Best Intentions, Chapter Seven

[wanderamaranth]

 

“Will she be coming down today?” Queen Mirana asked Tarrant the following morning, when he finally gathered himself adequately enough to make an appearance in the garden outside the Windmill’s door.

“Nay,” Tarrant said, shaking his head. “I don't know that she has the strength yet. I'd been hopeful that she would be able, but...” He spread his hands in a helpless gesture.“I did force her to eat summat.”

Mirana touched his arm sympathetically. “That is unfortunate…I had hoped to be able to see my Champion during my visit. Next time, perhaps? It is…for the best, that you…encouraged her to eat. She’ll heal now.”

“I never did thank you, your Majesty.”

Dark eyes widening in surprise, Mirana said, “Thank me? Whatever for?”

“For allowing me the use of your Mirror, these years. For giving me the opportunity to see…if I hadn’t looked, then…” he trailed off, unwilling to speak the words aloud. They both knew what could have occurred if Tarrant had not gone up Above to fetch Alice. It was not something either one of them wanted to contemplate long.

“We each did what we felt was necessary, Hatta.” Mirana murmured.

“Necessary, needful, noble…she still said no, Mirana.” He did not blame the White Queen, despite how his last words might have sounded. It was as he’d said before--if she had not been allowing him the use of her viewing mirror to Alice’s bedroom, he might have never known that the effects of Fading had come to visit themselves upon her, and if he hadn’t known that, he would have completely lost her. If that had happened, there would not even be Alice frowns and Alice silence--there would be a complete absence of an Alice at all, a thought which was unbearable in the extreme.

*~*~*~*

“Shall we just have a look, then? It’s her birthday again, you know.” Mirana had said that day, the day that had led to him becoming fully aware of just how likely it was that he could lose Alice. A smile had been on the Queen’s lips as she danced around her desk to open the looking glass to a very specific location.

Hatter had known that it was Alice's birthday; the first few years of his marriage, he’d been a semi-unwilling participant in this little ritual. Mirana would call him to her Study, she would open a viewing mirror between Here and There, and he would catch a glimpse of Alice’s growth. The first year he’d almost refused to look in it altogether; the second, which came after her second visit to Underland, he’d only glanced quickly before looking away again. The third year, though, he shyly presented to Mirana a bit of childish verse, which he requested be sent through a glass and placed on her dresser.

In the years following that, he’d fashion different small gifts for her, and always they would be left upon her dresser or the desk in her room. Sometimes it was more verse, the way it was the first year he’d given her a gift; other times it was small trinkets he’d saved all year for, (the locket he’d been able to give her when she turned 13 he was especially proud of) or even bits of frippery he’d crafted himself. He never looked for long into the mirror, though--if he did, then he couldn’t pretend she was simply any girl whom he gave presents to every year, and he’d be straight back to feeling like even more of a lecherous fool. He had no physical desire for her, despite the knowledge that she was intended for him, and he for her, but he'd hoped to, someday, renew their friendship.

He hadn‘t even allowed himself to consider it after the events of Alice’s seventeen birthday.

“I…she…” his eyes had flicked rapidly from Mirana, to the mirror, to the floor, his hands--everywhere and yet never the same place twice--except for the mirror. That kept drawing his gaze, most certainly. Alice stood on the other side, oblivious to the inner turmoil she was causing in the Hatter as she grasped her bedpost with both hands, a massive frown pulling her lips downward. Her maid’s grumbles while she tightened her corset were visible even if they were not audible; it seemed the young miss hadn’t wanted to put the item on. This year’s gift (a small stuffed animal, which now seemed wildly inappropriate to him, when she was…she was…!) fell from his lax hands. “Excuse me, your Majesty.” he said, barely remembering to bow before rushing from the room.

Many hours were spent after that convincing himself that what he’d seen had not been so. Alice was a child! She was hardly old enough for corsetry! Why, that place were she lived in the Above world must be savage indeed, to be having young persons unwillingly laced into too-tight undergarments!

After that, he lasted the entirety of a week before asking to look through the glass once more. Just to make sure that those Above were not subjecting her to more corset torture, of course.

