying the Hatter’s figure in the light of the moon, she meanders toward him. Her heart pounds. Oh, how she doesn’t want to quarrel again. In fact, they’d been getting along so well this week! Until the White Queen had arrived, that is.
She recalls the whispered Hatter-ish riddles and her own Upland-made stories they’d shared by candlelight after dinner, one evening after the next, chasing away each other’s ghosts with laughter and cold tea. Yes, when the sun had set and the day’s work had been done at last, she’d had him - this crazy, mad, wonderful companion - all to herself. There had been no more shouting, no more furious tirades. She’d assumed that they’d resolved the issue of what Alice ought and ought not do. It had certainly seemed distant then!
But oh how close it is now.
She dejectedly wonders if they are destined to repeat their arguments time and time again, until the end of Underland. Have the two of them been cursed? Or is this only as complicated as a garden-variety bad habit-in-the-making?
Pausing beside the Hatter now, Alice studies his profile, notes the tension still stringing him taut, and sets aside all her questions and accusations and whispers, “You know I wish I could stay…”
“Then stay,” he whispers back so simply.
In answer, Alice reaches for his hand. She half expects to be rebuked, but his fingers clutch hers with nearly painful strength.
“I’ve lost so many friends, Alice,” he breathes, choking on the words. The graves surrounding them attest to the truth of that, speaking eloquently with their silence.
She considers advising him to not push away the few friends that remain to him. She nearly tells him not to worry; nothing will happen to her during the White Queen’s tour. She almost asks him why he is consumed by fear now when the battle has already been won. “I’m your friend,” she wants to say but the words - so inadequate compared to what she really feels for this man - get tangled up in her throat.
“I’m considering things that begin with the letter M,” Alice says instead.
After a moment, the Hatter giggles helplessly and queries, “Muffins?”
“Milliner.”
“Maiden?”
“Marzipan.”
He sighs happily, his grip at last gentling on Alice’s hand. “Ah yes. A milliner, a maiden, and marzipan muffins.”
Smiling, Alice cheekily wonders, “Would that happen to be an invitation to tea?”
“Well, since you rhymed so nicely…”
Biting her lip to hold back her laughter, Alice playfully bumps his shoulder with hers. “You won’t forget, will you? I may be gone awhile…”
“How could I forget?” he chides her gently, squeezing her hand once.
For a moment more, Alice simply enjoys having him here, next to her, holding onto her. But of course - like all the other warm moments they’ve shared that have ever renewed Alice’s hope and affections for him - it must end.
“Come, Alice. It’s late and your start on the morrow will be as well if you don’t retire soon.”
Alice accepts his offered arm and lets him escort her to the room she’d claimed during their stay here. He lisps her a “good night” and “pleasant dreams” and then heads for his own room. As she closes the door, Alice dares to think that perhaps she had made him feel better just now. Perhaps this business of saying the Right Thing is not as difficult as she’d always thought.
Turning on a sigh, Alice moves toward her bed and pauses at the sight of the white doublet, tunic, and breeches laid out upon it. Yes, on the morrow, the White Queen’s Champion will accompany Underland’s reigning monarch. She’s excited about the journey, but unhappy about leaving the Hatter. The emotions swirl within her as she lies abed, staring up at the ceiling until her exhaustion at last overcomes the confused and anxious churning of her stomach and she sleeps.
The next morning, she rushes through her bathing and dresses quickly, hoping to catch a moment with the Hatter before her departure. Unfortunately, the instant she opens her bedroom door (her pack of well-used and very abused clothing tucked under her arm), her escort announces with much authority, “Well it’s about time yah done woke up! C’mon, Champion, yah’ve got a carriage teh catch.”
“Mallyumkun,” Alice begins. “How are y-”
“Irritated!” the dormouse shouts.
Deciding it might be better to not ask after the reason for her aggravation, Alice merely allows the dormouse to lead the way.
“I got ‘er!” Mally calls, racing into the castle’s central courtyard.
Squinting against the glare of the sun, Alice jogs to keep up. The morning light reflects off the white armor of the assembled guard and her own uniform, making her eyes water. As Mally leaps up the carriage steps and bounds inside, Alice focuses on the man who is standing at the door, presumably holding it open.
