Story: Yesterday I Was A Different Person
Rating: T (For the moment)
Genre(s) Humor, romance
Summary: Alice Kingsleigh lived in a fantasyland of pocket-watch carrying rabbits, teatime with a Mad Hatter she has always felt a bit more fondly of then any person should feel about a fictional character from their own mind, and a smiling cat that is forever on the prowl for a finely crafted top hat. Then she steps through a Looking Glass into the vast world of Underland, where her childhood stories and constant dreamtime companions are flesh-and-fur real.
A/N: Ho snap, ya'll, Chapter Four nearly gave me a brain tumor. But here it is. I know it's rather different in tone from previous chapters, but I do hope you enjoy it. I didn't want to downplay Alice during this situation, and…I could talk about this forever. Best to let you lot get on with reading it. As always, many thanks to CrazySpark, who makes sure my tenses don't cross, and there are no randomly placed words. Also, thank you so much for all the reviews and kind words you've given me and this story (even the anonymous review: it was wonderful, and it DID bring a smile to my, so not a worry in the world over it not coming without a profile or name; it made my day!), I really am glad there are so many people who are enjoying it.
Disclaimer: I do not own Alice in Wonderland in any form. For that matter, I don't own Johnny Depp, which you should be aware of, as his Hatter!Likeness is being used here. If he goes up on Ebay, though…sorry, need to go trim my horns down at that thought.
"Oi! Alice!" Alice jumped like a puppet on strings when Hamish's voice burst into her bedroom, bouncing off the walls, loud but tinny, as though was on a phone. She bolted upright, arm leaving her eyes as she looked towards the door to her room at the Ascot's, which she found to be shut. She couldn't explain why, had no reason for it, really, but her stomach twisted it's self into a tight knot, her nerves jumping and singing under her skin as though she was about to come under attack, or as though she was at a part in a movie where something startling would occur.
"I've gone completely mad," Alice informed the empty air, eyes jumping frantically around as she took to her feet, spinning around several times, head jerking from side-to-side – even up and down – in her attempts to find Hamish. "I'm hearing voices, now."
"You've always heard voices," the strange projection of Hamish's voice grumbled, and it was only by chance that Alice's eyes landed on the large mirror over her rather elegant looking vanity. The glass rippled and wavered, as though it was a pond and Alice had only just thrown a handful of pebbles onto its surface. It distorted the image of Alice (pale, blue eyes large and vivid and dark in her angular face; hands trembling, surrounded by Prudence's choices of cream and rosebud-pink walls, curtains, bedding, even the dressing gown that was tossed across the end of Alice's bed), and warped a reflection that Was Not. It was Hamish, wearing something that shimmered with pearlescent, iridescent light, his fingers straining forward as though he was diving through water, attempting to break surface. Behind him was a face Alice knew as well as Hamish's, held as close and as dear as anyone else in her life.
The man's eyes were vividly yellow, bright, and animalistic. His skin was pale, pasty, inhuman; smudges of orange and blush and red ringed his eyes, his cheeks, darkened his lips. He reached forward, looking crazed and scared and possessed.
"Alice," she swore she heard echoing through the room, a voice that was no longer a memory but as far away as Hamish's, "My Alice…"
"The fuck!" Alice spat, one hand circling her throat, fingertips pressing against her pulse, chest heaving as she took a single, shocked step backwards.
"Laddie," Alice began to shake as that voice came again, farther away then Hamish's, but every bit as real as her friend's. "Brace yerself."
"Get your hands off my bum, you –" Hamish shrieked moments before the mirror rippled violently, almost like waves crashing against the face of craggy cliffs, and then he was clinging to the edges of her vanity mirror, one foot knocking over perfume and lotion bottles, the other inside the mirror.
"Heave-ho!" Came a roaring cry from behind him, the sound of crashing china, and Hamish yelped as he jerked violently, tumbling forwards. The thick rug muffled the crash of his body, and he lay on the floor, blinking, dazed, at the ceiling.
"Hamish," Alice asked in what she was surprised to hear was a voice that was mostly calm, and she positive no one could really blame her for the trembling that lay on the edges of her words. "You…just came out of my mirror."
"Looking Glass travel," Hamish said in a rather dazed fashion, "I was assured it was one of the best ways to go. Not nearly as fine as by Hat, but I was also assured that Hat travel couldn't get me back here."