He’d gone to the White Queen, his hat in his hands, gaze lowered to the marble floor. If he looked up at Mirana while he asked, then she’d think, she’d believe he’d had an Impure thought (or maybe even many Impure Thoughts) about his still-too-young wife and…

“Of course, Hatta.” Mirana told him, leading him inside her Study with a gentle hand upon his arm. “Take as long as you’d like,” she encouraged, patting him once on the shoulder before discreetly exiting.

There Alice was, (luckily or unluckily, the Hatter was not sure) making various faces in the mirror. She pulled her lips away from her teeth and bared them, then turned her head this way and that. Her nose was wrinkled and then studied in profile. She smoothed down her fair eyebrows with her fingertips, fussing when a few hairs were reluctant to lay properly. Her lips moved as she talked to herself, too rapidly for him to make it out; it appeared she was asking questions, though. Tarrant found himself laughing at her silliness. She’d smiled then, nodded her head, and flounced out of the room. Tarrant was entranced once more.

He forced himself to wait yet another week before he went to Mirana again. Once more he was encouraged to take as long as he wished. This was lucky, for Alice was not immediately in front of the mirror when he began watching. In fact, he waited upwards of an hour and one half, and was just thinking morosely that perhaps today was simply not his day for Alice-viewing, when she walked into the room.

She was not wearing blue. What she was wearing was dark, much too dark to be a proper Alice-color. Tarrant tried to convince himself that perhaps it was simply a very deep navy, but part of him knew that just wasn’t true. Black was the shade that clad her, and it was extremely unflattering.

Still standing, Alice smoothed down the front of her dress, then turned this way and that, studying how the light caught the even-blacker pinstripes in the sun. Straightening the collar, she reached into a drawer on her vanity and withdrew a piece of jewelry. She clasped the locket (his locket, part of him was thrilled to notice) around her neck, her fingertips touching the small ’A’ engraved upon its surface. Then she sank back down into her tufted chair, took a good, long hard stare at herself in the mirror, and suddenly burst into tears.

Tarrant was standing before he was even aware of it, his hands pressed to the glass in the next moment. This glass was not a travel mirror; it was simply for viewing. Impotent fear curled upon his shoulders, and he slammed his fists against the glass. What could cause the girl to cry in such a manner? Was she ill? Just a week prior, she’d been so happy, so seemingly carefree, and now…

Someone was knocking on her door, it seemed, for Alice froze suddenly, and hastily wiped away her tears. She rose on unsteady feet and went to answer it, revealing a young man with ginger hair and a weak chin. He stepped into Alice’s room (his Alice’s room, a possessive side Tarrant wasn’t even aware he had in concern to his wife rumbled) in an impertinent and familiar manner, gathering the young woman into a hug.

Hatter hated him instantly.

Alice melted into the young man, clinging to his shoulders and sobbing in a clearly incoherent manner. The youth seemed to be torn between being awkwardly pleased Alice had attached herself to him in such a manner and affronted by the impropriety they were engaging in. His pleased side won out, though, for he didn’t release her, but merely rubbed her back in a soothing manner and whispered things into her ear that Tarrant could not decipher.

He’d backed away from the mirror, the visions he was seeing being too much to endure if he did not want a bout of madness to overtake him. Stumbling backwards, he’d left the room swiftly, slamming the door behind him in a way that suggested he thought if he didn’t, then it would swing back open and force him to continue watching the display.

Mirana, drawn by the noise, came out of the nearby Observatory and into the hall. Her hands had floated about her face as she’d asked, perplexed, “Hatta, what is wrong?”

“I’ve seen enough,” he’d growled. “Put it away until next year, please. I’ve more important things to concern myself with, what with the Frabjous Day approaching a bit closer every day.”

“Tarrant--”

“Just…put it away. Please,” he'd requested, quietly. Mirana had nodded as she placed one hand upon his shoulder and squeezed it reassuringly.

