My computer blacked out on me back in June, and I did not have this chapter backed up. It's been very difficult to get back to the point where I was before. I'm also starting law school soon, so fair warning: there will probably be a very long wait until the next chapter. Possibly around Christmas. I'm really sorry about this, but it looks like it's coinciding with the original comic's hiatus as well.
The standard disclaimer applies. I don't own these characters, I just like to mess with their heads. Brianna plus Rain plus Alice plus Reginald equals awesome fun times. There are new pictures in the Flickr gallery, and one of a white-haired man in a dashing red coat that I can't stop staring at. Another is of the hat in the last scene and another of the original hat Alice mentions. There's a big clue somewhere in that picture.
Send reviews—it's painful watching the tracker count climb but to have silence on the boards. I do put a lot of hours into this and it is really rewarding to hear nice things about it. Plus it makes me excited enough to motivate the next chapter into existence. To those of you who have been kind enough to put your thoughts into words already: thank you, sincerely. You are the reason this continues.
One's destination is never a place but rather a new way of looking at things.
Henry Miller
Alice did not go to the Hare's cottage firstly the next morning; she smarted from her thoughts of the night before and the long time she had spent with the cooling soup tureen upon her knees, staring at a bog palm in an Indian vase and considering what needed to be done.
Now she was off to amble in the forest toward the green gate, to explore on her own and glean what she could from this new place without the distraction afforded so easily by one with too much time on his hands or the impatient panic that bubbled up within her own breast when her mind wandered too far home. Now there was nothing to see, nothing to think upon, nothing to cause anxiety but the glorious delicate mixture of celadon and Brunswick green in the leaves and herb matting the stones beneath her shoe, turning her thoughts to a light fancy of tea in a porcelain eggshell cup. It was wondrous what nature did for the creative path of the mind, she thought.
Alice did not quite know where the forests of the Wonderland ended and England began, but in reconsidering her confusion the day previous, she kept the thought in mind that this was an entirely different situation. Trees and rocks were not buildings and people; perhaps if she did speak to the maples and oaks they would open like a curtain onto the wall that indicated her original beginning and also perhaps a fresh start on the investigation. Retracing her steps with experience and knowledge would be far easier, and she could have a better look at things without insane people pirouetting around singing about whatever nonsense a "Sheik of Araby" was.
Amid the near-silent swish of willowy Spanish moss came the clicking of a rook, she rather thought, and as Alice peered up into the branches she very nearly lost her head tripping over a large root. Windmilling her arms to catch herself, she caught hard against the trunk and watched the cognac-colored wallet the Hatter had placed in her hands the day previous slide from her pocket to smack against the bark. Out spilled colorful linen bills shimmering glinty in the pale morning light, silent silver fish against the stones. Alice bent, stacked them smartly back together and gazed at the topmost one.
"There's not even anything written on here. It's nothing but runes and strange drawings," she mused quietly. "I wonder what they're called."
"Clams," said a strange youthful voice nearby. She popped her head up to see a young boy in dark knickerbockers leaning in an effortless slouch against a tree nearby, his dark fringe poking out from underneath the brim of a Gatsby. He was no more than eight or nine years, but the look in his eye suggested a far greater sense of self-importance than what mere children cultivate in youth. "Do you get it?" he said, and Alice was so momentarily fascinated by the old-young double edge in his oddly intelligent voice that she looked down at the bills in her palm out of slight embarrassment when he did not go on.
"Clams? Such an informal word for a currency; is that the only name they give their money in this country?" She looked up into the silence and realized she was alone again. Only momentarily, though, as the boy's voice came from the opposite edge of the tiny stand of trees.
"Why do you want formal names for your money? You either spend it or save it, you can't think of becoming friends with it. Money will never reap rewards for you unless you make it work and not coddle or pet it."
"I was only curious what I might call them at the market," she said by way of retort. The voice came from behind a different tree now, but did not seem to be listening to her.
"Saving money is to coddle or pet it; it doesn't work when it sits in one spot," it said from high above.
"Money sits in a bank and grows—a plant may sit between two rocks and never move but work itself higher toward the sun in a steady but imperceptible way," said the voice now from far away.
"Is there an echo in here that I am not a part of?" said Alice, remaining ignored.
"But that is still work regardless," this from up on a branch.
"Passivity and work are therefore too similar to tell apart."
"Then we are agreed."
"Of course," the voice replied to itself. Alice was tired of spinning in wide circles trying to tell where the voice was coming from, but on her final turn she nearly clubbed the young boy in the shoulder and fell against a tiny maple tree to steady herself. Her head spun, and she was seeing double. Or quadruple. Maybe only triple.
