Chapter Two: A Devastating Homecoming [Scenes 5 & 6]

"Would you care for some tea, Alice?"

Alice looks up, startled out of her thoughts. "Oh, um, no. Thank you," she manages, trying very hard not to think of tea or tea parties or teapots or the scent of tea on a battered top hat...

The queen nods and smiles to the fish in the green waistcoat. "If you'll just leave the tea service, Algernon? Thank you."

The fish bows and slithers from the room, closing the door behind him.

The queen turns and flutters over to the settee facing the balcony and the cherry orchard beyond and takes a seat next to Alice. The White Queen doesn't ask Alice how she's feeling, and Alice is unbelievably grateful for that. It has been two days since she'd last seen the Hatter. Two days of sitting in her rooms, staring at the armchair he'd sat in. Two days spent soaking her borrowed nightgown sleeves and pillows, one tear at a time, salting herself in her own guilt. Today, she'd ventured to bathe and explore the castle. It hadn't taken as long as she'd hoped it would to find a familiar room: the queen's office. And, unfortunately, it had been occupied when she'd cracked open the door.

"We argued," Alice says.

"You...?"

"The Hatter and I."

The White Queen's eyebrows arch. "Tarrant raised his voice to you?"

"What? No, no." Alice sighs. "No, that might have been preferable."

The queen sighs. "Oh, botheration." For a moment, neither woman speaks. "Alice," Mirana tries reluctantly, "I can only imagine how difficult this is for you. But you must believe me when I say that... what happened was not your fault."

"I didn't know."

"Exactly."

"I wasn't told, either." Alice winces. "Not that that excuses it. After all, I can't blame others for my mistake. Unintentional though it had been." She sighs. "I blamed him for it. For not telling me."

"I... see. The argument, you mean?"

"Yes," Alice says. "He told me..." She looks in the direction of the vanity mirror. "... if I wanted I could go right back to..."

"Oh, that Outlander!" The queen doesn't growl, but it's certainly a rather forceful sigh. "Alice, he doesn't mean it. Truly, he doesn't. Do you not think of how he feels about this? He's wanted to see you again for so long and now he learns what the price for that is... Don't you think he's already blaming himself?"

Alice puts her head in her hands and bows under the wave of realization. "I'm horrid." And then: "It's been two days. I should have apologized ages ago. The instant I'd said it. I shouldn't have said it at all."

A soft hand rests on Alice's shoulder. "An apology is a wonderful idea."

"The sooner the better."

"Well..." the queen hesitates until Alice looks up. The concerned expression on Mirana's face stirs tendrils of worry in Alice.

"What is it?"

"Brillig," Mirana replies, turning away from the very fine, upstanding clock leaning against the far wall. "Four o'clock." She sighs. "And it's a Saturday."

Alice watches in puzzlement as the queen looks up and out at the balcony.

"What –?"

Her question is cut short by the sound of breaking glass above them. She looks up with a start as glass shards fall and tinkle against the balcony flagstones.

Alice only manages to gasp before a very thick brogue drowns her out.

"I TOLD YEH NAE TEH EAT TH' CUCUMBER SANDWICHES, ALICE!"

An instant later, a fully loaded tea table crashes to the balcony. Alice leaps up from her seat and rushes to the balcony doors.

"As I mentioned," the White Queen continues softly, "Brillig on Saturdays might not be the best time for a... rational discussion."

"I don't understand. What has brillig on Saturdays anything to do with the fact that the Hatter has tossed a table and tea service out a window?"

The White Queen draws a deliberate breath. "You've always arrived on an Underland Saturday, Alice. And, as I mentioned, he's been hoping you would find your way back to us for... some time now."

"But he knows I'm here! Why wouldn't he just invite me to tea?"

The queen smiles sadly. "Perhaps because his role has always been to wait for you and your role has always been to arrive."

Speechless, Alice stands just on this side of the threshold and gapes. For a long moment, neither Alice nor the queen say anything. A breeze plays with the gauzy curtains and rustles the cherry blossoms in the orchard below. It's in this moment of heavy silence and gentle susurration that Alice thinks she hears her name from somewhere above.

"... Alice...? We'll have fresh scones next Saturday. If you'll come. Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you, won't you...? Alice...?"

She closes her eyes and leans against the wall. "I'm going to see him."

"All right," the queen replies serenely.

"Right now."

"Oh, well... I'm not really sure that would be for the best..."

Alice shakes her head and pushes away from the doorjamb. "This can't wait." She marches toward the door but pauses just before she opens it. "If you don't see me at dinner, send up the cavalry, won't you?"


Tarrant stands with his back to the open window, his hands fisted in his hair. He notices that it's gotten quite long. Almost as long as it had been that Horvendush Day when the Jabberwocky had... When the Red Queen had...

Perhaps he should cut it. He's too old to wear his hair so long. And too disinterested to make it presentable. Not that he ought to present himself for anyone. There's no one to see him, in any case. He's a milliner, not a courtier. No, there's no one to care for how he looks, so why bother with it at all?

Alice...

Tarrant turns smartly and sweeps an arm over his desk. He stares at the floor and the pair of shears lying on the rug.

"Hatter?"

Tarrant blinks and looks over his shoulder. He stares as someone who looks surprisingly just exactly completely utterly absolutely like – but it can't be! – Alice standing in the doorway.

"I knocked," she says.

Tarrant gapes at the vision of her for a moment. Then, desperate for something to prove what he's seeing is reality, he casts his gaze about, taking in the broken bits of china, the tea dripping down the walls, the remnants of cucumber sandwiches that had been squashed beneath his boots and the occasional crumbling scone.