“If you ever change your mind…”

“I won’t,” he'd assured her, and he hadn’t. He’d only looked in on her twice after that day, once on her eighteenth birthday, and once on her nineteenth. Neither year did he bring her a present. To bring her a present, he’d have to first find one that was suitable, and if he pondered the suitability of a present, he’d have to think about her age, and if he thought about her age…well, he’d decided that presents were just going to have to be skipped. Best for all involved that way. He told himself she was just a little girl, and that was final. The words tasted like self-deception on his tongue, but he swallowed them down anyways.

He hadn’t been able to fool himself any longer when she’d casually strolled back to his tea party, that Griblig Day.

The first thing he’d seen was her shining golden hair; that hadn’t changed at all. Second, he was astonished to see firsthand how she’d grown. Well, grown was perhaps the wrong term, as she was shorter than when he’d last seen her; at that moment she was only two feet tall. Perhaps a better term to use would be ’how she’d matured’.

Gone was the precocious girl revealed to him by the mirror just months prior, and in her place stood a pale wisp of a woman. Even at two feet tall, Tarrant could tell that breasts and a round bum had blossomed onto her form, and her angular face, while still holding traces of baby fat, mostly fulfilled the promise her youthful beauty had hinted at. He stared, lost in wonder at the sight of his wife--he’d only just gotten used to the idea of her as a little girl, and then she presented herself to him like this? By simply walking up to the tea party he’d established to wait for her return looking so…looking so…

He vaguely recalled jumping upon the table and rushing across it to her; he had a notion that he might have dropped to one knee before her before beginning to babble almost incoherently. He had picked her up by her miniature Alice hand and led her back across the table, and her touch, despite being so small, had nearly burnt him from the inside out.

The Frabjous Day had been mentioned, and Tarrant had been ready to cheerfully, nay, almost breathlessly, inform his young wife of his preparations these past years for her role in the coming days when Chessur had pricked his ire, and then the Knave had arrived, and…

Well, he’d never gotten the opportunity to tell her, that’s all.

If the Red Knights had not found them in the woods, he would have told her then, after her small brow had furrowed as she asked what the Red Queen had done. If there had been more time between them in Salazem Grum, he would have told her then, preceded by kissing her soundly, of course. Or possibly the kissing would have happened after the telling; that part always jumbled itself together in his mind. He just knew after that point, he became less concerned about telling her of his preparations and more so with tasting her mouth. The way she’d settled his hat upon his head told him that she wouldn’t have been adverse to the action, had he been so bold to pursue it. But there had been no time! There had been Red Queens to watch out for, Vorpal Swords to fetch, Bandersnatches to escape upon…

He’d been nearly certain that he was going to die after that. The time leading up to his almost-execution was spent in torturous contemplation. Have I done enough for them? he wondered, thinking of all those in the Revolution that had depended upon him. Had he done enough to accomplish their ultimate goal, the end of the Red’s Reign, a new beginning for the White? Was Alice able to escape to Marmoreal with the Vorpal Sword? He just didn’t know, and a terror unlike any other he’d ever felt before pounded through his chest at the idea that perhaps Alice hadn’t gotten away.

It was there, in that darkened cell, that he realized somehow, in the handful of hours he’d spent with her since this, her third return, he’d fallen in love with his young wife. With the Champion of Underland. It was preposterous in the extreme. If they hadn’t already been married, he would have told himself that he hadn’t a chance with her. Being as they were, though…it gave him the hope, the muchness required to try something absolutely reckless, when Chess had smilingly suggested it.

So they’d escaped to Marmoreal. And Alice was there, waiting for him, when they reached the main courtyard. He’d wanted to wrap his arms around her, to dance her about the courtyard, but something or someone (he blamed Exhaustion) prevented him from doing so. Still, there was the reward of her luminescent smile, of her hand upon his arm, and he told himself that it was enough for now.

That resolve had lasted all of an hour. He’d been led to his old chambers within the Castle (which he’d been pleasantly surprised to see had been kept in the same condition they’d been in when he’d abandoned them for the tea party) where he washed away the reminders of Salazem Grum. Instead of immediately retiring for the evening, though, as was surely expected of him, he’d redressed, and gone in search of Alice.

