Best Intentions, Chapter Eight

[wanderamaranth]

 

“Have you heard what Helen Kingsleigh has been up to lately?”

Hamish paused outside his mother's sitting room. Indoor pursuits had left him bored and restless, but outdoor activities were not to be had, unless he wished to romp about in the snow like a lad of twelve. That is not to say that he made a habit of listening at doors in the wintertime simply for amusement, but the likelihood of him hearing something indiscreet outside of sitting room doors was raised exponentially with the onset of the colder months. Therefore, it was with only a few twinges of guilt that, upon hearing the surname Kingsleigh, he abandoned any pretense of self-imposed, strident rules of civility and pressed his ear flush against the door.

“What was that, Penelope?” Lady Ascot (Hamish hardly even thought of her as 'mum' in his own mind, she was such a fearsome creature) asked, in her highly developed distant-but-yet-riveted tone of voice that she reserved for gossiping with Mrs. Penelope Chattaway.

Like her daughters, Mrs. Chattaway was a notorious gossip. If she were speaking of the Kingsleighs in the manner he believed she was about to, it would not bode well for their family name.

“She's decided to fund a charity.”

“Oh, pshaw! And here I thought you were going to tell me something interesting, Penelope! You and I have been encouraging her to take up a useful activity since Charles passed.”

“Yes, but you won't believe where she is applying herself at.”

“Oh?”

Hamish pressed himself closer to the door, holding his breath so that his inhalations didn't accidentally drown out the words in case Mrs. Chattaway decided to whisper the way she did when she was relating something especially 'deliciously scandalous'. He was glad he did when she predictably lowered her tones, and said, “An establishment called Long's Orphange Home for Boys.”

Lady Ascot sighed. “Once again, Penelope, I fail to see your point. An orphanage is a fine place to champion, indeed.”

“It's in Cheapside.”

A teacup clattered onto a saucer. “Oh, now you're just being ridiculous.”

“It's true!” Penelope Chattaway insisted. “I got it from Mrs. Wickham, who'd got it from Mrs. Collins, who got it straight from her maid's sister, who works for Mrs. Kingsleigh!”

Hamish gnawed on his lower lip to prevent a laugh from escaping. What a circuitous route ladies gossip traveled on!

Sighing noisily in a manner that Hamish was quite familiar with (he could practically see her eye-roll through the door; she was of much the same mind about servant's gossip that he was) Lady Ascot very deliberately changed the subject in a way that Mrs. Chattaway would not consider a complete re-direct. His mother was very good at that sort of thing, Hamish thought fondly.

“Have you heard anything about the younger Miss Kingsleigh?”

Yes, his mother was savvy indeed. She knew perfectly well that Mrs. Chattaway would not mention Miss Alice Kingsleigh without her broaching the subject first; but when the subject was broached, well...

“You would think that young woman dropped right off the face of the earth!” Penelope squealed indignantly. “Faith and Fiona have tried to call on her, and have left their cards multiple times, but nothing!” A pastry must have been shoved into her mouth at this juncture, because her next words came thickly, as if being forced out beyond frosting and cake. “Miss Alice hasn't made a return visit, or even sent a note thanking them for their concern! They'd visited her the first week after her arrival back in London, and then suddenly, it's 'Miss Kingsleigh will not be receiving visitors' this and 'Miss Kingleigh is ill today' that. It's almost as if she is not at home at all!”

“That...is unusual. They'd been quite welcome in the Kingsleigh residence before now.”

“And just why wouldn't my girls be welcome?” Mrs. Chattaway asked defensively. Hamish could well picture her, back ramrod straight, and her...heroic...nose, held high in the air.

“Oh, Penelope. Honestly?” Lady Ascot did something that set the tea things to clattering, and then she said, “I do hope that Alice is quite well. She'd looked very poorly indeed when she came off that ship that Rupert put her on. I told him that was no place for a young lady, especially one of breeding, but did he listen to me?”

“Has Lord Ascot heard naught?”

“No, nothing,” Hamish's mother replied, and then paused. “Which is odd in and of itself. I do wonder what is going on with those Kingsleigh woman. Perhaps I will invite Lord and Lady Manchester to dine later this week.”

“You will let me know how that progresses, will you not?” Penelope asked, an eagerness coloring her voice.

“Let you know? I shall invite you and Theodore as well.”

“Splendid! Speaking of Lady Manchester...”