"Oh my goodness, there's more than one," she said. The boys waited as Alice recovered. She took a very careful look at them both—there were only two now, and the discernible difference betwixt them both were the toys in their hands. Every detail, from the wrinkly twists in their argyle socks to the number of rolls in their shirtsleeves to the knowing smirk on their faces, were precisely the same, but mirrored. The one on the left, however, had a golden slingshot with a purple handle in his hand, the other a toy pop gun in the same violent colors. "What am I saying; of course there's more than one, you're Tweedle-Dum and Tweedle-Dee, aren't you."
They responded by tilting their heads to opposite slants and giving her an appraising look.
"You are much removed from what I remember," she spoke at last. "From tiny men to boys—" The one on the left interrupted her.
"Surely you have learned by now--"
"--as one might hope if you are to be successful here--" continued the other before Alice managed to break in.
"It's all perception and mystery. You were little men because you were 'little men,' precisely so; so mature and grown, yet still from your noses growing freckles—which I'm sure are blooming in mirror images too."
"Told you she had gotten wiser," said the one on the right to the one on the left.
"I thought I said that," replied his twin.
"You're right; I saw you saying it and thought it was myself."
"How do you two tell the difference between yourselves if you can hardly remember who said what?" as soon as the words had escaped her lips, Alice saw the potential for a two-hour verbal table tennis match on the finer points of personal identity, and she cringed, bracing for the pending confusion. But the two boys exchanged a mild glance before each lifting the hand holding the toy to reveal dual pockets embroidered with the words 'Dum' and 'Dee' in cream stitching.
"Why are you in the forest? And what are those things for? Are you having another battle?"
"We do not always fight with each other," said Tweedle-Dee.
"Most assuredly," replied his brother.
"Are you having a battle in the forest?" asked the first boy.
"No," said Alice at this new turn in the conversation, for she saw her opportunity now. "I am looking for something that's causing creatures to vanish. Have you heard of anyone disappearing lately?"
"People come and go oftentimes, they are not bound to this place," was the reply.
"No, permanently is what I am given to understand. Utterly and entirely gone."
"Are you looking to disappear yourself? Why are you so interested?"
"Oh, no, I'm only trying to prevent more people from leaving. The Duchess has asked me to find out what's happening." The two boys exchanged a glance.
"Have you asked the Cheshire Cat?"
"I haven't seen him yet. I've only just begun; I don't really know where to start."
"It sounds as though you aren't asking the right questions," said Tweedle-Dum.
"What sort of questions do I need to be asking?" replied Alice, a tad exasperated.
"That is a much better question," he replied, smiling. She sighed.
"I agree," replied the other. There was a pause, and Alice shifted the leather book of bills from one hand to another.
"You wanted to know what those were; how many do you have?" one of them asked, gesturing at the parcel. She held it out to him, and he thumbed through it with a ripping sound like a deck of cards before pulling his hand away.
"Quite a large stack," he said to his brother.
"Where did you get it?" asked the other. Alice looked more carefully at the brick in her hand.
"The Mad Hatter gave it to me," she replied, flipping past blues and greens into iridescent saffrons and navy bills with tiny stars in their skies. The twins did not speak for a moment, and Alice glanced up when the silence grew too loud. "Is there something wrong with that? Don't tell me it's no good."
"You had better keep hold tight of it," said Tweedle-Dum.
"Why is that, will he take it back from me and charge interest?" she found herself amused, but neither boy twitched a smile.
"He is a very private person, the Hatter. He likes to hold his cards close to the vest, I think."
"Mmm," said Tweedle-Dee in agreement.
"What does that have to do with his giving me money?" said Alice.
"Well," said Tweedle-Dum in contemplation, "He must like you, or consider you his friend; I did not know he was so generous. There were rumors that he is quite well off, but--" Alice nearly asked But what of it? before the other boy leaned in and spoke quietly.
"Haberdashery is a comfortable way to make a living, but one does wonder." She looked down at the money again.
"Perhaps he is very careful with his money, and lets it grow in the proper bank. You both agreed yourselves that money can work even when it sits still." The two boys exchanged a brief sly look before Tweedle-Dee looked serious and continued.
"One wonders what else goes on in his head. He is quite strange, you know. I am sure he is an excellent friend to his confidantes, but it is not as though he makes his living giving away ribbons and pins out of the shop. Perhaps he has work on the side, as a hobby or leisurely pursuit." She considered this. The Hatter had said it readily himself, but only in the broadest fashion. What, you think hat-sharpening is the only thing I've ever done? Somehow Alice did not feel quite right discussing the Hatter suchly. Not only did it negate her plan to leave him out of her plans (which was beginning to seem impossible), but it made him seem... closer, somehow. Depth and secrets were not something she associated with the man, and knowing more about him seemed a dangerous field to enter.