He’d found her out on the balcony of her rooms, (A place that he would have never dared to go if they hadn't already been Wed!) leaning against the railing and staring up at the moon. His hat had been under his arm, his hair pushed back from his face in a vain attempt to tame it, a deep breath sucked in and a step had been taken in her direction before Tarrant was even aware he’d decided to join her. Bread-and-butterflies had erupted in his belly, and he was half-afraid of opening his mouth to speak, thinking that they’d come up through his throat and give him away. Open his mouth he did, though, stuttering out his riddle for her (Why is a raven like a writing desk?) and trying to remember the slippery rules of proper courtship that he’d never paid much attention to, even when he’d been able to use them.

They’d discussed much that night; dreams and reality, swords and slaying, waking and staying asleep. She’d smiled so winsomely at him even as she told him that he wasn’t real, that he couldn’t possibly exist. He’d wanted to argue the point--his feelings had, well, felt too strong to be the product of someone else’s imagination, but who was he to disagree with a Champion? His brows had twitched and his mouth had turned down. If he kissed her there, would that have proved to her his existence? It was a sorely tempting thought, and the one that ultimately had him taking his leave of her. The last thing his wife would want while worrying about slaying or not slaying was the advances of the mad milliner husband that she didn’t even know she was married to, nor believed was even really real!

He’d lain in bed that evening, staring up at his ceiling, unable to sleep. Real or not? He didn’t know how that could even be a point that his mind could debate, not when his blood was burning so hotly for Alice and her right proper shape and size. She’d fit right up against him, her face right at the level of his neck; were they to join, she’d--

Abruptly he veered his thoughts away from activities of that sort as he snatched his traitorous hand away from where it had crept when he was unawares. He’d not…while thinking of…no, he certainly wouldn’t! The moonlight on her hair had been most becoming, his mind unhelpfully provided, and he’d stroked himself several times through his trousers before he came back to himself. No! he thought furiously. The poor lass was due to face the Jabberwock on that morrow, and all he could think about was frigging himself? Rolling out of his bed, he’d shoved his feet into his shoes, and with a determination driven by guilt, taken himself down to the throne room, where he industriously polished the Champion’s armor.

He suspected Mirana knew why he’d stayed awake all night when she’d floated into the throne room the next morning. Every last scale upon Alice’s chain mail skirt gleamed; all the joints had been well-oiled. Dark brows lifted as she took in his battered hands and the nearly blinding armor, but instead of commenting she’d merely smiled and said, “We are gathering on the steps for the reading of the Oraculum,” before sweeping out of the room once more.

It appeared Alice had not slept well the night before, either. Dark circles hung under her eyes, and even though her hair was neatly combed and her clothing well pressed, both drooped about her in a tired, limp manner. Seeing her there, still so young upon those steps, he knew he couldn’t be one of the silent many that demanded she step forward and be the one to slay. So he stepped forward instead.

It had still been odd to Tarrant, to see Mirana in any place without Asher by her side. The White King had been killed along with his clan on Horvendush Day, and he’d watched the Queen glance to her side quickly, as if she were going to ask her long-gone husband what he thought of the developments. She had checked herself at the last moment, and turned her raised her eyebrows at him, instead. It was a Knowing look, but Tarrant didn’t care. Let her Know; the day, he’d thought, would be too short for any more hidden truths and unspoken desires.

Alice had run, as Alices sometimes do, and Tarrant went to run after her. Only the discouragement of his friends and the Queen herself had prevented him from seeking her out. He’d wanted to be the one to dress her in the armor he’d shined for her; to place the padding she would need to wear underneath, to tighten the straps that held it to her slender frame. By doing so he would have told her that she wasn’t alone, despite what Mirana had said. As more time passed and Alice still did not come back, he’d resignedly gone to his rooms and dressed himself. Oraculum or no, Alice or no, Underland needed a Champion to step forth and fight the Jabberwocky, and that should be him. He’d felt, not for the first time, the absolute pressure Alice must have been bearing, to be expected to save them all, save him, from a beast that terrified the bravest of men. She had done what Mirana's first Champion had not been able to on Horvendush Day: she'd stood up to the creature, had battled it, and triumphed.

So was it a surprise, then, that after defeating the creature Alice had decided to go back to the Above instead of abiding Under (with him, the churlish voice in his mind added)?