“Hatter,” she breathes, hating herself for sleeping so late and forfeiting the chance to spend just one more private moment with him.
He smiles. “Alice.” And then he holds out at handkerchief-wrapped bundle to her. As she unfolds a corner of it to peek at the contents, he lisps, “I’m afraid it’s not marzipan nor a muffin-”
Alice feels a wide grin stretch her lips as she identifies a squimberry scone. Looking up at him, she dares to reach out a hand and dust off the bit of baking flour that’s stubbornly clinging to his bowtie. “Well,” she replies, “we’ll save those marzipan muffins for next time, shall we?”
“Most certainly!”
“I’ll be looking forward to it.”
“Looking back to it,” he corrects her and she grins as that distinction does, indeed, make perfect sense. It maybe forward in the future, but it’ll likely be back at Marmoreal when they meet again.
Before she can reply, he half-steps forward - just as he had on the battlefield not two weeks ago - and lisps softly in her ear, “Fairfarren, Alice.”
Leaning her cheek against his, she closes her eyes, breathes deeply, allows her heart to race and words to tangle in her throat as his scent - a little flour-dusty and a little soapy and utterly him - destroys her composure.
With a dumb nod and stupid smile, she forces herself to climb into the carriage. In the next instant, the door closes and Alice watches the Hatter’s flippant wave as he signals for the driver to begin their journey. Alice can’t help watching the Hatter through the window, even giving him a small wave before the carriage rolls across the drawbridge and onto the dusty road.
When she finally turns back around in her seat, she takes in Mally’s disgruntled scowl and Mirana’s knowing grin, and blushes furiously.
“Wipe tha’ luv-sickly look off yer face!” Mally scolds.
The White Queen wags a pale, lacquer-tipped forefinger at the self-appointed captain of the White Guard. “Tsk tsk tsk! Absence makes the heart grow fonder!”
Amazingly, Alice feels her blush heat even further. In all honesty, she isn’t sure if her heart can grow any fonder of the Hatter. “Shall we go over the agenda, your Majesty?” Alice asks a bit desperately, eager to refocus her companions’ attention.
“Alice, my dear champion,” the White Queen sighs, a whimsical smile curving her dark lips, “whatever makes you think we have one?”
Alarmed, Alice glances at Mally, who shrugs helplessly.
Alice sighs. Oh, yes, it’s going to be a very noticeably long while before she sees the Hatter again, much to her dismay.
*~*~*~*
The wharf office had not been located where Hamish had expected it to be. He blames this inconvenience on the directions his father had absentmindedly given him over dessert the night before rather than any mental unsoundness on Hamish’s part. True, he hadn’t sought out a physician’s counsel after that very odd scene in the dining room, but he’d been glancing in mirrors, turning corners, and opening doors with one eye open for the past month and the wariness seems to be worth it. His stomach may be tied up and twisted in constant knots of tension, but he remains firmly in the here and now of London.
Unfortunately, it is the here aspect of that proposition which is giving him the most trouble.
“Blast,” he mutters, glancing around for perhaps the twentieth time since disembarking from Mark Street Station. The narrow, twisting streets crowded by low, squatting buildings do not lend themselves to assisting visitors with orienting themselves. He’s doubly irritated because he can hear the bustle of a wharf-side street very nearby, but he cannot locate it! And, unfortunately, the denizens of this neighborhood do not give the impression that they’d obligingly direct him toward his intended destination.
He glances to his left and sniffs disdainfully at the shop which claims to be a purveyor of teas. Oh, he doesn’t doubt that they serve custom, but he suspects that it’s not the sugar cubes that draw in the crowds.
It’s hard to imagine anyone spending any length of time voluntarily in this particular neighborhood. Not only has the soot from the industrial houses settled on the clapboard storefronts, clay roofing tiles, and greasy, muck-caked cobblestones, but the entire place reeks of a stomach-lurching combination of rotten fish guts and human waste. Hamish does his best to time his breaths with the northerly wind, which manages to shove the stink back toward the Thames where it belongs.