"How much is this, really? Did you come to a general figure, or should I even ask?"
"It is not as great a sum as a king's ransom, and not quite as small as a small fortune, but it is enough, and well that you have it."
"It does seem an awful quantity; you wouldn't perhaps like a new bag of shot, or a new cork and string for your gun, would you?" Alice looked at them kindly like a newly minted young aunt who is unsure of where the line between indulgence and spoilage closed faster than a depth charge and a submarine.
"I am sure you think yourself very kind to offer us a portion of your sum, but we have no need for money."
"The forest is amusing enough, and we have ourselves and each other at once."
"You two are in the forest quite often, are you not?" she asked, a fresh thought coming to mind. The pair nodded in time. "Have you heard a great something moving about in the forest, knocking over trees—a monster, perhaps? It makes the strangest sound, almost like--"
"Like an enormous beehive?" said Tweedle-Dee suddenly. His twin turned to give him a strange look.
"No, it didn't," he said in a pointedly quiet voice. The two boys were suddenly glaring at each other, and Alice remembered something from a very long while ago.
"Hang on a minute," she said, breaking the silent tension, "I thought you two never disagreed or contradicted each other. Now, Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum, did you or did you not hear something in the forest?" The two boys suddenly had the evasive and guilty look of impending escape upon their looking glass faces, and began to inch further away from the tree they had been leaning against. "Wait!" she cried out, but one had already disappeared into the dappled shade and beyond. The other—she did not know which now—hesitated near a sapling just outside the clearance and pointed into the branches above Alice's head to a clicking black bird shuffling back and forth, watching them imperiously.
"I can only tell you this—it makes the rooks very anxious and jumpy. You need more help than wandering about in the forest can bring—find the Cheshire Cat, he sees everything." And the boy was gone after his twin, leaving Alice to sigh in frustration. All that, and she had barely anything except a few troubling facts about someone she had not wanted to think of today. Alice made to turn toward the bricked path beyond the trees, but something enormous not twenty yards hence turned the tips of her fingers frigid.
It was the wall. There was no green door, but there was a stretch of the wall, and trees on the other side hanging down over it. She could practically reach up and touch something so close to home, so near to her house and her family and her sister and the wedding--
Alice turned and walked toward the path resolutely, ignoring the buzzing clicking sounds that followed.
"He is not here," said the Hare distractedly, for he was heaving and pulling on the large handle of a brass steam press, which Alice eventually took hold of and managed to flip down, resulting in an outpouring of fresh tea. The Hare looked at her and shrugged.
"Perhaps he is in the shop in town." She was afraid he would say something along those lines. Her efforts to avoid the Mad Hatter had seemed to result in cosmic alignment of their two names—she was fated to forever be either talking about or talking to the man himself, and Alice was beginning to tire of things on her own. She had been to Father Time, who had asked of her mission and orated for a solid hour the advantages of being on time for the mundanest of minutiae—down to the millisecond, he had insisted alliteratively--which the Hatter above everyone else and all expectations routinely failed to do, and wasn't that man just the worst rakehell known in these parts, weren't his fashion accoutrements the absolute lowest of the low, didn't his hair hang the worst way possible and oh, wasn't it simply a shame but Father Time had no idea of any of this disappearance stuff after all that anyway.
This had gone on for most of the morning with Father Time's scant mentions of and referrals to a number of creatures Alice could vaguely remember from her salad days, she thought now, dashing olive oil onto Romaine hearts and popping cherry tomatoes inside her mouth, letting each tiny explosion fuel her quiet contemplation. There was nothing else for it; not even the Hare would give her so much as the tiniest respite from the madman.
"You certainly should go and find him if you require his... unique assessment of the world around us," said the aforementioned rabbit delicately, wrinkling his nose in curiosity at the plants on Alice's plate. It was a late lunch and very nearly tea itself; the sun was at a slant in the sky and there had been neither here nor there of the person on everyone's mind and tongue. "After all, he's likely to stay in that shop of his for days on end if you don't go rouse him from whatever manic fever has taken over him this time—last time he went off, the ladies all wore full peacock fans on their berets for six months; nothing but peacock in the butcher windows after that..."
"I don't mean to be rude, but wouldn't you know best in this situation? You are his closest friend, and you do know the way to town better than anyone," said Alice.
