"Amorous," Alice admitted apprehensively.

"Adorable," an apparition, all aglow, advised ardently. "Admirable, attractive and acceptable. Alas..."

"Alice," an annoyed Ascot asked, "Alone again?"

Absolutely abysmally agonized apparitions absconded.

"Always," Alice answered angrily. Absolem's adrift.


It started in April, approximately two years after Hamish Ascot's botched marriage proposal. Alice had already taken trips to Hong Kong, Shanghai, Peking, and various other locales in China. Now she was in India, having barely survived a dreadful crossing of the indomitable Himalayan mountain range.

In the relative safety of Bombay, Alice Kingsleigh stood in front of an opulently framed full-length mirror, most indecently dressed in her chemise and bloomers. One could forgive her - the sweltering heat had simply driven her mad. Mad enough that she had taken to screeching at the frumious scutlicking Indian maidservants to bloody well leave her alone!

Perhaps this was why she saw him in her dreams, his dark burr rolling and washing over her like waves on the shores of Bath.

"Or it could all be Absolem's fault," she thought a bit spitefully, watching absentmindedly as the beautiful blue butterfly fitted to the top of the mirror's frame.

She closed her eyes and swayed a bit on her feet. The heat had left her dizzy before, and she could feel another swoon coming over her now. Still, she did not do the right and proper thing, which would have been to go lie down and take a nap in her shaded four-poster bed. No, what she did instead was lean on the heavy mirror itself, her face and chest pressed against its delightfully cool surface. Her arms hugged the looking glass lovingly, crushing it to her blazing body in a frenzied attempt to stop being so scrumly warm.

"Alice?"

A tremulous, lilting voice ruffled her hair, its light lisp licking the locks at the very top of her crown.A weight, slight, but still meaningful, lit lazily upon her head.

"Alliteration. Amusing. I'm thinking of words that begin with the letter L," Alice thought to herself, one part of her ashamed of her self-mocking tone. It was still the larger part of her mind - the part that told her to be reasonable in business meetings and stop daydreaming during dinners with dignitaries.

"Oh dear. I seem to have gone back to the letter D."

"Aye, a rather delightful letter, if'nae wee bit dauntin', devious, deceitful, darin', devilish-"

"Hatter," Alice cooed, without even opening her eyes, "You may stop now."

"-Deerstalker! Right, thank ye, Alice. Ye're rather good a' tha', ye ken?"

A pause. One lazy beat of Absolem's wings fluttered noiselessly as understanding dawned on her.

"Hatter!" Alice cried as she threw herself back, hold herself at arm's-length from the mirror. "Oh, Hatter! You dear, sweet man! What on earth are you doing here? Oh, let me have a look at you!"

[~~~]

Tarrant Hightopp, Wanderer Extraordinaire and former Royal Hatter of Queen Mirana, Ruler of All Underland, was too busy trying to decide if he should run and hide his scut under the tea-table till high-Brillig or pounce upon this apparition with all of the avarice his Badness advised. Tonight had been the first night in over two years that he had been to the abandoned windmill - the place he had first met her. After her abrupt abandonme-

With effort, Tarrant Hightopp pushed away the Badness and began his thoughts again.

After Frabjous Day (yes, much better turn of phrase), he decided that he should take a walking tour of Underland and acquire an accurate idea of the appearance of his world. Anything to take his mind off of her abhorrent absence-

He had finally returned to the windmill, a bit over-worn and tattered and torn (lovely little rhyme there, old chap!), long after Brillig he assumed, seeing as how Night was upon him and Moon was yawning rather broadly. Finally feeling his thirty-and-six years old, despite being no better friends with Time, he'd barely had the energy to strip himself of his jacket and waistcoat and shirt and undershirt and cravat and claymore...

He'd only just started to undress when, in searching for a safe place to store his Hat from that guddler's scut, naught fer usal Chessur, he happened to glance at the dusty old looking glass and saw her. She had been pressed against the glass, her fair, nubile body quite atrociously, audaciously sticky-wet, thoroughly drenched in a way that caused her chemise to become transparent-

She was obviously rather warm where ever she was, and she looked like she was silently pleading with him for an embrace, as if his chill, pale skin could somehow relieve her of whatever burdensome heat she was enduring.

"A dream then," Tarrant thought to Himself, all bemused.

"Indeed," he heard Himself reply. "I've gone the wrong way 'round the bend now, haven't I?"

But this possibility of a further descent into lunacy did not stop him from approaching her, his own arms outstretched. Almost of its own accord did the Hat perch itself on the right corner of the looking glass, salmon chiffon scarf fluttering around the mirror's frame. With scant regard for Goodness, Badness, or Madness, Tarrant brought himself right to the glass, his eyes heavy and half-lidded and glowing bright green as they followed riotous waves of spun-gold hair.

"Alice?" Tarrant whispered breathlessly, his voice no more than a slithering tove of a lisp as he wrapped his arms around the mirror.

The apparition answered in her clear, ringing voice. Tarrant's control over his Madness - something that he had not fully sunk into for the past...since Frabjous Day - slipped sharply. For a few moments he was completely lost in the act of holding her, slurvishly wrapping himself in her scent and her feel, Speech and Thought only barely connected to each other. He was quite certain that he was rambling when her voice broke through the rush of words.

She was pushing him away, so he must release her, but (oh, calloo, callay!) she had not dropped his hands - he could still feel her strong fingers winding around his bony wrists. His own pin-pricked, thorn-scratched, battered hands were grasping the fine bones in her own dainty wrists a bit tighter than he might have done consciously, but really, he was too awestruck to appreciate anything beyond this...this...Alice. The Alice.