Hamish backed away from the door. He'd heard enough. Something was going on with Alice, and he was determined to find out what.

*~*~*~*

“What do you think my mother is doing right now? My sister?”

“Beg pardon?”

Alice rolled over onto her side, propping her head upon the meat of her palm. “My mother, Hatter. I'm concerned about her.”

“You could always write her a letter.”

“What?” Alice leaned over the Hatter, ignoring the growing-more-familiar feeling that tugged at the bottom of her stomach at the sight of him. He was in his shirtsleeves and vest, stretched out full length, hat resting beside his splayed orange frizz. A piece of sweet grass was in his teeth, which he was gnawing and suckling on absently.

“I said, you could always write her a letter,” Tarrant repeated, patiently. “Or look in upon her through a mirror.”

“You never mentioned that I could do that before!” Alice said, agitated.

“You never asked,” Hatter replied, looking at her strangely.

She wished to be angry; she really did. But his reply was simply such a Hatter thing to say, that she found that she couldn't be upset with him. Of course he would only suggest she communicate with her mother if she asked...even if he should have known that she would wish to do so without mentioning it. That thought stopped her. It was unfair to expect him to know her wishes and thoughts—if she'd never spoken them, how would he know?

All she'd ever told him was that she wished to return to London, when she was first taken to Underland...but even that she'd stopped speaking of after her second or third day in the Hatter's presence. Alice had never asked if there was a way to speak or to see her mother while still staying in Underland. This, even after Hatter had told her that he'd used a mirror to check upon her while she was Above! Why, it was no wonder he'd not thought she'd wish to do so, if the first words out of her mouth after finding out about the existence of such a thing was not a demand to see her mother!

“I have much to tell her,” Alice said, sitting back down on her rump.

“Oh?”

“You sound surprised,” Alice teased.

“While any and all time spent in your company is enjoyable, Alice, I do not imagine that we have partaken of any activities worth writing home about.”

Alice snorted. “Your imagination is suffering acutely, than, Hatta. Oh, my fingers simply itch for parchment and quill now!”

“Where would you begin?” Tarrant asked, seemingly diverted.

Where indeed! It was an excellent question.

While they had gotten off to an...unfortunate start, Alice had determined, that day after she finally was able to venture out of her sickroom in the Windmill House, that she would make the most of her time here in Underland. A part of her was thrilled to be there; a very large part. To be in Underland with no need to hide where she'd been from her mother, to be able to correspond with those Above and share all of her adventures seemed too great of an opportunity to pass, and so she grasped it. It would have been a lie to say that it wasn't a relief, to be in a place where she could be herself, with no threat of censure.

There was still a lingering guilt, and, yes, part of her was still angry with Tarrant for the way he'd brought her to Underland, and there were questions she was afraid to have him answer for her, but the stronger parts of her were simply grateful to be here, with him, for however long she was able to be.

The day following her first outside, she'd gone to Tarrant and asked him, in a quiet and careful voice, if he would mind sitting with her in the living room. His eyes had shined in surprise and delight, and he'd eagerly ceded to her request. There he had constructed her a seat so cushioned with blankets and pillows that she hardly needed to extend any effort to remain upright, and they played chess well past nightfall. Tarrant won twice, as Alice fully expected he would, but she surprised them both by winning the third match.

The next day, feeling a bit stronger, she had forgone the cushioned hollow and instead sat upon the piano bench, determined to practice her admittedly very rusty musical skills. The sound of the keys clinking and clanging discordantly had brought Tarrant to the room, and he'd sat, hat in his hands in the wingback armchair still pulled up to the chess table. From the mirror hanging above the piano, Alice had been able to see his reactions as she tinkled out certain melodies, his delight with some and his ambivalence with others. His face had became Rapture itself, though, when she began to sing. His mouth had parted and his eyes became even more unfocused than usual, and she had not thought it was her imagination that saw his chest rising and falling rapidly under the fabric of his waistcoat.

“Allow me,” he'd said, when her voice finally gave out. Tarrant had directed her over to what Alice had swiftly began to consider her cushions, settled her in, then returned to the piano, where, after a dramatic shucking of his jacket and rolling upwards of his sleeves, he began to play.

Tarrant, bless him for all of his other talents, was simply awful when it came to music.

It was a tableau that should have had her giggling like mad, and abusing him for the most untalented of musicians. Instead something tight clenched in her chest at the sight of him, so earnest, sitting at the piano and carefully plunking out notes for her enjoyment. Alice knew not how long he played, or what exactly the songs were that he sung. She only knew that when he had finished, she had tears in her eyes and a lump in her throat.

