Chapter Five: The Wooing Rites [Scenes of 1 & 2 of 4]

"Ye've done WHAT?"

The entire castle seems to wince in the wake of the thunderous shout. Luckily, it doesn't have any adverse effects on the recipient.

Alice determinedly repeats herself, "I told the queen I'd do it. I know about the Trial of Threes. There must be another option. We'll find it."

The Hatter glares at her. "Another option," he parrots. "Aye, there is one; ye can go back teh Upland!"

"I'm not going back! I've decided to stay, you stubborn milliner!"

Alice tenses, waiting for the next volley. She can't say this conversation has gone very well, but it's gone better than she'd expected... so far.

"Ye're... stayin'?"

His hopeful expression and blue-green eyes invite her closer. "Yes," Alice says, taking a step nearer.

The Hatter shakes himself suddenly. "Nae! Ye shoul'nae! If ye stay, ye'll die."

"Die?" Even for a – mostly – mad hatter, that seems a bit of an over-reaction.

He struggles with his thoughts or perhaps his temper or maybe both. "The Jabberwocky will remember you. You cannae –" Alice resists a wince as his control unravels... again. " – stand by and let it kill ye while ye're tryin' teh negotiate!"

"You're absolutely right."

"I –! ... Alice?"

"It'll try to kill me. If we can't find any middle ground, I'll kill the blasted beast. Every three and a third years if I have to!"

The Hatter stares at her, his eyes wide, fearful.

"You think I can't guess what it would do to you to know that... that thing was allowed to live? Under Mirana's protection, no less?" Alice finally crosses the distance between them and stands toe-to-toe with him. "I don't want to slay anything." Alice daringly reaches for his hands. "But I will not let you be hurt."

She feels a slight tremor in his fingers. Alice tightens her grasp.

In a sudden move, the Hatter curls his unsteady fingers around her wrists and pulls them up. He steps closer until her fingertips brush against his lapels. "I will not let you be hurt."

His gaze burns. Alice tells herself not to let herself feel complacent in this apparent cease-fire. There's still quite a lot of time between now and the resurrection of the Jabberwocky for the Hatter to get... prickly and unreasonable again.

Alice smiles. "Then, on this point, I suppose we'll just have to agree to... agree."

The Hatter grins and giggles. "I think you've made a rhyme."

Tarrant stares out at the assembly. He fidgets with the lace on his cuffs and tugs at his lapels. He decides he hates new suits. Too stiff. He also hates new-suit-occasions. Too obsequious . With too-bright eyes and a toothy smile, Tarrant scans the sea of Outland princes, lords, vassals, and dignitaries until his gaze alights on a woman with short, tangled blond hair in a slivery blue vest, white shirtsleeves and trousers.

Alice...

His gaze lingers on her hair, short now. Short enough to stay out of her way when she fights. His fingers curl into a fist as he remembers what that hair had felt like when it had been longer. The one time he'd touched it. He's glad he has the memory. It's a good one. Tarrant doesn't have many good ones.

"Wassailin?"

Tarrant blinks and turns toward the attending frog. "Ah, thank you, Pondish."

Tarrant lifts the slender, crystal glass and studies the pale blue, bubbling beverage. He hates Wassailin with a passion. But he's noticed that the color very nearly matches the blue of Alice's vest. And it precisely matches the sword and knife scabbards slung on straps of leather crisscrossing her hips.

One of Pondish's fellows – Lakerton, perhaps; it's difficult to be sure at this distance – maneuvers through the crowd and offers the queen and her Champion a beverage from his tray. The queen accepts. Alice does not.

In truth, this is the first time Tarrant has seen her in four days. Four unbelievably long days! And then it was just at dinner with the queen, Fenruffle, and an assortment of giddy courtiers who had demanded new hats for this very occasion. She'd looked tired then, but had smiled at him down the table. Unfortunately, the Royal Hatter's chair is quite far from the head of the table when so many guests are present. She'd still had long hair then. But, oddly enough, he's starting to appreciate this much shorter style. Of course that has nothing whatsoever to do with the clear, unobstructed view of her neck when she tilts her head just so or stretches up her chin to scan the crowd.

He giggles as she performs that very move for his enjoyment.

"Enjoying the Wassailin?" a cultured voice drawls at his shoulder.

Tarrant doesn't take his eyes off of Alice. The Alice. His Alice! He murmurs, "And just how did you merit an invitation, Chessur?"

He doesn't see the grin, but Tarrant knows it's there. "Special security. Are you going to drink that or stare through it at Alice all night?"

"Stare, of course. Alice looks lovely in blue, don't you think?"

Chessur purrs out a speculative hum. "There's something different about you, Tarrant..."

"You smell it, too?" he asks, fingering the over-starched lapel with his free hand.

"Yes... You seem... quite pleased with yourself. And do I detect a certain Uplander scent on you now?"