Keeping a very close eye on his pocket watch and billfold, Hamish strides as quickly as he dares upon the slippery street, his head tilted at a purposeful angle. It is because of this very display of aloofness that Hamish very nearly tips over the cat which darts across his path.
Cursing, Hamish spins adroitly (thanking his fondness for the Quadrille as he does so), his folio case nearly slapping a filthy, drunken sailor in the vicinity. The man laughs at Hamish’s near fall, mocking him with a bit of hand-flapping and a few wobbly-kneed steps. “Di’the li’l puss giv’yah a start, gov?”
Ignoring the man, Hamish glares after the cat - either naturally grey or eternally soot-stained - which trots pompously toward an alley. It pauses on the corner and turns, looking back at Hamish and studying him with shockingly bright green eyes, eyes that are nearly a variety of blue. And it is because Hamish is still staring at the beast that a movement at the other end of the alley catches his attention. A driver’s shout echoes over the din of the street at midmorning and what appears to be a very large wagon - and not an alley’s dead end - rolls away, revealing a street bustling with commerce beyond.
Hamish breathes a sigh of relief as he realizes that he must have turned too soon after the tube station for this road at the other end of the alley looks like East Smithfield, where the wharf offices are located.
Although the alley is a bit dingy, it is passable so Hamish makes a sharp turn and hurries toward it. He glances down at the cat as he passes. Rather than scamper off to annoy some other passerby, it turns it’s wide, round face up to him and-
No. No, no, Hamish tells himself firmly. That fat, grey-on-grey tabby cat had not just smiled at him.
“Impossible,” he mutters, shaking off the very notion as he clutches his walking stick tightly and wastes no time in leaving that gutter-crowd and their sordid street behind him.
Emerging in the wonderfully sane atmosphere of commercial enterprise, Hamish dodges several piles of equine progress and turns westward. After only a short walk, he spots the wharf office placard and breathes a sigh of relief. He pauses to let two boys hauling a crate on a handcart pass and then jogs up the steps. As he opens the door, Hamish feels the weight of a gaze upon him, burning into his back.
With a frown, he glances back at the street and-
No, it can’t be.
But it very much looks like the tabby cat from the alley is now perched on a wagon parked on the opposite side of the street. The creature stares at Hamish with its preternaturally green eyes, its tail curling and uncurling around its legs.
Hamish gives himself a shake. The very idea that a cat of all things would start following him around is - “Ridiculous,” he huffs and allows the door to close behind him.
“Good morning, sir,” a clerk greets him solicitously and Hamish further relaxes at the predictable, banal pleasantries. “How may I assist you?”
“I’m here to secure a berth for a vessel,” he begins. The encounter goes as his father had described it would. As he’d already put together all the necessary details beforehand, the arrangements are made smoothly. There’s only one point which makes him pause.
“And the name of the vessel, sir?”
Hamish clears his throat. “The Wonder,” he replies, still marveling that his father had been so enchanted by the name. This had been Hamish’s own idea. He’d rather liked the thought of naming the vessel in memory of Alice’s grand idea but he had been unable to come up with a single name that seemed suitably fantastical. “What would Alice call it, I wonder?” he’d mused to his shoes as he’d tied them on his feet one morning, and then his mind had leapt forward to that very conclusion: Wonder. Yes, as he can only wonder what Alice would think of all this, it is a fitting name, indeed. His father had praised his imagination. Even now, Hamish has to fight the heat rising up from his collar. Rather than an abundance of imagination, the name of the ship is the result of a noticeable dearth of it.
However, this is not the place, nor the time, for imagination. Hamish concludes his business, receives a promise from the clerk to confirm the arrangements and send on the details to him by the end of the week, and then Hamish heads back to the Mark Lane Station. He doesn’t permit himself to glance over his shoulder even though he’d spotted the tabby still waiting for him when he’d exited the office. He tells himself it’s utterly foolish to entertain the thought of a cat following him. And, regardless, the creature won’t be permitted on the train.
When the subway car doors close, Hamish lets out a breath and then chastises himself for letting such a silly notion actually weigh on his mind. It’s a short ride to Charing Cross and an invigorating walk to the company offices just off of Pall Mall.
Not once, does Hamish look behind him.
The morning passes pleasantly enough. He responds to a sizable pile of correspondence before he realizes that lunch time has snuck up on him.