"Hat?" Alice repeated rather dumbly, shaking her head. "I – you mean, like –"
"Yeah, like when you rode Tarrant's Hat, before he was captured by the Knave."
"Not me," Alice said thickly, "No, that wasn't me, that's a story. A story, Hamish. And Looking Glass travel is only – is only a story -"
"And yet here I am," Hamish sat up, raking his hands through his hair. It stuck up at odd, gravity defying angles. He grinned at her, wide and beaming, the sort he gave when he suggested a Lord of the Rings marathon. Alice felt her knees begin to tremble. "How long have I been gone? Chessur said Time passes differently between the worlds."
"Chessur?" Alice nearly whimpered, before licking her lips. "Its – its half past."
"Thirty minutes? Is that all, really?"
"Yes. Where…where's Bootsie?"
"Eaten by something, I hope," Hamish said firmly as he pushed onto his arms, and then up to his feet. He winced a bit, staring down past his loose trousers, to his bare feet. He wiggled his toes, and Alice was close to horrified when she saw dirt and what seemed to be dried blood on his skin. He clapped his hands suddenly, grinning at her again. "Well, what are we waiting for? Put your knickers back in your bag, I'm going to go back, and then we're off!"
"Off where, Hamish?"
"Your Wonderland, of course!" Hamish bounced frantically in place, before he gave up and lunged for her. He grabbed her arms, kissing her cheeks several times before swinging her in a tight circle that nearly knocked them both over. "It's real, Alice! Underland is real!"
"No," Alice whispered, "No, Hamish. It's not. Is this reverse psychology?"
"Alice," Hamish said rather firmly, "I just came out of a Looking Glass, didn't I?"
"I…yes. Yes, you did."
"Look at this sunburn," Hamish pointed at his bare arms, lifted his shirt and shoved off his red stomach and chest. "I had to walk through the Garden in my handkerchief, Alice. And then Chessur found me – blasted Cat – and he took me to Thackery's windmill. And they were having tea! A very old tea, mind you, it really is an endless tea party, there. And Tarrant tried to kill me, but then he made me trousers – I look dashing, don't I?" Hamish struck a pose, modeling his trousers and breezy tunic, before he continued speaking.
"And then Thackery made some food, which was fantastic, really. I don't care how insane he is, and even if he insists it was all made out of tree – which I really don't think it was, but if those were tree sandwiches, I'll have a thousand. Best thing I've had in ages! And we talked about you. You really did slay the Jabberwocky, Alice! Quite some time ago, of course. We've discussed it, and we really do believe that it was you in a past life! So you came back – you know, reincarnation, what you and Sarah in the flat below us are always nattering on about, reincarnation and, who is that, Ghost Hunters? Those plumbers? Yes, well, reincarnation, and that's why we've always played Wonderland! Why you draw it, and all that! Because you remember!"
Alice stared, mind spinning violent circles.
Why is a raven like a writing desk…?
How's this for muchness?
Anyone can go by horse or rail, but the absolute best way to travel is by Hat!
Alice jerked away from Hamish's grasp, pushing past him to dart for her bed. She began to flip wildly through her sketchbook, one hand dragging out the second – her Mostly Secret one – from her overnight bag. Her eyes traced the pictures frantically, taking in the characters, the – her friends, her enemies, her Hatter…
"Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the JubJub bird, and shun the frumious Bandersnatch!"
"Alice?" Hamish asked worriedly, hovering behind her, hand outstretched, though he couldn't quite bring himself to touch her, it seemed. Alice paid him very little mind as her throat caught in her throat, and a tear trickled down her cheek.
Her whole life she had spent half in her own mind, in such a fantastical, beautiful world. Her entire life, every blasted day, it had been a pain to know that it was not real. That her desire for a world beyond the ordinary, a world where Hatters were Mad and the White Queen was good and kind; where the March Hare was completely insane but a dear, sweet friend, and a Bandersnatch lay waiting, brokenhearted and sighing, for his friend to return…Alice had longed and ached and wept and bled for that world.
Her entire life she had told herself, every day, every minute, every goddamn second that it was not – was absolutely not – real.
Not real, not real, not real!
"One, two! One, two! And through and through, The Vorpal Blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head, he went galumphing back."
"Uh," she heard Hamish breath rather worriedly, stepping closer, his body warm against her back, his hand gentle on her shoulder, "Alice-bear?"