He'd seen this in the mirror's reflection and was up off the bench and by her side in a moment.

“Alice! I'm sorry, I know I'm not the most talented of singers—the Red Queen once threatened my head over the quality of my singing! What was I thinking, to subject you to my terrible voice? Look, I've made you cry!”

“No, Tarrant.” Alice had reached out and touched his jacket sleeve. “You weren't terrible. In fact, you were wonderful.”

He'd looked very chuffed indeed, but had giggled past his pride and said, “If you think so, my dear, you must be completely tone-deaf! But it is an Alice compliment, and I shall take it nonetheless.”

A few days later had her up and about, walking for several minutes at a time under her own power without assistance from Tarrant whatsoever. He'd still insisted on dressing her hair that morning (“One hundred brush strokes, is it, Alice?”) brushing it until it gleamed before plaiting it and then pining that plait into a tightly wound chignon. There had been something extremely intimate about him tending to her hair, and when the Hatter had finally stepped away, lips still pursed in concentration, before nodding and exclaiming, “I like it!” Alice felt like she could breathe again. She'd grinned up at him, said, “I'm glad it meets with your approval, sir,” and, before she'd known what her body's intentions were, had stood, rose upon her tiptoes, and bussed him on the cheek. Giggling at his dumbstruck expression, she'd left the room, with a reminding, “You don't want to be late to meet the Queen!”

Thackery and Mally had been waiting for her down in the kitchen. Alice had donned an apron (which Mally helpfully tied for her in the back) heavily floured her hands (which the Hare had insisted was absolutely necessary before one spent too long in the kitchen) and pestered Thackery until he agreed to show her how to bake something.

“Biscuits!” he'd shouted. “Easy fer a beginnin', aye? Course, tis a mite bit late to be sayin' yer just startin', but...Aye! 'Twill do well enough!”

Mally had scampered upon the windowsill to offer helpful suggestions as Alice cut, rolled out, and then mixed the biscuit ingredients. Hours later, she'd been up to her elbows in flour, laughing like a loon over Mally's rather colorful commentary on her lack of culinary skills, when Tarrant came into the kitchen. He'd stopped, anxious yellow-green eyes roving from the alarmingly large pile of burnt, brick-like biscuits in the corner, to Alice, and back again. Then he'd smiled, walked over and plucked a biscuit from the top of the pile, and bit into it. He'd made a comical face of absolute revulsion, but still swallowed, and said, forcibly bright, “It's good!” He'd gone to take another bite when Alice stopped him.

“It's awful! Tarrant, you are a terrible liar. You don't have to eat that, honestly.”

“You made it, didn't you?” he had asked, staring up at her hair, which was coming loose every which way out of her chignon. Alice had patted the loose strands, self-consciously trying to fix it, but only succeeded in sprinkling flour all about her person.

“Yes,” Alice had said. “If Thackery had, it might actually be edible.”

“It's edible now,” Tarrant had argued, and then took another bite. He'd struggled bravely with it, swallowed, and then admitted, “Although perhaps...not as tasty as one would hope...”

They'd all laughed, then, and decided to scrap her cooking lessons for the time being.

The following day Tarrant hadn't had an appointment to keep in Marmoreal, so he'd suggested they talk a brief walk, saying that the outdoor air could do her some good. He'd taken her not far afield, to a riverbank that had a picnic lunch set up next to it. Alice had exclaimed in delight.

“You planned this!”

A gap-toothed grin had been her response, and he'd led her to a seat. Together they'd sat and watched the birds going overheard, the fish jump and play, and the river roll on, a constant, steady presence. They had stayed outside that day for hours, talking of nothing and everything, munching occasionally on the treats Tarrant had arranged for. Only when the sun began to set did they start back for the Windmill House, and outside the door, Tarrant had paused, had stopped and looked at her lips as if...but then he'd cleared his throat, looked down at his shoes, and opened the door for her.

“Ladies first,” he'd said, and, surprised at her level of disappointment, Alice entered the house. Shortly thereafter Tarrant had made his excuses and gone to bed, leaving her to puzzle over the conundrum if he had or had not been considering kissing her in that moment, and her own, (decidedly favorable) reaction, had he decided to do so.

