A/N: This chapter is dedicated to onyx-worrystone (especially the last paragraph) who loves Mirana…entirely too much!
Mirana stood at the table carefully mixing her most dangerous potion – the one she only brewed once a year for not was it the most potent, requiring just a tiny drop to do its job, but closest to being truly fitting of the title of her arts, Dominion over the Dead. As she stirred methodically, she pondered the irony of giving someone a drop of something which essentially killed them, to cure them instead. (Yes, one probably shouldn't start thinking of too much when one is handling such lethal ingredients but, to her credit, Mirana was an expert and this whole fiasco hardly rested upon the errant turn of her thought) All that was left was a tiny bit of evol to drop in. Well, all may be an unfair understatement – it happened to be the most powerful, albeit common, element; one that could have many a different effect.
It's probably worth revealing about now that Mirana always brewed several things at once. For a start, there was that whole expert thing which I've already mentioned, but the real truth was – she was also cursed with being just a tad…impatient. As much as she enjoyed the time spent here in her private domain, sometimes the enforced isolation got a little too much, even for her. Especially when there was a certain winsome blonde with whom spending time was proving to be infinitely more pleasant lately. But back to Mirana's art – Dominion over the Dead – as you can imagine hardly the brews of over the counter medication, so each simmering pot that neatly lined up over a tiny flame contained potions that, to put it mildly, should never be mixed.
And they wouldn't have been, not on any given day apart from, yes you've guessed it, this one. A tad predictable, I must admit, so I should probably apologise. I promise to try and do a little better with the rest.
As her hand gathered a pinch of evol, the pristine white doors (the stains from March Hare's 'cooking' requiring an almost daily scrubbing) crashed open and Alice tumbled through them at considerable speed. Following on her heels was Tarrant, both chasing her and holding onto his hat. Winding around them was Cheshire – rumbling, purring and generally eagerly spurring them on with the shouts of, "Almost there! Nearly got 'er!"
Mirana's immediate concern was for Alice and her safety – bless – it took precisely less than an instant to take in her laughing visage and ascertain that. Mirana's second thought was much less kind as anger, technically rage, instantly fired through her veins. Did she really ask so much of everyone? Did her one small request truly mean nothing at all? Her next thought was a little too late, coming last as it did last in her mind instead of first, like it probably should have done. Although if it had come first, Mirana wouldn't be Mirana. At least not this one. But that's getting a little too far ahead.
She tried to stand back as they rounded the counter but her foot caught in the under layer of the stupid crinoline dress. Not for the first time she cursed the burden of monarchy and all the trappings that went along with that. Having but a moment's instant, she chose to spend it calculating everyone's trajectory which she did, if I may say so, admirably well. Except she didn't account for one very important variable – Alice and Tarrant – who, of course, attempted to do the very same. Had she not been slightly teetering off-balance, Alice's weight might not have proved a decisive thing. She wasn't that tall and fairly slender and Mirana was stronger than she looked. However combined with Tarrant on her heels and Mirana's questionable balance, all three of them came together in a tangle, knocked against the counter, and went sprawling to the floor in a fairly awful mess of limbs.
You know when a feeling of dread instantly washes over you? Mayhap you've forgotten a birthday, arrived late for a job interview, realised you've left the stove on, that sort of thing? That was exactly what happened to Mirana as she glanced upwards from her position, saw the rising bubbles where none should have been and quickly glanced down at her hand. Of course she already knew the answer, but wishing and praying otherwise (as you do when you know things have gone oh so terribly wrong), she checked. To be sure, her left hand, the one that had held the evol prior to the encounter, was empty.
The angry bubbling noise grew louder.
Oh fudge.
Okay, that wasn't really what she thought, not even close, but this is Underland and we should not forget that she is queen. So we will censor her a little, take pity; allow her the privacy of certain thoughts.
"Duck!"
It was probably just as well that everyone was already on the ground for the blast that shook the structure of the building rattled even the bleached white cobbled stone floor. A heavy purple mist descended over all of them, enveloped the entire room, until not only could they not see their hand in front of them but could only discern the sound of their own hacking cough. In retrospect, they should have probably enjoyed these few uncomfortable moments but at this point none of them yet truly understood what had occurred, what they were about to witness next.
Ever so slowly the mist began to dissipate but rather than becoming clearer, confusion thickened, for there on the floor in front of Alice, Chess and Tarrant now slowly dusting themselves off were not just one, not two, but three White Queens.
The one in the middle proclaimed immediately, "A-alice…umm, I mean…is everyone alright?"
The one on the left glared at Tarrant accusingly before angrily spitting out, "Didn't I kill you myself last week?"
The one on the right gazed at the other two in wonder before announcing with bemusement, "Wow, I am so much prettier than I thought."
Astonished, the other occupants examined them in detail then gazed at each other helplessly before Alice caught her lower lip between her teeth in consternation and muttered rather weakly, "Oops."
"Quite," followed Chess, or rather what was left of him, which was basically a questioning suspended brow.
Uncomfortable to find himself on the end of such unwelcome pointed attention, Tarrant clutched his hat a little tighter – protectively – his gaze flitting between the three Miranas nervously, before he croaked rather aptly, "Fez."
Yes, fez indeed, even though I know what some of you are thinking – would three Miranas really be worse than one? Well, visually, I would suspect most definitely not, but other things should be considered – those that the rest are finding out as we speak.