"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O Frabjous Day! Callooh! Callay! He chortled his joy. He chortled, Hamish, and wanted to come to my arms, and…and…"
Alice began to cry, tossing away the sketchbook, open on the image of Hamish in his handkerchief, looking smug and satisfied and ready to face Underland.
"Alice?" Hamish questioned again, sounded quite worried indeed.
"'Twas brillig," Alice whispered brokenly as she opened her Mostly Secret sketchbook, the one that contained every desire and wish her heart could possible make. Page after page after page was filled with the Hatter – her Mad Tarrant Hightopp, with his half broken mind, and wise eyes, and kind words, and beautiful, scarred hands. She had wept for his Clan on afternoons spent with her own family, hiding in cupboards or the pantry, wondering at the unfairness of her soul to appreciate such a kind life when this man had no one in the world to truly call his own. She had grieved the loss of a dear friend in the early morning sunlight, hands stretched out over an empty pillow where a head should have rested, a head rarely bare of Hat and only in their bed – grieved because her soul so dearly missed its other half, and that half was not real, not real, not real!
She had broken on those nights, with her empty bed and cold sheets, and just her, just Alice. Not Absolutely Alice Kingsleigh of her mind and stories, of the dreams – wishes – memories that spun circles in her mind, her heart. Just Alice, Alone Alice, bereft and hating herself and wondering if her sanity was fractured like her favorite mug, chipped and cracked, handle glued back on. Serviceable and well loved, but broken, obviously broken. Because what she wanted – who she wanted – was in her heart, her mind, her sketchbook and the easel in the living room, where she could soak in the evening sunlight or watch the rain, where she could twirl her brush and dip it with mauve and paint shadows that line his eyes, eyes that she wanted to look into when they weren't oil or charcoal or water colors.
But he was not real, not real, not real– and she knew that because she had told herself that every day, every minute, every goddamn second of her life –
"And the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe; all mimsy were the borogoves, and the mome raths outgrabe. That's all about me, you know." She turned her head, met Hamish's scared eyes before her knees went weak and she crashed to the floor.
Not real, not real, not real…!
"It's not real," she whispered, "It's not, Hamish."
"It is, Alice!" He bent down, face close to hers, lips pressing warm, moist, best-friend-you're-safe-please-don't-cry-Alice kisses to her cheeks, and nose, and forehead before he leaned away and gave her a bright, scared, trembling, hopeful smile. "I promise, Alice! They're waiting for us, on the other side of that Looking Glass. For you! We'll take tea, and go to Marmoreal. We'll visit the White Queen! They'll be parties, I suspect, when her Champion comes home. We'll ride the Bandersnatch, we'll see if the Hatter'll teach us how to Futterwacken, we'll go see things that you didn't get to see, last time. We'll make new stories, Alice, you and me! We'll have a great Adventure in Underland, because it's real, I swear, Alice!"
Hamish had always, always, been the solid rock of Alice's world. He let her fly when she couldn't keep on the ground, but he tugged her back to safety before she was so lost she couldn't find her way back. And if he…if Hamish was standing front of her, with fire in his eyes, trembling from head-to-toe in hope and fear and excitement…if Hamish…
"New stories?" Alice whispered, while Hamish wiped the tears from her cheeks with soft fingers.
"New stories," he promised, "Hundreds, thousands!"
"We're going to Wonderland?"
"Wonderland!" Hamish shouted, standing straight and doing a silly looking sort of jig. "We're going to Alice's Wonderland, Absolutely Alice Kingsleigh!"
"Absolutely Alice Kingsleigh!" Alice cheered, throwing her hands into the air, where Hamish grabbed them, pulling her to her feet. "Come on, Hamish, move, move! Let's pack – we'll need to take a few things, of course!"
"Of course!" Hamish bellowed, pointing to his once again wiggling toes. "Like shoes! Honestly, Alice, sensible shoes are needed in Wonderland! And trousers. But the Hatter was kind enough supply me with these trousers, and I am forever in his debt. Even if he did try and shake me to death."
"I thought you looked fetching in your handkerchief," Alice snagged her usual sketchbook again, waggling her most recent drawing at him. He stared at it, a bit horrified, burnt cheeks reddening even further. "Rather like Tarzan."
"Blast," Hamish muttered, "I can't keep anything from you, can I?"
