Chapter Seven: The Trial of Threes [Scene 3 of 5]

Tarrant Hightopp knows what today is. Today is the day before the Trial of Threes. No one has mentioned it in over a week. He doesn't know what the queen and Alice think they're gaining by ignoring it. Or perhaps they aren't. Perhaps they simply do not speak of it in front of him.

He's concerned, of course. Alice must go alone to that broken battlefield and wait beside the headless corpse for its new body to emerge. A grisly task, at best. Terrifying to contemplate without the aid of her friends.

He regards Alice across the small table. He'd invited her to his rooms for dinner. It had seemed the only way to acknowledge what she must do on the morrow. He hates – loathes, despises – the fact that his Alice must negotiate a peace treaty with that monster. He hates – abhors, detests – the fact that he cannot – must not – stand with her.

Dinner had seemed like an inspired idea: let her know he knows without having to say the words! But as the evening drags on with only awkward – flat, hopeless, arbitrary – comments about the food, which neither of them are particularly interested in consuming, Tarrant begins to consider that he's made a mistake.

He searches for something to say. He should have something to say to his Alice! He can feel the words swirling like a storm in his mind, but every utterance he considers is too trite, too depressing, too desperate. His Alice deserves better than paltry comments, poorly-timed riddles, and non sequiturs.

Conceding defeat, Tarrant pushes away his plate with a clatter. Alice looks up and watches as he rises and picks up his chair and sets it down at her side. Retaking his seat, he reaches for her hand – and, by chance, it's the left one! – and encloses it in both his own.

"Tarrant..."

"Aye," he says. "I d'nae want ye teh go on th'morrow, but I ken ye must."

She stares at his hands, curled around hers, and nods.

"Promise teh fight as hard as ye must teh win."

"I promise."

Tarrant pulls her hand to his chest. Her body follows and the smell of her almost distracts him. "Promise ye'll return."

At this, she looks up, finally. She studies his eyes for a moment and he wonders which of his emotions they reflect now. His fear or his passion?

"And what will happen to you if I break that promise?" she whispers.

His hands tighten but she doesn't try to withdraw from his desperate grip. "I cannae say. Promise me, Alice. Please."

Tarrant would do anything to take that pain from her face, but he is only a hatter. And he's never mended a woman's spirit before. The moment stretches until Alice stands and matter-of-factly seats herself across Tarrant's lap.

He's too startled – amazed, enraptured, exhilarated! – to focus on her words at first, but after a moment, they filter through the haze of wildness:

"I'll win and then I'll come back. I promise."

Tarrant frames her face with both hands. "Alice..."

Her expression is fierce, intent. He shudders helplessly.

He feels her hands on his jacket. "Here," she says, her stare expectant.

Tarrant looks down at the fabric pin she's holding up to him. He thinks he recognizes it as one of the half dozen he keeps concealed in his left lapel for emergencies.

"Take it," she says.

He does. And then he stares when she offers him her left hand, palm raised, fingertips turned toward him.

He shivers. The second exchange...

You shoul'nae!

He knows. But Alice... does she know? He shouldn't do it if she doesn't know. He should ask. He should tell her what it will mean if they do this...

His apprehension and desire swirl, froth, and churn inside him. Oh, how he wants this!

Ask her if she understands!

He intends to. He honestly does. But the look in her eyes is mesmerizing and her hand stays there, steady and sure, and he can see the shadow of her own promise-ring on the underside of her finger and he...

"Alice...?"

"Yes."

It's enough. He reaches for her hand, cradles it in his own, and applies the pin to her heart-line finger. Tarrant can hear his own heart pounding. His pulse rushes, overwhelming his ears. He leans forward and slides the pad of her finger between his lips. Again, the taste of her blood makes its acquaintance with his tongue. He notices the salt, of course, but something else. Something rich and metallic... He keeps his eyes closed even after he releases her.

When he feels her smaller hand around his own, Tarrant opens his eyes and watches as she presses the same pin against his fingertip. He stares, watching the blood dew. He'll have another small, blue mark there on the morrow...

His fingertip disappears between her lips and he stiffens, gasping. He watches, but part of him still cannot believe this is happening. Alice, his Alice, is more his now than ever before. More his than not his.

She gently laves the pinprick with her tongue and he hears a breathy groan. Belatedly, he realizes he must have been the one to make it as Alice's mouth is quite busy at the moment.

Watching him intently, she pulls his hand away, leans forward, and covers his lips with hers. Tarrant is defeated by the touch. His arms rise, pulling her closer, closer, closer still...

Her hands frame his face. Her tongue laps at the seam of his mouth. He denies her nothing. He thinks of nothing except the miracle of her here, in his arms, his. He strokes her tongue with his own, welcoming it in his mouth, then chases hers as it retreats. His fingers bury themselves in her hair and slide between her vest and shirt to rest against her back. And she holds onto him!

Tarrant savors her acceptance and this second kiss continues on. He knows he must stop.

Stop now! Nae more must be taken! Not yet!

No, no, he can't have her. Not yet. This is only the second exchange, but he's not sure if he can stop.

Alice...

His hands clench.

Help me...

He knows he could be hurting her; he's pushing her back against the table. In another instant, he'll have her laid out on it and then...

STOP!

Alice tears her mouth away and gasps. Tarrant lowers his forehead to her neck and pants helplessly against her collar. He can see the vague outline of her breasts as they rise and fall with her wild breaths. He closes his eyes.

"Violet, again," she murmurs.

He manages a tiny nod.

"I think I know what that means now."

He giggles. She's still seated across his lap. There's no doubt she can feel him as easily as he can feel her pressing just there... Alice laughs with him and Tarrant lets the rest of his tension fall away from him. He leans back in his chair and collects Alice's hands in his again.

"Thank you, Alice."

She smiles and combs his hair with her fingers, smoothing it down. Tarrant has a vague memory of her hands clenching in it and struggles to keep his mind in the present only.

"I'll keep this promise," she tells him. "I've sworn an oath in blood, and sealed it with a kiss. There'll be no breaking it now."

The words reverberate in him, making him shiver. How odd of her to describe the second exchange like that. Almost as if...

"I'll go tomorrow and I'll fight as hard as I must. And I'll come back."

Tarrant manages a smile, but the confusion he feels... the confusion manages him. A short while later, he escorts Alice to her room but never once does he find the words to ask her why she'd called the second exchange a blood oath. Perhaps it's an Uplandian custom, he surmises. Although, the thought doesn't help him get any rest. All night, he chases sleep and all night, it eludes him.

[End of Chapter 7: Scene 3 of 5]