Leaving his tiny office, Hamish nods to the lobby clerk. “I’ll be back shortly.” He reaches for the front door and pulls it open. “There are several letters ready for the post on my desk-”
Suddenly, a streak of sooty grey fur dashes into the lobby, startling a squeak out of Hamish and a paper-rustling twitch out of the clerk. Leaving the door standing ajar, Hamish stumbles after the creature and pokes his head into the hall just in time to see a primly and upright poised cat tail disappear into his office!
“Oh no you don’t!” he growls, charging after the beast. Throwing the office door open wide, Hamish expects to find the cat suitably cowed and huddling under the desk or unlit stove. He does not expect the cat to be curled up on top of his desk grinning at him.
But cats do not grin, he reminds himself.
The assertion pierces his shock sufficiently and he notices precisely what the cat is lying on.
“Get off of those letters!” he hisses, stomping toward the unwanted guest.
And then the cat’s grin widens until it nearly touches each of his stubby, grey ears. His head turns - no, rotates! - once and then-
“Where is it, sir?” the lobby clerk asks, clamoring to a halt on the office threshold.
Hamish straightens, stares at the place on his desk where the cat had just been reclining contentedly. The animal is - inexplicably - gone. Disappeared. Evaporated.
Realizing that the clerk is waiting for a response, Hamish glances around and replies, “It’s not here.” Indeed, he cannot even feel its watchful gaze. “Perhaps it’s down the hall. The apprentices will take care of it.”
“I’m sure, sir,” the clerk says, gladly passing the unsavory duty onto those of less fortunate standing in the company. “Is this the correspondence you mentioned?” he asks, reaching for the stack which is considerably more askew now than it had been when Hamish had decided to go out for lunch.
“Yes.” He turns back toward the hall. Strange, watchful, disappearing cats aside, he’d very much like to get something to eat. Perhaps these visions are related to his empty stomach? If that’s the case, then the remedy will be refreshingly simple.
“Sir?” the clerk says as Hamish takes a step out the door.
He pauses and accepts the letter that the clerk hands him.
“There’s no address on this one.”
Frowning, Hamish looks over the plain envelope. How… odd. He’d addressed each and every letter himself. Or he thought he had.
“How many do you have there?” he inquires.
“Seven,” the clerk takes stock of them and replies.
Seven, which is precisely how many letters Hamish had written and envelopes he had addressed. What he holds in his hand now is some mysterious, unknown, eighth letter. With a nod, he says, “I’ll see to this one, then.” He shifts to take another step, pauses, and requests of the clerk, “I would appreciate it if you would confirm that each letter corresponds to the recipient printed on the envelope.”
“Of course, sir.”
It’s an odd request, perhaps. Certainly, it’s a task that Hamish ought to be able to manage himself but, at the moment, he doesn’t trust his own eyes.
A disappearing, smiling cat, indeed! What nonsense!
Finally escaping the office, Hamish resists looking at the letter in his possession until he has ordered a plate of stew at the small inn and tavern down the street. As he sits and waits, his fingers dip into his jacket pocket and retrieve the envelope. As it’s unsealed, it’s an easy thing to ease out the paper within. He opens it and scans the recipient and addressee’s names.
He frowns.
How very odd. The letter is made out to Alice. There is only one Alice with which Hamish is acquainted and this letter cannot be for her. He has no means of delivering it to her! And besides, he has no reason whatsoever to believe that she would be expecting a letter from a man named Tarrant Hightopp.
With a baffled shake of the head, Hamish tucks the letter - still unread, of course! - back into the envelope. Perhaps he’ll inquire at the post office. Perhaps they have a collection box for misplaced letters such as this one. If this Tarrant Hightopp person does not receive a reply from Alice in the timely manner, he would likely check with the post office and confirm its delivery, at which time they can set this fellow to rights. Yes, a perfectly logical course of action.
By the time his meal arrives, Hamish has already forgotten about strange, smiling, evaporating cats and is much happier for it.
NOTES:
Here's a map of the London Underground 1889 for those of you who are curious:
http://homepage.ntlworld.com/clive.billson/tubemaps/1889.html