How odd. He's never imagined Alice visiting him after he'd disposed of the tea things. He considers the possibility that this is some new scenario. Perhaps his mind has grown tired of the same delusion over and over and over and over and...

"Hatter?"

The feel of a hand against his cheek startles him again. He opens his eyes and looks down at that very, very, very familiar Alice-face. And no longer a doll-Alice, either. She's still the just-right-wonderfully-spectacularly-sized Alice!

"I'm fine," he manages in a husky whisper.

"I'm sorry," she replies.

He frowns. "I'm confused."

"I'm horrid."

He gapes.

She continues, with her gaze searching his face. "I never should have said that you're to blame for the ship sinking. I'm so sorry. I... I should have come back ages ago. Ages and ages ago. You see, I realized months ago that there was nothing left for me there. I was failing in my business, I missed y—Underland so much, and I was planning to go back down the rabbit hole at Lord Ascot's summer villa as soon as I got back and..." Alice closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry. For all of it."

Tarrant marvels at the fact that her hand is still resting against his cheek – could she truly have forgiven him for being so utterly slurvish? He dares not ask her. After all, Alice is touching him again! How long has he waited for this? How long has he tried not to notice how much he's wanted this? Knowing he should let her go, he lifts his own hand – bandaged, bruised, and be-thimbled – to trap her palm there against his face.

"I'm... devastated," he confesses to this vision. Her eyes fly open and her expression turns downward with worry. "I've never daydreamed you like this before. You should be smiling. I always imagine you smiling. And then there's tea. There's always tea. You know we've nearly always had tea when we first meet again on Saturdays. It's not quite a Saturday without tea, you know."

"Hatter?"

"That's not to say that one must have tea every Saturday. One might indulge in coffee or chai on occasion, I suppose. Do you care much for coffee or chai, Alice? I wonder what you'll say. This is a daydream so, really, you might say anything. Isn't that right?"

"Hatter, this is not a daydream. I'm real. I'm really here." A wry grin tugs at her lips. "Just really late for tea, obviously." She raises her other hand and presses it against his other cheek. "Go on and look at me. I'm really here."

Look? he thinks. That won't do! Time and time again his mind and his eyes have fooled him into thinking she'd arrived for tea on Saturday. The feel of her hands is rather persuasive, but he's imagined the sound of her voice so often he can't trust her words. But he would trust – undeniably, utterly, absolutely trust – one thing...

Alice's eyes widen as he leans forward and ducks his head over her shoulder. When the twisting tendrils of hair that have escaped the ribbon at the base of her neck are tickling his nose, he lets his eyelids drift shut and breathes deeply.

Alice!

He startles violently. The hand not engaged with hers fists as his side.

Alice!

Because her scent is such a miracle for what it represents – Alice is here! In my rooms! She's arrived! – he dares to savor it again. Alice stands perfectly still. He can see the slight motion of her pulse in her neck, beneath her ear. He can feel her breaths as they stir his hair. He can feel the heat of her still-trapped hand against his face. He blinks and smiles.

And then he notices just how close she is. So close! It would be the smallest of steps to close the distance between them and –!

No! No! D'nae think it!

Clearing his throat, Tarrant retreats a step and brings Alice's hand away from his cheek. He brushes her knuckles once with his thumb before forcing himself to release her hand. "Alice," he says in the smooth voice he's cultivated for use at court. "Of course it's you. Of course. I'd know you anywhere."

Her smile is tentative but her expression is relieved. Tarrant feels a stab of regret at disturbing her. He must do better at keeping his delusions under control!

She says, "You said that once before."

Tarrant grins. "Only once? I've said it twice, I'm sure."

"Or three times?"

He considers that. "It's possible."

"I believe it is."

And then she smiles. And it's a real smile. There's a bit of crinkling at the corners of her eyes and a mirthful light in their depths and...

"Can you forgive me for what I said the other morning?"

Tarrant watches, alarmed, as her smile begins to fade. "To my memory, there is nothing you said that requires forgiveness."

And then, miracles of miracles, Alice reaches out to him again.

Again!

And takes his hand in hers. Tarrant thrills at the touch.

"I don't deserve a friend like you, Hatter."

The twinge of disappointment at the sound of his profession rather than his given name on her lips is eclipsed by the disquiet her statement causes. "And I don't deserve the tolerance and patience of the Alice." He smiles for her. "I therefore recommend that we agree to not deserve each other and then ignore the fact entirely."

And there! Alice's smile returns!

A moment later, his own smile is so stretched with delight he feels his chest might actually burst the seams of his waistcoat. The strain distracts him and he finally notices that he's standing in the middle of his rather untidy parlor with nothing to offer Alice by way of refreshments!

Why is that? he wonders.

And then a breeze rustles the curtains framing the broken window and he recalls the tea service and the tea table and...

Oh, how embarrassing!

"I'm afraid I can't offer you tea," Tarrant says with a sheepish glance toward the window. "Unless you'd like to have it on the balcony below..."

"Well... it is well after brillig," Alice replies. "What would you say to a stroll before dinner?"

"Along the battlements?"

"Are there any?"

"I've no idea. If there aren't, I'm sure we'll find them!"

She chuckles her breathless laugh and nods. Tarrant escorts her out the open door and past the line of footmen waiting to scrub down his room... again. He keeps his eyes on her, however, and his mind on the hand tucked into the crook of his arm, and tries not to dwell on the fact that this obnoxious stomach ache is becoming a chronic occurrence.


[End of Chapter 2]