Alice stood in front of her vanity with its knocked over bottles and the music box that was on it's side, costume jewelry from her childhood spilling out from it to pool in glittering beads of purple and yellow and blue. She stood there, staring at her reflection, catching the way the Looking Glass rippled here and there, as though it was becoming impatient for her to step forward and into Underland. She couldn't seem to make herself move, to pick up her feet, one foot to the little chair, the second to polished wood of the vanity top. Her head first, then arms, and Hamish behind her pushing at her thighs, helping her through, following her into the brave new world they had always longed to be a part of.
She stood there, and stared, and couldn't move.
It was real. (Not real, not real, not real that frantic voice inside her shrieked, unsure and hesitant, afraid it was a joke, a dream, a Nightmare.) Hamish wouldn't lie to her, not about this. He knew, was one of the few that truly knew, how terribly her younger years had gone; Alice had been so lost, so trapped by the flood of images and words in her mind that it had been nearly impossible for her to function. She saw White Rabbits on London street corners, visited New York and swore that the Tweedles were calling to her from the bushes in Central Park. And she had kept quiet and silent, hands over her mouth, knuckles white, hiding in her room – Hamish's room – the garden - the shed - anywhere safe, where there were no eyes to watch her break apart and question her own mind. Only Hamish saw, only Hamish understood that there were fractures in her soul, behind her eyes, fractures that threatened to split open and devour her, eat her alive and leave nothing left but skin and bones and bits of golden hair that made up an Alice-shape but wasn't Alice at all.
No. Hamish would never, never lie to her. Not about this. Not about anything, but never her Wonderland.
When they grew older, when Alice learned how control it all a bit better, Hamish still watched her with scared eyes. Tried to be threatening and surly when she brought blokes home; Franklin, an aspiring fashion designer, with bits of fabric scraps clinging to his clothing and needle pricked fingers; Thomas, who worked in the tea shop near their flat, who smelled of Ceylon tea leaves and old books; Spencer, who had been Alice's elder by several years, and had a deep devotion to weaponry – and a particular flare for swordsmanship. When each of those relationships had quickly burnt out, it had been Hamish who curled up with her on their sofa, eating ice cream out of the carton with her, insisting that it wasn't her fault, not entirely, not really.
But it was. They both knew, in a way, it was. She liked aspects of those men, but the not men themselves; they reminded her just enough of a man that they could never be that she wanted to cling to them, mold them into what she wanted. She couldn't, in the end; she knew in the beginning it was impossible, really.
But…but now…
Now Hamish was standing behind her, hand warm and strong and comforting on her shoulder, waiting for her to step through the Looking Glass and into that world. Her mind was awhirl with all the possible outcomes; all of them, she was rather disgusted say, involved the Hatter. Half of them involved him being terrified by the strange, foreign, Hatter Obsessed young woman that come through the mirror. The other halves were certainly adult rated, and a few of them involved light bondage.
The important question really was what Alice was going to do when she stepped through the Looking Glass, if it was Really Real.
Hug the Hatter? Tell her she missed him? Apologize for not making it back before he knew it? (As she had dreamed, for years, of telling him those words even though they tasted like ashes on her tongue, bitter and cold and hurtful and she hated them, hated them, hated them…) Grab him around the neck, drag him to the floor, and work out twenty-three years worth of fantasies out on him? No. Certainly not the last option. Well – not at first. Possibly…no. She couldn't do that. He was probably nothing like the Tarrant in her head, really, nothing at all. He probably put too much sugar in his tea, and slurped, and liked women with large bosoms. Which Alice didn't have, so she didn't need to worry about how to act around him, because he wouldn't be interested in her in that way – no, not that way, and –
"You're thinking too much," Hamish said softly, and his reflection showed off his fond, knowing grin. She blushed and elbowed him lightly in the stomach, before gesturing towards the Looking Glass. "Well. You know, we don't know when we'll come back. If we'll come back."
"Alice, I would never forgive myself if we didn't take this chance. You've never really belonged here, anyway. And I've spent too many years with you to go anywhere you're not."
"I thought I was the one that always dragged you into Adventures head first."
"S'my turn, now," Hamish laughed, rocking forward to kiss the side of her head. "As soon as we get there, and you get your land legs back, I promise, I'll let you drag me anywhere."
"Anywhere?"
"Mostly anywhere."
"No, you said anywhere, first. I'm holding you to it, Hammy."