No, not a surprise. A disappointment? Yes, assuredly. But there was no one to blame for that disappointment except himself. Despite his bold thoughts to the contrary earlier that day, he’d revealed nothing to her, had spoken not a word of his desires beyond three (the wrong three, not the three he should have said) little words: You could stay. He’d done nothing to assist her during her battle other than jab at the beastie with his sword, like a boy with a wee stick. Nothing, nothing that could have told her what she’d come to mean to him, and what he wanted to mean to her.

Not a surprise, no. Tarrant had long ago discovered that if one prepared themselves for the worst possible scenario, then they were seldom surprised. Disappointment, though, was harder to battle. The days immediately following the Frabjous Day were silent ones, when others were in his presence. All (save for those that knew the Alice best) had expected her to stay in Underland (with him, the voice reminded him) and upon hearing that she did not had given him a wide birth. Those that did draw near to him almost immediately ceased their merrymaking (for there was much merrymaking in those days) and regarded him with apologetic eyes and silent lips.

It was for the best, he supposed. Tarrant hadn’t felt much like making merry, anyways. Instead he removed himself to the Windmill House, and began the long process of repairing it. Alice had said she would return, and he wanted her to feel comfortable when she did. A small part of him believed, deep down, that should the Alice come back to Underland, she’d likely stay at Marmoreal instead of with him. The larger part of himself, though, simply needed the focus repairing the house gave him; a goal, as if to say: when I am done, Alice will be prepared to return. This thinking had him rapidly flying about the house some days, straightening and polishing and fixing. Other days he did hardly anything at all, worried of what he would do if he completed the home and there was no Alice to live there (with him, again).

Alice’s twentieth birthday had come, and he’d practically crawled to Mirana’s study, prepared to beg if he had to (he wasn’t certain if he would be begging to look at Alice or to not look at her). The doorknob had swung open without him having to turn it, and Mirana stood within, waiting for him. A steaming pot of tea sat on the desk next to the mirror, a clean teacup beside that. Silently Mirana had glided over, grasped his arm, and sat him down in her rolling chair. “When you are ready, simply tap your fingers upon the glass,” she’d reminded him, before kissing his temple as his mother used to do and then drifting away, shutting the door behind her.

Hours (or minutes, Hatter was not certain which; Time still threw the occasional temper tantrum) passed where he’d sat and stared at the blank glass. His fingers finally decided his course of action. They’d reached of their own accord and touched the glass, and Tarrant had gasped at his first sight of Alice once again. Oh, she’d looked radiant! Another woman stood behind her, untangling snarls from her long curly hair; the similarity in features between them told him she was a relation, most likely a sister or cousin. She'd never said that she wanted to return to her family, but Tarrant should have known, should have expected...Alice watched the slightly older woman’s face as she worked, hazel eyes sparkling.

Flushed cheeks and glowing skin told the rest of the story. His greedy eyes drank her in for a few minutes more--then he banked the glass and sat in the silent study, face in his hands. “She’s happy,” he told himself. “Happy.” It was what he’d wanted for her, what he’d hoped for, but the reptile part of his brain couldn’t help the small shiver of disappointment that told him he’d also wanted her to miss him as much as he missed her.

Her 21^st birthday showed the Hatter a very different Alice.

It is inaccurate to say her birthday, per se: he’d not seen her on the actual day of. Tarrant had gone to Mirana, as he’d done every other year, except this year he’d decided to re-establish the tradition of gifting her something. He’d chosen a posy, wound in Alice blue ribbon, hoping that she would be pleased with its elegant simplicity. Mirana had taken the gift with the promise to have it delivered, and left him. He’d eagerly touched the glass, ready to see Alice smiling, Alice laughing, Alice happy once more--ready to have a visual confirmation that what he’d done (by saying the wrong three little words) had turned out to be the right thing, the thing that Alice most needed.

She wasn’t in her room. Tarrant watched as McTwisp laid the flowers on her bedside table, saw as he scurried away, and waited, and waited, but there was still no Alice entering to enjoy them.

No matter, the Hatter had thought. He’d wait for her; he’d gotten especially good at it, after all. No use in allowing such a honed skill to dull!