"My Alice..."

His eyes - no telling what color they might be at the moment, but certainly nothing as mundane as grass-green - scoured scrupulously over her form, taking in every minute change in her body. The Bandersnatch's scrapes had faded quite nicely, and Alice (and oh! The delight of calling her name without fighting patches of Darkness!) herself was a bit tanner than he usually dreamed, but the blue eyes sparkled with even more muchness and her body had absolutely bloomed. It was as if she'd been a half-unfurled bud that Frabjous Day and here, now, was the final flower, petals flung wide open and ready to dance in the sunlight, from the graceful curve of her neck, the flare of her pert bosom and her winsome hips, right down to her tender, tiny toes-

"My Alice...ye've grown so fine," he growled before he could bite his slurvish tongue. Fortunately, it appeared that he had said the right thing - pink roses blossomed rather becomingly in her cheeks, even as her eyes ran over him searchingly. He was quite distracted from her examination as he watched her peachy little tongue swipe over her full lips.

"Amorous."

The husky whisper gained Form and Meaning, then very nearly strangled Tarrant Hightopp to death. "Amorous" she'd said, a nigh-silent slip of sound that had caused his kilt to tighten under his sporran in a very unseemly way. Despite the vicious attack the word had launched against his good conduct, he could not bare the thought of not hearing her whisper it to him.

[~~~]

Alice gazed rapturously upon the Hatter, marveling at the wonders of her imagination. He was wondrously bare-chested, a condition that was not unfamiliar where men were concerned, having spent the better part of the past years on a sailing vessel, but it was still a novel concept where her Hatter was concerned. He looked a fair bit more gaunt, but also very lean and muscular, as if he had been living in a far more physical lifestyle than before - why, he even had burnt sienna wisps ghosting in the cleft of his broad chest, leaving a teasing trail straight down to the edge of his-

"My Alice...ye've grown so fine,"

Alice painfully put away the Naughty Thoughts that his wispy hair and raspy burr inspired, valiantly trying to ignore the immediate rush of blood to her cheeks. She tried to take in her Hatter once more.

He was clad in his kilt, the same kilt that she had seen swirling in her peripheral vision as she clambered over stony stairs in her duel with the Jabberwocky. Although he looked far dustier that she remembered, he was still the same - bright orange hair, with pale, pale skin and nimble, gloved hands. Strong dancer's legs encased in long, woolen socks and battered boots. The socks emphasized the new tone to his calves, and the rugged lines of his...good Lord, were those dimples in his knees?

Alice could not understand how the weather could become even warmer. The words tumbled out of her mouth, a torrent to Tarrant's ears.

"Amorous. How you look is making me feel very...amorous. Yes, I believe that's the right word I'm looking for. It's the kilt, you know. And the dimples in your knees. Yes, not knobbly in the least. Rather handsome, in fact...Shame, that I'm only wearing my undergarments, as such. Not nearly as attractive, I daresay. Such a dreadful situation - I would rather that I'd been wearing a ball gown. Possibly even the stockings, but no corset, mind you, not with this dreadful heat..."

[~~~]

Tarrant Hightopp knew now, for a distinct Fact, that this was a dream; never could he dare to hope that the Alice would become...amorous (again, the word tried to squeeze his heart!) over the dimples in his knees, and certainly she would not be presenting her luscious (lustful) figure to him in such a state of undress, baring to his very hungry (and definitely glowing violet!) eyes that she was indeed as unfond of stockings and corsets as she had ever mentioned.

But if, perchance, he was not...

No. While this was a most excellent dream, a Dream, if ever he'd met one, it was still only a Dream; if not a mere dream, a Dream nonetheless, and thus, within the liberties of such a Dream, he surmised that he could safely divulge his heart to this Alice regarding his opinion of her current state of dress.

"Ye're adorable, lass," he rumbled, the words being gently extricated from deep within the Madness and the Badness. "'Tis admirable how beautiful ye've gotten. Ye've grown vury attractive durin' this time. An' 'tis quite acceptable tuh dress down tuh yer undergarments in such turrible heat, but only in front of MAE, YER HATTER-!"

Tarrant swiftly pinned his last words down, before either Badness or Madness could break completely free. He panted under the weight of all the words that began with A, but in reality, it was only one word (Alice, ALIce, Alice, AliCE, AliceAlicealicealICeALICE!).

[~~~]

"Alice!" cried a spiteful, sniveling voice from beyond the door. "Are you really alone? If so, you're talking to yourself again!"

Hamish Ascot never came under such threat of death as that very moment. Alice whirled around furiously, her hands leaving the mirror.

"No! No! Dinnae leave mae, Alice! Dinnae leave poor Tarrant! Dinnae leave yer Hatter! "

Spinning back to her looking glass after hearing the Hatter's anguished wail, Alice gasped as she watched the apparition claw at the glass beseechingly. Swiftly, the image faded, leaving nothing but the wisps of sound behind.

"...poor Tarrant!"

The faintest hint of too-sweet tea hung heavily in the air.

"Lord Hamish Ascot, I am always alone! I thought you knew that by now!" Alice roared in her most unladylike voice - the Voice that Slew the Jabberwocky - a strange Anger burning through her hotly, igniting a funnel of Rage that made everything Bright and Sharp and Hurtful and Wrong!"

Absolem ghosted past her as she panted, having thrown all of her stockings and corsets out of the window. She shivered as his wings brushed her tear-stained cheek.

"I am always alone, now."

[~~~]

Somewhere, under or over or through the mirror, Madness and Badness converged to form Darkness.

[~~~]