"Anywhere," Hamish tried to sound put-upon, but his twinkling eyes gave it all away. "Fine, you win. But I get to drag you about once a week on an Adventure of my choosing."
"Once a month."
"Three times a month."
"Twice, final offer."
"Deal."
"Brilliant. Now – do we have everything?"
"Four pairs extra trousers," Hamish patted his overnight bag, "And three pairs of shoes, discounting the ones I'm wearing. I'm ready. You?" (
"Sketchbooks and supplies," Alice patted her bag, smiling, "Clean knickers and a whole bottle of perfume. I can take on the world."
"How about Underland?"
"Underland is good, too. Queen Alice, how's it sound?"
"Terrifying," Hamish laughed, pushing her forward, "Go on, Majesty. Let's put some new dust on our shoes."
"Hamish?" Alice paused before turning around, her eyes large, lower lip trembling. "Hammy, I…I'm scared."
"I know," Hamish whispered, grabbing her hand, kissing her temple. "Only one way to prove it's real, though, Alice-bear."
"Through the Looking Glass. Yes, I know."
"What are you waiting for, then? Big, bad, brave Absolutely Alice Kingsleigh."
"Absolutely Alice Kingsleigh," she said firmly as she turned around and stepped forward, stretching her arms out to grip the edges of the mirror as she took one step to the little chair, another to the top of the vanity. "Absolutely Alice Kingsleigh!"
"Absolutely!" Hamish shouted gleefully behind her.
"Madness?" Alice raged loudly, laughter making her words ripple, "This is Underland!"
"Raaaugh!" Hamish bellowed dramatically, before his foot met her bum, and Alice was pressing through the mirror. It clung to her, thicker then water, soft as silk, and it had the scent of dreams and bonfires and captured moon glow. It was like being born, passing from womb to world, sliding free of the body that had created life, into the moment where new lungs drew first breath and –
Alice topples to a dusty wooden floor, Hamish seconds behind her, and then he is literally on top of her. Her overnight bag is wedged between their bodies; his had flung forward and managed to whack them both sharply on the sides of their heads. Hamish grumbles loudly, pushing his bag away, raising up and moving hers, before his hands around her waist and he's dragging her to her feet. Alice catches a brief impression of a nice sized room with an old, lonely looking bed, yellow lace curtains, and more dust and cobwebs then is generally accepted outside of a haunted mansion in a horror movie.
Next she knows her feet are off the ground, and Hamish is swinging her in wide, dizzying circles. She realizes he's laughing, laughing like a little boy with a new bike. And she is laughing as well, it's gurgling out of her throat and spilling out of her body with relief and disbelief and joy, and there are tears burning her eyes, dripping hot down her cheeks. She hides her face in Hamish's neck, loops her arms tightly around him and she squeezes him as they fly around the room, laughing and lightheaded and out of their minds, and so happy it hurts. It hurts, that bubble of joy in her chest, expanding like a sun, a supernova going out with a bang.
"Absolutely Alice Kingsleigh, Absolutely Alice Kingsleigh!" Hamish is chanting into her hair, and she's kicking her feet like a little girl until they slam into a wall and tumble downwards, back onto the dirty, dusty floor again.
Alice finds she can't stop laughing, is shocked and a bit horrified to hear it sounds something like sobs.
"It's real," she breathes, grabbing Hamish by the ears and shaking him violently, side-to-side and then front-to-back. "It's real, Hammy, we're in Wonderland!"
"It's real," he promises – he swears – and Alice is relieved to see his eyes are bright, and she isn't the only one making a complete idiot out of herself.
"Alice?" The voice breaks their the din of their hysterical giggles, jerks two pairs of eyes to the side, where a tall man in a battered but finely made top hat is standing in the doorway. His eyes flicker like a mood ring being passed rapidly from one person to another – gold, yellow, green, violet, sky blue, gray – his red mouth weak, trembling. He steps forward, long, thimbled fingers shaking, one hand reaching out towards her. "Alice? My…Alice?"
Alice doesn't know what to do, or what to say. She can't even let go of Hamish, she can only stare, and drink in the sight of Tarrant Hightopp looking at her as though his world had cracked apart and was being put back together, as though she is air and life and light and every cup of tea he'll ever need. It makes her heart jump and jitter, makes her breath falters violently because he is real – he is standing in front of her, and she had imagined this, so many times. But what to do? It's not her mind, a story, a drawing, a dream; it's real, he's real, right there, saying her name as though it's a prayer that keeps him alive.