He was still waiting when Mirana returned at sundown that evening.

Admittedly, he was not in the same state of excited anticipation he’d been in when he’d entered the study early that morning, but he’d been determined. “Go to bed, Hatta,” the White Queen had coaxed him, but he’d refused.

“What if Alice returns whilst I am gone? Please, do not make me leave, your Majesty.”

Mirana had pondered his request, but really, she needed her office. She’d let too many things go undone just allowing him the span of a total day in there; she could not leave them be any longer. “I’m afraid I have to, Hatta.” she’d explained, and Tarrant wondered how she could say such a thing without worrying for her vows as his jacket darkened and his mouth drooped. “But that does not mean that you can not take the mirror with you when you go.”

His demeanor had instantly brightened. The Alice mirror, with him? Frog footmen had marched the ornately framed piece into a guest chamber, and he bedded down with the mirror directly in front of him, so that he may wake at any moment and see if she’d arrived again.

For the span of a week, the mirror went with him wherever he ventured.

The first few days, he was not concerned. What if Alice was visiting friends? Then by all means, she would not necessarily be at hand to walk into her room. Visiting friends was an activity that a happy Alice would partake in, after all, and last he’d seen her, she’d seemed very happy indeed.

The ending of that week told him a different story. Maids had burst into Alice’s room, startling him from his watchful reverie (he and the mirror had currently been in his workshop, where he was very industriously not getting a single thing done), opening curtains, changing bedding--doing things that maids do. They seemed to be in a state of some agitation. Alice must be coming home! Tarrant set down the pouch of peacock feathers he’d been absently sorting through (and by sorting, it is meant that he was stirring them around with one finger while staring at the mirror, the only result of which was ruined feathers) and leaned forward, intent on spotting his Alice (the Alice, he irritably reminded himself) as soon as she entered the room.

The sight that met his eyes when she did was disturbing in the extreme.

Gone was the healthful flush to her cheeks and shine in her eyes. Alice now seemed dull and washed out, as if the very color that had graced her before had been leached away. She was being assisted by an older woman (her mother? Hatter just didn’t know--!) and the woman he’d decided was either her sister or cousin. They laid her upon the turned down bed, speaking in what appeared to be a gentle manner while stroking her brow. Alice’s lips moved, but slowly; it seemed as if speaking alone tired her.

Alice was ill.

He’d fetched Mirana, with shaking hands and a stream of babble that even the Queen, adept as she was in Hatter speech, could not comprehend. He’d gesticulated wildly to the mirror, and then she’d understood. He'd demanded to know what was wrong with her, and Mirana promised to look, to see if she could tell what was wrong.

Alice wasn’t just ill, she told him solemnly after studying the image for several tense minutes. Alice was Fading.

“She is not of us, your Majesty!” Tarrant had argued.

“During her last journey here, she must have eaten of the food, or possibly drank of that which was not a potion created specifically for her. Now that she has come of age, the protections of her land will no longer apply.” Mirana paused, seemingly reluctant to say the next words, but uttering them nonetheless. “Either that, or her prolonged proximity to…” she trailed off, hand fluttering towards her face, as if just realizing that the words escaped her mouth.

“To what?” Hatter asked, already knowing, somehow, what it was that the Queen’s words implied. “…To me? Is that what you were going to say, your Majesty? That I am the reason that Alice is…that she…”

Imploringly, Mirana had reached a hand out to him, to stop his stream of self-recriminating babble, but once Tarrant had reached that conclusion, censuring himself was his last concern.

“That is what you were going to say! It is my fault! You’d not be wrong, even if the food were the reasoning. After all, she was my responsibility whilst she was here, was she not? I should have stayed by her side, watched over her--that is what I was Bound to do!”

“What you are still Bound to do.” Mirana interjected softly. Tarrant paled, but was silent. Pressing this unexpected advantage, Mirana continued speaking in a low, careful voice.

“Those events are in the past, Hatta. Few can say how everything may have turned had those days passed differently. We could run to those days past and see, but who is to say that past would be any better than the current situation? If it were worse, should you wish to return to this future, it would be difficult to find the exact thread--you may never return, and then this Alice in this time, in this thread, would still perish.”