"If you do, would you be so kind as to direct my nose to it? I haven't had a whiff of Alice yet this evening."

"You would if you'd go over there and talk to her."

Tarrant's grin wilts. "She's working. Protecting the queen. Mustn't get in the way of that."

"Fenruffle, that useless excuse for a feathered hat," Chessur growls with surprising irritation. "Are you letting him bully you away from your Alice?"

That catches Tarrant's attention. With a frown, he turns to his odd feline friend.

Chessur leans closer and sniffs the air delicately. "Ah... Do I smell the first promise of the Thrice a-Vow, Hatter?"

Tarrant stares at him blankly.

The Chesire Cat grins wickedly. "Oh, my, goodness. That is what it is! That... newness about you. Congratulations, Tarrant. However did you manage to convince her to do it?"

Unsettled by these astute observations, Tarrant turns away, his eyes shifting guiltily. "Perhaps she's the one who convinced me."

"Oh, I would have loved to have been a grin on the wall for that."

The idea, understandably, is not a comforting one for Tarrant.

"Speaking of things I love, where is your precious hat, dear Hatter?"

Tarrant turns back to the Cheshire Cat and glares.

"New suit, new top hat... you're looking as sparkling as the royal drapes in that dove grey, but where oh 'wear' has your beautiful hat got to?"

"It's quite safe and you'll leave it right wear it is if you know what's good for you."

Chessur twirls in the air, mischievous grin present and accounted for. "And on that note, back to work..."

Before he has finished evaporating, Tarrant is scanning the crowd again, hunting for and – there! – recapturing the sight of her. He tenses as one of the visiting prince's retainers sidles up beside Alice, more than a bit too close. Evidently, Alice agrees. Keeping the queen in her line of sight, she gives the encroaching booly-geber a well placed pointed toe, tripping him into an older woman with a rather unfortunately large bosom. Tarrant giggles. His Alice has turned out to be quite talented with her feet.

Although he does consider pushing his way through the crush of bodies to smell her, talk to her, watch her meet his gaze, he knows he won't. He'll behave.

Yes, it's quite frustrating to have a room between them when, a mere ten days ago, there'd been nothing between them but clothing and buttons. He feels his grin stretch into something that might be a bit more... predatory. Yes, with enough time to reflect, Tarrant can't find anything worthy of regret in that kiss, the sealing of their first exchange. The first of three. After all, that's why it's called the Thrice a-Vow.

He's also had time to get used to the idea that Alice makes a rather excellent Queen's Champion. The issue with that bloody Jabberwocky notwithstanding, the only thing Tarrant would like to change about his life is to integrate a bit more Alice-time into it.

He sighs. A look down the length of a dinner table and, days before that, a smile through the open door of his workshop and, days before that, tea with the queen and Fenruffle and Alice's other instructors to discuss who her next battle-skills and etiquette tutors were to be had certainly not been enough time. Not enough by half!

A slight commotion in the queen's – and, thus, Alice's – general vicinity brings Tarrant's full attention back around. What appears to be a pair of dignitaries are shoving at each other, working up to a good shouting match. Tarrant keeps his eyes on Alice, who plucks a flute of Wassailin off of a passing waiter's tray and flings the contents in their precise direction. He supposes those knife throwing lessons had been useful after all...

A shocked gasp reverberates through the crowd and Tarrant giggles in the wake.

"Take your dispute outside next time," Alice informs them without bothering to glance in their direction. Her calm, authoritative tone carries easily in the hushed gathering. Tarrant claps his hand over his mouth to keep from cheering.

Must not interfere. Alice is working now.

The deeply offended pair of lords are ushered out to get cleaned up by an apologetic Fenruffle and conversation starts again in drips and drabs.

"That's my Alice," Tarrant muses.

If she's your Alice, why is she all the way over there and you're all the way over here?

"Alice is working. Mustn't get in the way," he reminds himself.

And, perhaps she'd heard his murmurings because, at that exact moment, when the queen is animatedly chatting with a short, fat man in a very poorly made bowler hat, Alice looks up, across the sea of powdered wigs, coquettishly pinned hats, and swaying feathers right into Tarrant's eyes.

She smiles.

Tarrant takes that smile – that heartfelt, revealing, glowing smile – and tucks it away in a pocket for safe keeping. Not his pocket watch pocket, of course. The blasted thing has never been safe there, that's for sure!

In less than a moment, it's over. Alice is working again. He sighs.

A smile over the heads of the wealthy, greedy, and zealous is not very much. Not nearly enough. But it is a little more.

Smiling, Tarrant pours half of his Wassailin onto a potted tree. "One of us ought to enjoy the refreshments," he explains, then leans back against the balustrade of the curving, marble staircase and, hand weaving through the air in time with the orchestra, ignores the over-starched, non-Alice scent of his new, poorly-hued suit and watches his promised one handle the crowd.

[End of Chapter 5: Scenes 1 & 2 of 4]