“Will you tell me a story?” had been the first words Tarrant spoke to Alice the next evening upon returning once more from Marmoreal, causing her to drop the milk pitcher she'd been carrying. After much profuse apology, the crying milk (as milk will always insist that someone cries when it is spilt, to the point that if no one does, it will up and start crying itself) had been cleaned up, and the pieces of the broken pitcher had been swept into the bin. It had been while this tidying was occurring that Alice had pressed for a clarification of Tarrant's request.

“You want me to tell you a story?” she'd asked. Tarrant nodded.

“I feel a bit like Scheherazade, but alright,” Alice had agreed. She took a breath and opened her mouth to begin a tale, (although she'd no idea what story she would tell him; she was hoping that if she began speaking, something interesting would come out) when Tarrant had stopped her with a question.

“Whom is Scheherazade?”

Alice smiled. She'd had her story to tell!

Dawn had broken the horizon when she was done; Tarrant had sat before her, spellbound, for the entire night, not interrupting her unless to inquire as to a plot point or for a clarification on the meaning of a word. Yawning and too sleepy to bother rising from her cozy hollow of blankets and pillows by the time she was finished, Alice had simply nestled down further into them, pulled a corner of one of the blankets over herself, and announced her intention to go to sleep.

The feeling of strong arms lifting her and carrying her up the stairs and to her bedroom could have been a dream, would have been dismissed for one, had she not woken hours later to the afternoon sun shining through her porthole window. The words she believed she spoke to the owner of those arms would have been written off as mere imagination (“Stay with me?”) had not the gentleman in question still been curved around her, his breath tickling her ear and his chin comfortably settled on her shoulder. A little whistling snore emanated from him, and Alice didn't know if she'd ever heard a more endearing sound in her entire life. She'd carefully, quietly, pulled herself free of his grip; Alice would not have been surprised if she'd been blushing hard enough to wake the Hatter with the sound of her blood rushing to her face. He'd grunted, and curled into a tight ball in the place she'd been, face nuzzling where her hair had rested upon the pillow.

Alice had gone downstairs, marched into the kitchen, and resolutely thrown herself into the effort of finally managing an edible batch of biscuits. By the time Tarrant made his way down the stairs, his hands in his pockets and a confused, sheepish tilt to his brows, Alice had made not one, but two batches of biscuits that didn't make her despair over her cookery skills. Before he'd been able to utter the apology that was clear in his eyes, she pressed a biscuit into his hands, and insisted, “Try it!” She'd had no interest in him apologizing and spoiling her pleasant memory.

He'd taken a bite, and those tilted brows had climbed upward. Another bite was taken, and he said, slowly, “I do believe, Alice, that these are actually...good.” A smile had curved her mouth, and they'd sat together at the table, enjoying a bit of tea and her biscuits. Not a word had been spoken about her request that he stay with her, much to Alice's satisfaction. Wonderful things, she'd thought, should not be over-thought, but just enjoyed.

More days had passed, in which Alice continued her attempts at cookery, (with a bit more success; cake, it seemed, she was able to make without burning) Tarrant sang to her again, (and it still brought confused, pleased tears to her eyes) more chess was played (Alice won twice more, an accomplishment she was very proud of) and another walk taken. Life at the Windmill House had been slipping into a pattern, it seemed, until Alice had suggested Tarrant give her an Official Tour, as he'd never done so when she'd initially arrived. Agreeing with alacrity, he'd led her from room to room, explaining in great detail the benefits of each, and what exactly he had done whilst renovating them. Alice exclaimed in all the proper places, assured him that she appreciated the amount of work he'd put into the building, and generally was well-pleased with everything that was revealed to her. There was one room, though, that the Hatter had attempted to walk her right past without opening the door, and she'd tugged on his arm, pulling him to a stop.

“This is your room, isn't it?” she'd asked.

“It is,” Tarrant had agreed.

“Aren't you going to show it to me?”

“You...wish to see my room?”

“Of course,” Alice had told him. “I've seen it before, but I'd like to be properly invited this time round.”

So, with a shy, nervous smile, he'd turned back, consulted with the doorhandle, and they entered his space.

Although, as she'd told Tarrant, Alice had been in there once before, the night of his raging madness, Alice had not really been in any condition to take note of much of anything. It was spare—much more spare than she'd expected from a space belonging to Tarrant Hightopp. There was a low, plainly made bed with a simple nightstand next to it, with only a candlestick and a book atop it; a curtainless porthole window, high up on the wall which was very similar to the one in her room, and a woven rug on the floor, with a pair of battered slippers beside it. There was only one fixture hanging on the wall, and it was this set of shelves that had soon drawn her attention.