"Oh, he won't pay the slightest mind to me," said the Hare. "You are far more likely to win over his thoughts." She stopped chewing momentarily to stare at him, startled. The Hare tilted his head to one side. "You command a better rein on the tone of voice likely to gain someone's attention," he explained mildly. "I am more likely to be distracted, myself, and wind up ensnared in town rather than here, where I belong amongst the tea kettles." He waved his paws broadly like a patriarch and smiled proudly at his brood of china.
"Oh," said Alice.
There was a wooden sign hanging from chains that read "Haberdasher," and nothing else. It was shaped in a simple rectangle, not a hat, which did surprise her. The hand that wrote it was clear and precise, the thin serifs on the resulting letters being oddly subtle and sophisticated. The wooden door had only a brass handle, no sign indicating the current status of open or closed, and the sun's reflection in the large window with gold lettering perfectly copied from the shop sign showed her only beige oilcloth shades. She had picked her way carefully through the bricked streets, having memorized the lay overhead by the map in the Hare's library, into which he hesitantly admitted her. Alice did not hesitate to turn the handle bulb, but she opened the door slowly to peer inside the darkened shop.
"Hello?" she called softly. "Mr. Hatter? Are you in?" She blinked to adjust in the dim light, and saw that each window had a shade pulled far past its point of resistance, the cord and medallion pooled on the floor, some nearly jerked clean off their beams, as though during a fit previously thrown. She could see the dark forms of standing wardrobes and cabinets everywhere, but no hats. This was not a showroom, apparently, though there was a wooden counter off to one side next to a glass case, behind which must have been another room—the only light came from nearby. She moved softly toward one of the glass cases near this inner doorway, quietly stepping on the balls of her feet to see what sat within. There were hatpins there, and Alice tried vainly to pick out the different colors and gemstones on each, but left this project when something new occurred to her. Alice caught herself as she had caught herself long before in the midday noonlight with her packages, holding her breath now against the close room.
There was a thin and sweet high sound emanating from somewhere nearby, and she stopped to listen to its staggering clarity. It rolled and pitched itself around in elastic oscillations, coming and going, first one thing and then another, an aural zephyr in the dusty shop. It was bitterly cold, like ancient frosted ice, and then rapturous and lonely all at once, a melody on one tonal note that came from everyone and nowhere at the same time. She recognized it from somewhere a very long time ago, and that single memory brought forth the smell of her mother's Cottleston Pie, and that smell brought forth the taste of first wine at autumn, and that taste brought with it the thought of lard soap her mother had scrubbed her tongue with for getting into the decanters. What had the power to raise memories and yet sound so distant, so unapproachably sharp and delicate at the same time?
She found her balance and stepped so quietly past the counter, where a thin beam of light had found its way into a space between the door jamb and a curtain that had been pulled aside. The room past the jamb was as full of the light of day as the foreroom was dark and closed off. The picture window that made up the entire back wall was flooded with late afternoon sunlight; dancing particles of dust dipped and swirled and flowed in the open air. At the large work table, his hat upturned in front of him, the Hatter sat looking seriously and in a contemplative fashion at his moving hands, which were obscured by the bespoke piece. Alice breathed in as silently as she could.
He was golden. His hair, specifically, though there was a twinge of straw-like coloring nipping at the rolls of his shirtsleeves and waistcoat. The sunlight that poured through the glass behind him could not do this, and yet it was the only light source around him. It was no halo effect, no iridescent trick of the prism, no settling of gold dust between the follicles after a particularly high-spirited afternoon too near the lapidary's workbench. The white hair had seemed like something so deeply ingrained in the top of his head; it startled her how easily it could have been this shade instead all along. Perhaps she had not looked correctly the first time, for she was half convinced already that he had been this way since the day they had met first.
But then again, Alice could not be sure, for now she looked upon him as though in and out of focus at the same time. He was there, he sat there quite clearly at some sort of work she could not see, and was himself but for the new coloring. She could see nearly every hair—perhaps that was it. Every hair crossing over on itself, and every freckle in their infinite populous, and the thin, nascent lines in the soft crinkle that his faint squint produced beside his left eye. These tiny realities, these remains of the day upon his face, had seemed so well blended into the blurring that his personality had produced before, and now she could see them. Her earlier solution to not think of the Hatter in any sort of actual depth was well for naught; here he sat, perfectly real with who knew what swirling about beyond his irises.
As Alice came to the conclusion that there was indeed something for her to consider in this and that perhaps she should resign herself to a fate spent scrying out truth from whatever visions and advice he may deign to put forth, she did not notice the clear noise cutting off until a pair of loud leathery snaps popped the silence.