"How could I forget you?" She hears herself say, before spots start to dance in front of her eyes, and pain begins to pulse at her temples. "Hatter."
"Alice!"
"Oi!" Hamish sounds amused and outraged all at once when he shoved aside, when the Hatter is grabbing Alice and pulling her upright, standing her on her feet even as he sinks to his knees and presses his face into the warm fabric of the shirt covering her stomach. Alice doesn't know what to do with her hands, her arms; they flutter uselessly, before one curls up on his shoulder, the other tightly gripping one end of the sash tied around his wonderful Hat.
"Alice, Alice, Alice…"
"Real," Alice answers him, "Real, real!"
It seems as though there is a song on the wind, in her mind, pulsing through her blood and into her heart. A beat that throbs through her skull and makes her skin burn and knees shake, and it is only worsens when the Hatter's hands leave her hips, find hot flesh lurking under thin cotton. His thimbles are cold, his bandages are smooth, and his flesh is calloused and rough; it feels like heaven on her stomach, her sides, and desire lances hard and hot and fierce through Alice, who had wanted him since before she understood what wanting was, and never thought she'd be in this situation. There is still a voice in her mind, though, a voice telling her not to act to quickly, that Underland was not always what it seemed, and the Hatter might weep at her reappearance but how was she to know if he'd spent his nights mourning the fact she wasn't in his bed, wrapped around his body, kissing all the scars she could find on his soul and his flesh? She couldn't, and so she shouldn't touch him, pull him close, fall on her knees and kiss him like a woman in love or lust or madness until she knew, until she is sure –
Welcome home, Champion, the song in her blood sings vibrantly, Absolutely Alice Kingsleigh, we've waited along time for your return.
"Alice!" The Hatter is whimpering blindly, and her t-shirt has ridden up, and his lips are damp on her stomach. It is almost painful, that feeling, that want, having him there –
"Oh," Alice whispers, tipping her face back and smiling broadly, "I'm home, I think."
"Home," the Hatter breathes, "Home," he sobs, and his hands are going to leave bruises and Absolutely Alice Kingsleigh has never been so happy in her entire life.
"Get a room," Hamish mutters from the corner, "Or I'm sending Thackery in."
"I need to sit down," Alice looks directly at Hamish when she speaks, before turning her dazed eyes on the tilted Hat and violently curling orange hair before her. "I…need to sit. I'm very dizzy."
"Sit!" The Hatter jumps to his feet, even his hair trembling as he releases her as though she's burnt him, his chest heaving violently, "Alice! Are ye – are ye alrigh'?"
"I just need to sit," Alice let out a breath, putting one hand to her head, "I have – the strangest – I have a headache."
"Jet lag," Hamish said knowingly, before he was on his feet, arm around her waist (Alice caught the look she darted the wild eyed Hatter; something manly and protective and she really didn't know Hamish had that much testosterone in his body), guiding her from the room. "Come on, let's go."
He takes her through the windmill house, outside into a rosy morning. She bursts into tears at the sight of the tea table, clinging to Hamish's arm, pointing violently at it with one finger.
"I know," he assures her, "I know. Come on – the Hatter makes wonderful tea, and I think you need a cuppa."
"Yer late fer tea!" Thackery bellows violently, before a teacup goes swooshing past Alice's ear.
"I am!" Alice is horrified to hear herself blubbering, "I am, but I'm back now, Thackery!"
"About time if yer askin' me!" He roars, before he giggling madly as he pours tea. Two sugars, drop of milk – just how Alice likes it. Hamish sets her down, Thackery hands her the tea, though to balance that act out a fork flies through the air and nearly takes off the trailing-behind Hatter's Hat. "Drink yer tea, lassling, yer late an' we've wasted enough good tea waitin' on ye ta come home! Ye silly, silly – cup…" Ears over his eyes, Thackery retreats into his Madness, and Alice suspects – in this case, at least – it is cover up the fact his large eyes are shimmering with tears, and his nimble paws are shaking.
"'Bout time," is the only Mallymkun says, before she crawls into a teapot, and out of view.
"Alice-bear?"
"Mm, Hammy?"
"…We're in Wonderland."
"Yes. Yes, we are." They grin widely at each other, before Alice drops her head on Hamish's shoulder, and takes her first drink of Underlandian tea.