Miscellaneous bits and bobs had been scattered on the lowest shelf, as if Tarrant emptied his pockets at the end of every day there; spools of thread and broken thimbles, (and just what was the man doing to actually break his thimbles? She'd resolved to speak to him about that) scraps of paper with what appeared to be hat sketches and words scribbled across them, snapped pencils and bent feathers. The next shelf up had held even more interesting contents.

A smile had coiled the corners of Alice's mouth as she'd stood on her tiptoes to reach a small plush skunk, wearing a cheerful yellow ribbon. “This is cute,” she'd said, wondering why the Hatter possessed such a toy.

“Do you like it?” he'd asked her, an eagerness coloring his voice that she hadn't understood. Turning to face him, she'd noted his expectant expression, and, although she hadn't known the reason behind it, hastened to assure him:

“Oh! Yes, I do! It's very sweet, indeed.”

“It's yours,” Tarrant had told her, pride evident after her reassurance that is was to her liking. “I made it for you.”

“For me?” Alice had asked, batting aside the swell of disappointment that bubbled under her breast. Just how old did the Hatter think she was, she'd wondered. Perhaps she'd been wrong about how he'd been behaving towards her; but what sort of man gave an individual they still considered as a child a ring? Not that he'd given her the ring with any clear indications at all as to its purpose—or even while she was conscious! For all she knew, it could be a token, a simple gift of affection...the giving and accepting of a ring (for she had accepted it, hadn't she, when she had decided to not press the matter of how it came to be on her finger and why she was wearing it) could mean something completely different in Underland than it did in Above, she'd fussed.

But no, she'd argued with herself, it could not be just a simple trinket. She knew gold when she saw it, and she'd seen Tarrant sneaking looks at her hand when he believed she was unawares. Its continued presence on her finger Meant Something to him, something beyond the enjoyment one gets from knowing they've bestowed a well-received trifle upon a friend. What it meant, though, Alice still was not certain, but she hoped...she hoped...and when had she begun to hope that it meant what it would mean in London?!

“Yes. It was to be your seventeenth birthday gift, but I...failed to have it delivered to you.”

“A birthday gift?”

“Yes,” Hatter had repeated. “As I gave you a gift every year, on your day of birth, so too was that to be. Only that year...well, I realized that such a gift may not have been appreciated by a young woman, as you actually were at that point, instead of the young girl I had imagined when I'd created it.”

“You gave me gifts?” Alice had parroted, feeling slow and dim-witted.

“I did,” Tarrant had confirmed, looking at her with concern. “They were left upon your bedside table each year. I know you received them, for I saw you with some. The locket I gave you when you turned thirteen, the book of verse when you were nine...”

“The gloves when I turned sixteen,” Alice had breathed. “Those were all from you?”

“Indeed. Whom did you think they were from?”

“My father,” Alice had replied, reeling. Hatter had been the one who had those items snuck into her room each year? She's always believed that her father had done so, and he'd played along when she'd asked, (even though, after she'd considered it, Charles never had specifically said that they were from him) so she never thought to question where they came from further, and...

“How did you see me with the gifts?”

Shifting uncomfortably on the balls of his feet, looking for all the world like a young boy preparing to be scolded by a strict nanny, Tarrant had said, “The Queen permitted me the use of her Looking Glass once per year, to check in upon you, to see how you were. She also arranged for the gifts to be delivered; I'm not sure by what method, but I suspect McTwisp was involved.”

“The gifts stopped when I was seventeen—when father died. Why did you stop?” Alice would not have expected that the idea of those years of being deprived of her special birthday gifts would upset her, but it had.

“I...saw that you were no longer a little girl...and I questioned the appropriateness of continuing on with such a venture.”

So Hatter did not see her as a child any longer, part of her had thrilled. She'd wanted to dance about the room and crow, but her curiosity was stronger, and the questions on the tip of her tongue would not wait for spontaneous expressions of victorious joy.

“What caused this revelation, Hatta?”

Looking very uncomfortable indeed, Tarrant had replied while staring firmly at the floor, “Your maid was dressing you. I might have been able to dismiss the way she was lacing you into that contraption, but...” he swallowed, closed his eyes, and visibly commended himself to whatever gods Underlandians believed in. “I asked to see you the next week, and the week thereafter. I didn't want to catch you whilst you were dressing again!” he hastily reassured her, “But it was quite a shock to me to think of you as an adult woman, and not...but the last week I looked, the third week, you were dressed in black, and that pompous, no-chin, guddler's spitting pilgar lickering toadstool of a bootstrap let himself into your room, and I...”