The Hatter had folded one arm over the other on the table, his hat pushed aside and a crystal glass of water reflecting sharp, sluicy diamond patterns on the floor. What had made the sound indeed, she realized, was the goblet. A simple effect of the fingertip circled around the lip of a glass. He was staring at her, waiting, with a strangely mild expression. She blinked hard and remembered why she was there.
"I'm so sorry, I did not mean to simply drop in by such a fashion, but I did call for you," Alice said. He seemed to be watching the patterns of light reflect on the wall near her, and did not respond for a moment.
"No, it's quite alright; I imagine I'm being sought after—is it not nearly tea?"
"I thought it was always tea where you come from," she replied, resting her cheek on the doorframe. He flexed his fingers, adjusting the gloves—for it seemed her call to reality had been the sound of his palm work gloves going back on with some haste--and smiled his usual genial lightness.
"I say, you've never been here, have you? Look and see what's behind that door--" he gestured to a wall she had not the thought to glance at with two identical doors and she moved nearer to place her hand on one, "No, not that one, never that one. The other one, the other storage room." She peered inside at the closet—perhaps one person could comfortably stand inside and pull out the large blue and white boxes with faded script on their labels. "Open one!" he commanded her from without, and just as Alice reached for the one level at her nose, he was behind her, scoffing with irritation and retying his brown apron.
"No idea what you're doing, not a thing at all," he said loftily, shoving her into the ladder and lifting several lids at once to glance at their innards.
"But you said to open one!"
"It's not a game of chance, it's a pull of the strings of fate! The perfect hat." Alice did not feel that the Hatter's rummaging through various hatboxes was exactly the 'pull of fate,' but refrained from saying so.
"How do you know which one is the perfect one," she replied with some necessary drama in a low voice, looking up to see the ceiling. She expected boxes towering into infinity, stories of boxes, millions of boxes; there were but a dozen or so.
"It will be the right one," he replied happily. "This one," he said, standing on his toes to reach the topmost box, and neatly pulled with his fingers. "It's a picture hat."
"The picture hat?" Alice said with some excitement.
"No, but a rather nice modern copy, I've always thought." Alice lifted the cream striped lid and folded back layers of thin paper. This one was lovingly placed therein, a wide-brimmed lady's hat formed to show the perfect cascade of hair underneath for a portrait sitting. Turning the black felt to inspect the black and white and grey striped crown ribbon, Alice was the smallest amount surprised. Simple as it was, the stitching was rather fine, and it did lack a specious and offensive amount of peacock feathers. She looked up at the boxes again.
"Are these all yours? I did not imagine you a milliner, I thought you specialized in gentleman's headgear." He took the hat from her lightly and set it atop her sausage shaped curls, then leaned in close to her face to tie the ribbon beneath her chin.
"I was never terribly proficient at proper ladies' hats, being that I never wear them myself—and being an old hand at the top hat game," he said, the leather tips of his gloves brushing against her chin, "but I do have a small collection of older experiments. I keep them about to make an example of myself to myself." He paused and leaned back to assess her. "Would you be so offended to wear a hat out of season?" the Hatter asked, squinching up his mouth as if unsure. She looked for a glass, and he proffered a silver circle with an extendable arm out from the bare wall.
Alice looked at her reflection and saw that it was indeed a beautiful and well structured hat for the shape of her face, the color of her hair, the trail of her curls past her cheek. She watched the Hatter fiddling with the back of the hat, and the distant look in his pale blue eye, and knew he would not steer wrong. Of course it was the perfect hat, it was a rare classic form crafted by a knowing hand. He paused, with his fingertips on the brim and looked back at her in the mirror.
"Do you like it?" he asked quietly.
"It's lovely," she said, and they stood silent for a moment, looking at each other in the silver ring before the Hatter leaned in to frame their faces next to each other.
"Do you want it?" he asked. She turned her face to look at him sidelong.
"You would let me have it?"
"No, I would not let you have it," he said, and Alice very nearly replied when he spoke on, "I would give it to you. If you want it."
"Truly," she said, tilting her chin to see it from another angle, "You have already surpassed yourself with that deck of money you sent my way, I can't impress upon you enough how unnecessary all this is." He did not answer. She paused and turned her head in the opposite direction. "I must say again how lovely it is, though."
"You look very fetching." She turned to him and smiled archly, teasing from a safe distance rather than directly addressing his comment.
"I'll take it," she said in the buyer's voice. The Hatter reached forward and pressed the end of her nose with his gloved thumb.
"All yours," he said, and left the closet for Alice to look back into the mirror.