Chapter 2: Hamish

Things could have been worse, although not by much. Hamish frowns into the looking glass over the washbasin in his room and frowns. Today, he is not scowling at his own sleep-tousled and rampantly orange hair. No, this scowl is for Alice and wherever she had inexplicably disappeared to yesterday.

And really, he still doesn't know what to think about that.

Had she really said "hatter"of all things? Had she really been pulled somewhere else? Some mysterious place that is somehow both very near and yet unperceivable?

His stomach – always sensitive to his mood – twists in a most discouraging manner. Yes, perhaps he ought not think of yesterday, of the reassurances his mother had given the guests – "Alice is resting and her family are looking after her at the moment" – and the quiet explanation his father had provided to several guests – "Alice is still in mourning for her father, the late Charles Kingsleigh. When she is ready, she will reconsider Hamish's proposal." Lies, every last syllable. Including his own words. As his father's explanation had made the rounds, whispered from man to wife and so on, Hamish had answered sympathetic looks and murmurings with brusqueness, "Thank you for your concern, sir and madam. I'll pass along your kind words to Alice."

He breathes out harshly, noticing that he's glaring at the looking glass again. Well, it's Alice's fault, really, that he's in a foul mood. She should have been there, on his arm as they'd made the rounds and spoken to each guest. She wouldn't have had to say much, simply be there.After all, such explanations are better distributed indirectly, a task which his mother and father had taken up and performed admirably. Like a well-oiled machine. After a half an hour, Hamish had taken refuge in the house, citing the need to check on Alice's condition. He'd only returned when the guests had started drifting toward their carriages.

Through it all, his stomach had been in knots. More than once, he'd stopped pacing in the hallway and glared at the space of empty wall beside the potted fern.

Concern had made him wonder: Where are you, Alice?

Irritation had made him accuse: You shouldn't have left me here to face them alone!

"Blast it," Hamish mutters, turning away from his own reflection with a blustery sigh and reaching for the water pitcher. Glaring at a bit of lead-backed glass will get him nowhere and he has things to be getting on with today!

He rolls up his sleeves and splashes water on his face. Soaping up his shaving brush is habit by now and he scrubs the lather onto his face efficiently, barely glancing in the mirror. The razors edge is cool against his skin and he finds comfort in that sharp moment of normalness. Yes, the whole incident from the day before might be utterly mad and incomprehensible, but at least this routine hasn't changed in the slightest.

He shaves carefully and methodically, referring to his reflection in the looking glass more out of habit than any real need to orient himself. His hands know this task well, as does his face which accommodates the razor's straight edge one expression at a time. He has just finished his upper lip and chin when suddenly, his fingers twitch and the razor tumbles from his grasp into the sudsy basin.

"Bugger all," he swears softly, noting the darkening spots of used water on his shirtfront. Well, there's no point in redressing before he finishes up, is there? Significantly more irritated now than he had been moments before, Hamish reaches for the submerged razor, glances up at the soap-dotted mirror, and freezes.

"What the devil…?"

He blinks as the small flecks of shaving cream upon the surface of the glass seem to sway, as if pushed about by a gentle breeze. They move one way, and then another until they spin gently. For a single mad instant, Hamish imagines they are waltzing across the surface of the looking glass!

He blinks, shakes his head, reaches for the towel to wipe the surface clean and—

Is that… Alice?

Hamish squints at the image now reflected in the mirror, his arm upraised and towel grasped in his hand. Surely, that cannot be Alice, dressed in white with skirts frothing around her, dancing with a very wildly-orange-haired man in an equally white suit and a terribly shabby, dark and battered top hat. Surely, Hamish is merely dreaming still!

He stares at the couple twirling together on the dance floor of a ballroom that could only belong in a royal palace. He gapes at Alice's bright smile and sparkling eyes. He has never seen her look so happy. Nor has he ever seen her so taken with a man as she is clearly taken with this one. It makes no sense at all that this odd man with his flyaway orange locks and disreputable hat could hold such fascination for her, but he obviously does.

Hamish would have looked away then, scowling against the bitterness of his own envy, but suddenly Alice and her dance partner halt in their tracks. A motion in the background draws his attention.

Is that a platypus conducting the orchestra?

Perhaps it is. The creature lowers his baton, signaling the end of the song. And then Alice moves suddenly, her shirts flash brilliantly white, catching Hamish's eye and he watches – thunderstruck – as she rises up on her toes, clearly intending to kiss her bizarre companion on his pale cheek. In that moment, however, he seems to giggle and turns toward her, his lips forming themselves around an observation or response which Hamish cannot hear. The man moves as Alice leans in and her lips press not to his cheek, but to the corner of his mouth.

Hamish has never seen Alice blush before as she does now, in the looking glass. The man, however, merely smiles kindly and offers her his arm with admirable aplomb. His lips move again and Hamish finds himself leaning closer, as if a closer proximity will be rewarded with sound. He is mesmerized by the shifting expressions on Alice's face as they move from mortification to relief to something that makes his stomach roll with foreboding and trepidation. Something that looks very much like disappointment, only a hundred times worse! A variety of dread with which Hamish is unfortunately acquainted.

And then—

Knock, knock.

Hamish startles, jumping guiltily and dropping the razor back into the basin again.

"Sir?" The voice of the country estate's butler is muffled by the closed door. "Lord and Lady Ascot are taking breakfast. They request that you join them."

Clearing his throat, Hamish replies. "Yes, I understand. Thank you."

Unsettled – for he realizes that he had notbeen dreaming just now – Hamish glances warily at the mirror. A new assortment of froth splatters have joined the previous mess. He studies the looking glass, watches as each clump of soap slowly slides – with no swaying or twirling – simply downward. There is no ballroom, no platypus conductor or orchestra, no blushing Alice in a white dress, no oddly hatted man smiling indulgently.

"Madness," he summarizes and then wipes the mirror clean with a few impatient swipes of the towel in his grasp. Once again, Hamish fishes the razor out of the basin and sets the blade against his skin. This time, he manages to finish his shave without further interruptions. Shrugging into a new shirt, he ties his cravat as he moves toward the door. He frowns at the fabric, and does his best not to wonder too deeply at the vision he'd witnessed, for if it had not been a dream…

His stomach twists.

Yes, it's best not to think such things. Finishing off the knot at his throat, he lifts his chin and marches downstairs to breakfast. There's the matter of a venture to China that still needs to be discussed. He had promised Alice, after all. And it would be unforgivable to let a perfectly sound idea go to waste because of his distraction with some ridiculous, anxiety-fueled daydream!

Next up we'll return to Alice for the first half of Chapter 3, in which Alice and the Hatter have a difference of opinion.