“I was in black? I never wear black. Unless...my father turned ill right around my birthday, and passed three weeks after...but no one would have been in my rooms, it would be...” Alice had stopped, the memory trickling back to her. “You can't mean....Hamish?” Alice had asked faintly, fingers tightening on the plush skunk. “You stopped sending me gifts because of Hamish?”

“You seemed attached to the lad, and I didn't want to intrude, and...”

“You think I seem attached to Hamish? Bright red hair, bad teeth? That Hamish?”

Alice had only realized how using those two particular identifying traits in such a negative tone might have seemed when the Hatter flushed to an almost purple-red, and his brilliant green eyes fixed themselves onto the floor. When he'd spoken, he did not raise his face to look at her. It seemed he'd noticed her use of the present tense, though, for he'd said, in a carefully measured tone:

“Are you? Attached to him, I mean?”

“No!” Alice had insisted, shaking her head in vehement denial. “If I were as attached to him as everyone seems to think I should be, I would have accepted his proposal of marriage two years ago!”

Burning, raging, sulfuric irises had been the Hatter's response—that had gotten him to look at her once more! “He proposed to ye? That no-good, weak-limbed, hand wringing child actually thought he was worthy of asking ye for yer hand in marriage?”

“It was what caused me to follow McTwisp down the rabbit hole, actually,” Alice had told him. “He found me just as Hamish went on bended knee. I probably would have told him yes, if I hadn't seen that Rabbit right then. It was what everyone expected of me. Instead I chased the Rabbit, fell to Underland, and regained my muchness.”

“That was what you had to answer,” Tarrant had guessed. “You had to leave Underland to tell that boy that you didn't wish to marry him.”

“That, among other duties called me, yes. You may call him a boy, Hatter, but he's an honorable man, if a bit boring; he deserved an answer.”

Tarrant had deflated at this defense. He'd looked about, as if just realizing they were still in his room. “Shall we resume our tour?” he'd asked, cementing the change in subject by holding out a hand. Alice took it.

“As long as my long lost friend can come with us,” she'd said, holding the skunk up in illustration.

He'd smiled. “But of course,” he'd said, and together they'd gone about the rest of the house, Tarrant's laughter and slowly renewed cheer warming her from the inside out.

Come to think of it, what would Alice tell her mother? That she thought that...possibly, she could be falling in love with...?

“Penny for your thoughts, Alice,” Tarrant broke in, interrupting the letter she'd been crafting to her mother in her head.

Blushing, she replied, “I should like to think they're worth at least a pence...but it's nothing, Tarrant.” Standing, she extended her hand to him, and helped him stand. “Shall we go back to the house? I have a letter to start writing.”

Although what she was going to put in it, Alice hadn't the slightest idea.

“Windmill House?” Tarrant seemed surprised. “I thought you would wish to travel to Marmoreal and view her through the glass?”

“I...not today,” she finally told him, after another quiet-filled moment.

“Alright then,” Tarrant nodded, still holding onto her hand. He tucked it into the crook of his arm, and said, “A letter it shall be then. But you know, you only have to ask...I should have offered before, but I thought...and you never mentioned it, so my belief was that you'd no wish to...but that's a ridiculous notion, that you'd not wish to see your family, and conceited, to boot, to think that I would...”

“Hatter,” Alice said firmly. “It is quite fine.” He subsided, but his chin still tightened in a show of doubt. “Honestly!” she insisted, and in a rush of muchness, reached up to pet his jaw, to soothe away the tension there. Her fingers rounded and chucked him under the chin. A look burned through his eyes—a look that she'd seen a fair few times before since returning to Underland, starting with when she'd licked the ring on her finger that first day—and he leaned towards her, his mouth soft and half-parted. Alice closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and held it (Was he going to close the distance between them? Did she want him to?) when Tarrant abruptly cleared his throat. Her eyes popped back open to see him shaking his head as though to clear it.

“A-After you, Alice,” Tarrant said, nodding towards the house. Snapping her mouth shut before a string a disappointed expletives could issue forth, the blonde instead exhaled strongly through her nose, and nodded to herself, before tugging gently on his arm and leading them back to the Windmill.

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