Throat moving, Tarrant swallowed hard, knowing that the White Queen spoke the truth. Whispering as the tree leaves do after the first hard frost of Fall, he said, “Am I now to be the reason why the Alice can not follow the path she has chosen? Even 'twere I to go to her, she may not wish to come with me. She may still have questions to answer, things to do, and I mustn’t press her before she is prepared to return.”

The words had the flavor of an old argument, even to Tarrant. He could only imagine how tired and worn they must have sounded to the Queen.

“She said she’d return…” he whimpered softly, the denial of a child.

“She did.” Mirana walked up behind him, as he’d turned his back to her with his last words. Two deceptively strong hands landed on his shoulders, and Hatter was a bit ashamed to feel the sob he’d attempted to conceal vibrate through his shoulders and against those hands, giving him away. Mirana paused.

“Would you leave her this decision, even knowing that it will kill her?” He'd made a small sound of protest--either a gurgle or another sob, he wasn’t certain--at this scenario.

“She cannot conceivably know why she is truly ill, Hatta.” Mirana had pressed, hands tracing the air. “It is still your decision. Please know I would never order you to retrieve her…but mark this: if Alice stays Above, she will perish. Is that a price you’re willing to pay, in order for Alice to have her freedom?”

Hatter was silent for a long time, long enough that the Queen surely had begun to wonder if she'd get an answer at all. “No,” he finally was able to say. “No, that price I am not willing to pay.”

A clatter from the front stoop pulled Tarrant out of his recollections and he turned to see Alice bracing herself against the jam. She looked even more frightful out-of-doors than she had inside her room; her hair was lank, her face was smudged with unidentifiable traces, her clothing positively hung off of her, and she was no doubt frumious, but she was an alive, on-her-way-to-mending Alice; Tarrant had never been so happy to see anyone in his life. The food must have set her to rights sooner than he'd expected, if she'd made her way down the stairs under her own power!

“Come, come!” he enthusiastically ran to her and grasped her arm, assisting her down the stoop and into the front yard. Her eyes watered from the sunlight, he saw. “I shall get you to the shade, my Alice, I shall!” He stopped himself just short of kissing the nearest part of her to his lips (at this point, her shoulder) and instead walked her towards an accommodating tree, which lowered its branches to give her shade from the sun. “The others will be ever-so-pleased to see you, Alice,” he said, with a gentle touch to the top of her head once she'd settled onto the ground. “I shall go and fetch them, directly-like.”

Hazel eyes looked up, locked with his own green. A shaky hand reached for him, and Tarrant took it between both of his own. “Thank you, Hatter,” Alice said softly.

*~*~*~*

And indeed the others had been pleased to see Alice. Even Mallymkun, whom was not her staunchest supporter when she was in Underland last, seemed overjoyed to see her. It was a bit overwhelming for Alice, but she was determined to enjoy herself, and so she did.

Tarrant, for his part, was simply overjoyed that Alice had been able to come down the stairs at all. The effort had left her obviously weak and shaky, but she had done so on her own, and he couldn't help the surge of pride in her that he felt when he thought on that. She was already so much improved from what she'd seemed in the London mirror that he could scarcely believe it...but to see her there, with him and their friends, out in the sunshine, with a smile tugging her lips at Thackery's current antics gave him the type of hope he'd nearly been ready to give up on.

“Does the Champion look a-rights to you?” the Hatter heard from behind him, and he stilled to listen to the conversation the Dodo was daring to have with someone other than himself about his wife.

“Nauw, that she doesn't, Uilleum, and make no mistake. I heard,” the unidentified second voice dropped down to a whisper, “as how she didn't really want to come home, and Mad Tarrant had to go and fetch her! Against her very will, he did!”

“I'm sure if he did do so, that he'd a very good reason,” Uilleum said, and Hatter silently thanked him for being such a good friend. He'd help quash that rumor, (never mind if it was true!) and with any luck, no one would be attempting any foolishness like “saving” the Champion...for them doing so and assisting her in returning to London could accomplish the opposite of their goal, and kill her.

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